Berdie Elliott smiled. What an odd lot, she mused.

"God rest ye merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay ..."

The song filled the frosty night air as several carolers stood in the front garden of Twenty-nine Westwood Road.

The village solicitor, Preston Graystone, stood shoulder to shoulder with the long-standing town electrician, Edsel Butz. A fine young university student, Mathew, and his childhood sweetheart, Cara Graystone, shared a caroling book with the electrician's stout wife, Ivy. Mr. Raheem, the start-up greengrocer sang tenor notes with Mr. Webb, the recently elected council member. And there was the aged spinster, Miss Livingston, leaning on her cane, melodious and determined even in her old age. With her stood her constant companion, a dear but forgetful neighbor, Natty. The choirmaster, Lillie Foxworth, a bright, cheerful woman, conducted the carolers with great exuberance. All walks of life joined together, celebrating in festive song.

Berdie snuggled closer to her husband, Hugh, and tucked her hair into her stylish, yet warmly practical, holiday hat. She felt the nip of the December night air on her nose and was sure it must be glowing holiday red. Her husband had often told her that her brown eyes held the warmth of a hearth fire. At this moment, she wished they literally could start a fire, because her large tortoiseshell glasses felt as chilly as fairy frost. Berdie's wool blazer was doing a fine job of keeping that part of her body quite warm, but it fit a bit snug this evening. Though she had been involved in both energetic community service and active investigative journalism most of her life, having two now grown children had taken its toll. It all came with becoming "mature," she decided. But then there was also the Devonshire cream she loved to lavish on her afternoon scones. It's the holidays, after all, she excused. Neither bone-chilling weather nor the complexities of aging could lessen her joy in being here with this mix of people as she lifted her heart in song with them. They were, in a sense, family — all a part of her husband's flock.

Hubert Elliott carried his tall muscular frame with military bearing as befit a man with an honored past in Her Majesty's Royal Navy. He had tried putting things right using armed force and discovered in the end that putting things right was more a spiritual matter. The very day of his retirement from service, he registered for seminary. Now here he stood, with his congregation and his wife. Beneath his dark winter coat lived the keen ability to put people at their ease. The silver hair, which some said gave him the air of a film star, was just barely visible beneath his attractive homburg hat with a curved brim. And it drew even more attention to those ardent blue eyes.

"Remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas Day ..."

Hubert's voice became invigorated. Berdie shot a quick glance to the man with whom she had shared her heart and life for twenty-six years. He couldn't deliver a tune in a wheelbarrow, but apart from that small detail, she knew he was the best-suited person in all of Great Britain to be the vicar of Saint Aidan of the Wood Parish Church. And although she and Hugh had been serving the parish for only three months, the majority of members were warming toward their new vicar.

All continued as with one voice. "To save us all from Satan's power when we were gone astray, O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy; o tidings of comfort and joy."

Berdie moved on with the jolly troop to the home of the present parish council chairman. It was the much-awaited moment for Miss Livingston to sing her exquisite solo. Though she was considered by many to be a bit of a curmudgeon, when she sang, all but the sweetest notes were left behind. The door was opened to the carolers, and Miss Livingston's voice lifted in hallowed song. "O come, O come, Emmanuel, And ransom captive Israel." Even at her advanced age, her voice was strong. "That mourns in lonely exile here, until the Son of God appear." Berdie thought she caught a glint of tear in the woman's eye. Then the rest of the chorus joined in. "Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel, shall come to thee, O Israel." A slight tingle played its way into Berdie's awareness. How lovely was this moment of song, despite the cold.

The transcendent solo behind them, the carolers moved on. They followed ancient cobbled streets to warm homes and cottages as was the tradition in Aidan Kirkwood on the first Sunday of Advent. Some dwellings boasted large back gardens. The tiny stone row houses were dressed for the English winter, and a battery of newly built dwellings were awash with fresh paint. When the troubadours moved across High Street, the usually vibrant shops were abed for the night.

In no time at all, they approached Oak Leaf Cottage, the vicarage that was just a stone's throw from the ancient church. Everyone was in anticipation of the evening's Advent party, complete with the lighting of the ring.

Upon arrival, three people were waiting at the decorated door of the vicarage.

Standing eye to eye, Hugh shook hands with the fellow who was also a man of the cloth — Gerald Lewis. He was currently visiting Aidan Kirkwood on ecclesiastical matters. "So glad you could join us this evening, Reverend Lewis."

"Thank you for the generous invitation. I'm delighted."

Hugh turned. "Mr. and Mrs. Reese, glad you're here. Please come in."

"We can't," Mr. Reese rushed. "We just need a word with Mathew."

Mathew Reese, home from university for the weekend, handed his caroling book to his fiancée. The tall blond man — smartly dressed, trim, and handsome — put Berdie in mind of her Hugh when he was university age.

"Mum, Dad, are you here for the party?"

"No Mat, we are not." Mrs. Reese was untouched by the prevailing holiday spirit.

"Why don't you step into the library? Get out of this frightful chill," Hugh offered.

"We'll stay right here, thank you." Mr. Reese had fire in his voice.

"Well, let's the rest of us move in." Berdie yearned for warmth.

As soon as the manse door was flung open and the troupe entered, the smell of fresh pine mingled with the scent of cinnamon and oranges. It tickled Berdie's nose like a Christmas partridge feather. The comfortable stone manse had been holiday dressed by Hugh and Berdie that very afternoon with help from her close friend, Lillie Foxworth. Polished woodwork showed off the fresh garlands draped around doorways, mirrors, and mantelpieces. Garland also wound its way along the central oak staircase that stretched up to the next floor. The evergreens were punctuated with deep burgundy bows and sprinkled with little gold stars that caught the light and seemed to beg a Christmas wish.

The entry hall was alive with guests. Mr. Graystone removed his overcoat and hung it on a hook of the ample pub mirror. Berdie thought he rather looked like his name — gray stone. He was tall and angular, sharp-featured, with prematurely gray hair.

Always dutiful, he helped old spinster Livingston with her long lavender coat, the poor woman getting her cane all twisted up in the works. By the end of the kind gesture, it became a tussle.

"Silly man," was all the silver-haired eighty-four-year-old offered Mr. Graystone as she scraped her cane across his newly polished shoes. The scars that littered her left cheek went crimson as she moved on to the sitting room.

"Now Miriam, you...