Once upon a time, there was a little village called Frostingle. It was a perfect little place with a perfect little pub, a perfect little post office, a perfect little butcher’s, a perfect little grocer’s, a perfect little sweet shop, a perfect little toy shop, and a perfect little church. In the village square, every year, they raised a perfect little Christmas tree and carolers gathered around it to sing away the darkness.
Darkness was the thing that the people of Frostingle feared. For eleven months of the year in Frostingle there was nothing but darkness. No sun, no moon, no stars to shed even the slightest light. The window of the toy shop went dark. The windows of the church went dark. The butcher, the grocer, the sweet shop, and the post office all fell prey to darkness and silence. It was as if the world folded up around them, an ebony fist closing around the town and blotting out everything that lay beyond. No matter how hard the carolers sang, no matter how bright the Christmas lights shone, the darkness always came.
But still, the people of Frostingle sang. They sang not in the hope that the darkness would not come, for they all knew in their hearts in must, but in the hope that it would retreat again as it always had before. For just one month every year Frostingle knew light and the people of Frostingle sang.
It had been this way for as long as the people of Frostingle could remember and, perhaps, it always would have been this way if not for the arrival one year of a most peculiar girl. She appeared as if by magic one day, stumbling into the village square, wearing what appeared to be a set of Christmas pyjamas and a somewhat perplexed expression.
“Oh for goodness’ sake,” she muttered. “I’m on the flipping dining table!”
Nobody had the slightest idea what she meant.
A Little Lucy Christmas is a novella written in the lockdown Christmas of 2020 as a gift for all the readers who had been supporting me and my publishers throughout the strangest and most difficult year.