The MacDuffie kitchen smelled of pine-scented cleaner, cinnamon, and underlying chaos. A single, stubborn strand of tinsel clung to the ceiling fan, spinning a lazy, glittering circle over the battlefield.
"It's your turn," Peter declared, not looking up from his phone, where his thumbs moved at the speed of light. He was draped over a kitchen chair like a discarded hoodie.
Cecilia, standing rigidly at the sink in a black leotard and leg warmers, didn't turn around. "Objectively false. I performed the unloading task on Wednesday. Today is Friday. The schedule, which I helped Mother laminate, clearly indicates a rotational system based on the prime-numbered dates. Today's date is neither prime nor my responsibility."
Peter snorted. "You sound like Dad's spreadsheet. Just empty the dishwasher, you tiny dictator."
The stalemate was broken by the soft click-click of nails on hardwood. Buster ambled in, his low-slung body moving with the urgency of a melting candle. Tied around his front right paw was a neon pink bandage, expertly wrapped and fastened with a tiny sticker of a ballet slipper.
William MacDuffie, who had been attempting to read a biography of Millard Fillmore in the living room, wandered in with a leash. "Alright, Buster, time for your constitutional. Let's just… Good lord." He pushed his glasses up his nose, peering down. "What's wrong with his… appendage?"
Cecilia spun, her bun not moving a millimeter. "It's not an 'appendage,' Dad, it's a carpal pad. He has a minor friction blister. I've cleaned it, applied an antibacterial ointment, and dressed it. He needs to keep weight off it for twenty-four hours." She knelt, her posture perfectly straight, and cooed, "Don't you, my brave patient?"
Buster sat heavily, his velvety ears drooping into his water bowl. He let out a long, low, soulful groan that sounded like a rusty hinge, then thumped his tail against the floor in a slow, appreciative rhythm.
"See? He's in agony," Cecilia said solemnly.
Peter finally looked up, a grin spreading across his face. "Agony? He looks like he's about to fall asleep. And he can still walk. Which means you can walk to the dishwasher and empty it. Your turn. No cap."
William's eyes darted between his children and the dog, as if calculating the emotional depreciation of each. "I—I'm sure your mother has the, ah, the duty roster memorized. I'm just the… the leash administrator." He fumbled with the clip. "Come on, Buster. Walk time. It'll be… bracing."
The back door swung open, admitting a gust of cold Asheville air and Cathrine MacDuffie, her arms stacked high with grocery bags that rustled and threatened to spill. "Reinforcements! Peter, Cecilia, to the car! Operation Holiday Provisioning is a go!"
Peter slumped. "But Mom, I'm in the middle of a—"
"—YouTube video, I know," Cathrine finished, her raspy voice cutting through his whine. She deposited the bags on the counter with a thud. "Help now, or I'll have your father password-lock the router until the New Year. You can explain to your five subscribers why you've gone dark."
Peter shot to his feet as if electrocuted. "That's blackmail! You can't just hold the internet hostage! That's a human rights violation!"
Cecilia glided past him, a faint smirk on her lips. "It's hardly a violation of the masses. Your last video was entitled 'Epic Fail Compilation #47' and had three views. Two were you."
Cathrine's sharp eyes swept the kitchen, landing on the full, clean dishwasher. "Why is this still full? The drying cycle ended an hour ago. I heard the beep."
Peter pointed a dramatic finger. "Because someone refuses to accept the immutable laws of turn-taking!"
Cecilia balled her fists, her clinical demeanor cracking. "It is not my rotational day! He's gaslighting you!"
Cathrine held up a single hand, the universal MacDuffie signal for 'cease fire.' The room fell silent, save for Buster's wheezy breathing. "First," she said, her tone leaving no room for debate, "we unload the car. Then, Cecilia, you will unload the dishwasher. Consider it a… pre-emptive strike for tomorrow's turn."
"Told you," Peter sing-songed.
Cecilia stuck her tongue out at him.
"Car!" Cathrine barked, clapping her hands once. "Now! Move it or I'll make meatloaf for a week!"
