Six Geese A-Slaying

Chapter 1

December 23, 8:30 A . M .

“We wish you a merry Christmas

We wish you a merry Christmas

We wish you a merry Christmas

And a happy New—”

“Bah, humbug,” I said.

Under my breath, of course. As Caerphilly County’s reigning Mistress of the Revels, I didn’t dare let anyone hear me badmouthing Christmas or showing less than the brightest of holiday spirits. I took a deep breath and straightened my holly wreath headdress before saying anything aloud.

“Could you please tell the drummers and pipers to stop drumming and piping immediately,” I finally said. Shouted, actually, to be heard above the din.

“They won’t like it, Meg,” my brother, Rob, shouted back. “They’re having a competition to see who can make the most noise.”

“I never would have guessed,” I muttered. But I kept smiling as I said it. And I reminded myself that muttering wasn’t particularly inconspicuous in weather so cold your breath smoked.

If only someone had warned me beforehand that “Mistress of the Revels” wasn’t an honorary title. It meant I was in charge of organizing Caerphilly’s annual holiday parade.

This year’s theme was “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” The twelve drummers drumming were represented by twelve members of the Caerphilly College fife and drum corps, while the pipers piping were eleven assorted bagpipers—currently playing in at least eleven different keys.

The drummers outnumbered the pipers, especially since they’d also brought along twelve matching fifers. But the bagpipers seemed quite capable of holding their own in the noise department. They were definitely going to win if this turned into an endurance test. The drummers were already showing signs of fatigue, and the bagpipers hadn’t even hit their stride yet. And while “Silent Night” and “The Little Drummer Boy” are both lovely Christmas carols when played separately, they didn’t work well when played simultaneously by dueling groups of musicians.

None of which would have bothered me if they’d been doing it farther off—say, down in the cow pasture where they’d been asked to muster. Why did they insist on hovering right across the street from our house, all too near the spot in our front yard where I’d stationed myself, clipboard in hand, to check in the arriving parade participants?

“Go and tell them—” I began, and then stopped. Rob looked at me expectantly. He was quite dashing in one of the medieval costumes we’d borrowed from the Caerphilly College drama department. The blue brocade tunic matched his eyes, and unlike some of the volunteers, he was skinny enough to get away with wearing tights. As one of the ten lords a-leaping he was going to be a smashing success.

But as an enforcer, Rob would be a disaster. I knew what would happen if I sent him over to quell the riotous music. He’d ask them politely. They’d ignore him—if they even heard him. A little later, I’d go over to see why they hadn’t shut up and find Rob taking bagpiping lessons or practicing his leaping in time with the fife and drums.

Some things you have to do yourself.

“Never mind,” I said, as I turned to head in the direction of the musical duel. “Go make sure none of the other leaping lords have hopped off anywhere. And can you check the Weather Channel and get the latest prediction on when the snow will start? I’m going to—damn!”

I’d stepped in something squishy. I remembered that the eight maids a-milking had recently strolled by, leading their eight purebred Holstein milk cows.

“Please tell me I didn’t just step in cow dung.”

“Okay, you didn’t just step in cow dung,” Rob said. “I’m pretty sure the cleanup crew has been by at least once since the cows came through here.”

“That’s a relief,” I said. Though I was energetically scraping my foot on the gravel anyway.

“So that’s almost certainly camel dung.”

As if that made a difference. I lost it, briefly.

“Can’t those stupid wise men keep their beastly camels out of the road?” I snapped. Rob had turned to go and either didn’t hear me or pretended not to. It occurred to me that perhaps I shouldn’t be so harsh on the wise men, since Michael Water-ston, my husband of six months, was one of them.

“Don’t blame the stupid wise men,” came a voice from behind me. “It was my fault.”

I turned around to see an enormous, bushy-bearded figure clad in a peculiar feathered garment. One of the six geese a-laying, I realized—I’d have recognized that immediately if he’d been wearing the goose head and had been waving wings instead of a pair of brawny arms covered with thick hair and a colorful collection of biker- and wildlife-themed tattoos. But never mind the incomplete costume—I was just glad to see its wearer.