The trio stomped out through the garage, a parade of muttered grievances. William, finally securing the leash, opened the front door just as Eris jogged up the driveway, her breath puffing in white clouds. The winter break had brought color to her cheeks, and she moved with the easy, powerful grace of someone who spent half their life running towards or away from things.
"Hey Dad," she panted, slowing to a walk. "Walking the Buster-man?" She bent over, hands on her knees, and scratched the dog behind his ears. "Oh, you are just a nugget of love, yes you are!" Buster responded by attempting to lick her entire face, his tail wagging his entire back half.
Eris gently picked up his bandaged paw. "Aww. Did Dr. Ceci make it all better?" The pink bandage was absurd against his patchy fur.
William chuckled, a soft, wheezing sound. "She's diagnosed him with terminal cuteness and a blister. I'm just the escort service." He chuckled again at his own joke, his shoulders shaking slightly.
Eris grinned, a genuine, warm smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. She loved her dad's dorky, unappreciated humor. She glanced past him as the garage door groaned open and the unloading brigade emerged, looking like a retail-themed chain gang.
"I better go help before Mom declares martial law," Eris said, straightening up.
"Right, yes. Dog-walking duties," William announced to no one in particular, and allowed Buster to lead him down the frost-dusted sidewalk at a snail's pace.
Eris trotted to the open trunk of the family SUV, already overflowing with bags. She grabbed two heavy ones full of what felt like canned goods.
Peter hefted a bag of potatoes, wrinkling his nose. "Ew, you smell like a locker room and B.O."
Eris didn't miss a beat, hoisting her bags. "Coming from you, that's a five-star review. When was the last time you showered? I could smell your room from the driveway. It's like a zoo for sad socks."
Cecilia floated by with a bag of lemons, her nose in the air. "It's true. His biome is a public health concern. I offered to take a swab for my science fair project, but he refused. Suspicious."
Peter's jaw dropped. "I shower! I shower all the time! Like… daily! Sometimes!"
"More like 'sometime,'" Eris fired back, adjusting her grip. "I think your concept of 'daily' is the same as your concept of 'cleaning your room'—a mythical legend."
He was sputtering, formulating a comeback, when Cathrine's voice sliced through the cold air. "Less fussing, more carrying! My arms are going numb, and if I drop this pie, there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth!"
They formed a bag-laden line toward the warm glow of the house. Eris, turning her head to check for traffic, then froze. A familiar figure was walking up the street, hands shoved in the pockets of an expensive-looking charcoal hoodie, his dark hair messy in the way that took effort.
"Eris! Hey!"
Jessie Miller's voice was just as she remembered—soft, with a slight mumble that made you lean in. He broke into a jog, closing the distance with an athlete's effortless gait.
Eris's smile became fixed, a pleasant mask. "Oh. Hey, Jessie."
Peter, struggling with the potatoes, managed a jerky wave. "Yo, Jessie! What up, my guy?"
"Hey Peter," Jessie said, his intense eyes flicking to Peter before settling back on Eris. He reached her in three strides. "Here, let me get that." He took the heavy bags from her hands before she could protest, his fingers brushing hers. A simple, human touch. For a fleeting second, she thought of a different touch—calloused, large, capable of holding an ancient blade—and pushed the memory away.
"Jessie Miller!" Cathrine called from the front door, her face lighting up. "Just in time for chaos! Get inside, it's freezing!"
"Hi, Mrs. MacDuffie," he said, that humble, golden-boy charm dialed to ten. He fell into step beside Eris as the procession moved indoors, the smell of groceries and winter air mixing with the home's scent of cinnamon and dog.
As they crossed the threshold into the bright, tinsel-strewn chaos of the hallway, Eris felt the weight of two worlds. The warm, arguing, normal world of her family, where the biggest crisis was a dishwashing schedule and a dog with a fashionably bandaged paw. And the other, colder world of open gates, spectral hounds, and a brooding Huntsman who had disappeared without a word. Jessie, smiling shyly beside her with a bag of canned yams, represented a door back to the former—a simple, sun-drenched path of engineering degrees and soccer games.
Standing there in the noisy, loving crossfire of her family, with an ex-boyfriend turned potential future at her elbow, Eris Sylvie MacDuffie felt the mysterious pearl necklace from Lady Rhiannon lying cool against her collarbone, a silent, glittering reminder that the other world never really let you go.
The kitchen dissolved into a symphony of crinkling bags and familial negotiation. Groceries piled onto the counter like a delicious, chaotic avalanche. Cecilia, seeing her opening, announced with the gravity of a stateswoman, "I have a time-sensitive anatomical study to conduct on Mr. Bubbles." Her favorite stuffed frog was perpetually on the brink of a medical crisis.
"After the dishwasher," Cathrine said without looking up, her hands a blur as she sorted produce. "Or Mr. Bubbles will be studying the inside of the donation bin."
Cecilia's mouth opened in protest, but one look at her mother's raised eyebrow—the one that could halt a charging hippo—made her deflate. "Fine. But it's a systemic injustice," she muttered, stomping to the appliance.
Peter, meanwhile, had cornered Jessie by the fridge. "So, your Ultimate Team on FC 25. What's your overall? Be honest. If you say anything below 88, I'm calling cap."
Jessie, his eyes following Eris as she stacked cans of pumpkin puree in the walk-in pantry, answered distractedly, "Uh, ninety-one, I think?"
"Ninety-one? No shot! That's cracked!" Peter's voice cracked mid-squawk with admiration. "You gotta show me your tactics. Do you use the 4-2-3-1 meta or are you a freak who runs a 3-5-2?"
"Peter," Cathrine's rasp cut through the interrogation. "Don't you have a YouTube empire to attend to? I believe you mentioned a 'critical upload window.'"
Peter's eyes went wide. "Oh, snap! The algorithm waits for no man!" He struck a dramatic pose, one hand on his heart. "Duty calls!" He turned to Jessie. "You wanna come up? We can run a few friendlies, I'll totally wreck you—"
"Can't," Jessie said, finally pulling his gaze from the pantry door. "Told my mom I'd help her find a gift for my dad. Meeting her soon."
Cecilia, clattering plates into the cupboard with more force than strictly necessary, sniffed. "No one wants to visit your biohazard zone, Peter. It smells of adolescent body odor and sock fermentation."
"It does not smell like feet!" Peter yelled, already halfway into the hall. "And it's better than your room, which looks like a ballet studio threw up on a pharmacy!" His retort echoed up the staircase, followed by the thunder of his retreat.
Cathrine surveyed her kingdom: the groceries were in, the dishwasher was being unloaded with militant accuracy by a scowling eight-year-old, and the dog was walked. "Alright," she declared, wiping her hands on a towel. "I'm starting the laundry, then it's baking o'clock. The pie crusts await." She vanished, leaving a vacuum of authority in her wake.
Cecilia, spotting her moment, placed the last glass in the cupboard with a definitive clink. "Dishwasher duties are fulfilled. My patient awaits." And with a swirl of her leg warmers, she was gone, a tiny phantom of purpose.
The kitchen fell silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator. Eris emerged from the pantry, brushing dust from her hands. Jessie was leaning against the counter, looking like he'd been styled by a particularly artistic wind machine.
"So," he said, pushing a hand through his already chaotic hair. "Valdis. How's… school?"
Eris leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms. A genuine smile touched her lips. "It's cool. My Organic Chemistry professor has a handlebar mustache and cries when he talks about carbonyl groups. I've only blown up the lab twice."
"Only twice? Amateur." Jessie's own smile was soft, lopsided.
"My roommates are legends. And the bar I work at is… pretty legit. A converted church in a graveyard. Totally normal. How's Stanford? Still sunny and full of geniuses?"
Jessie launched into a rambling update about his soccer team's chances, his engineering core curriculum, the way the light hit the Hoover Tower at sunset. He spoke with his hands, sketching plays and stress diagrams in the air. Eris nodded, watching his familiar, earnest face. He was a diagram of a perfect, sun-dappled life—structured, predictable, human. He talked about finishing his degree on time, about draft combines, about the tensile strength of bridge materials.
As he spoke, a flicker of movement in the corner of the ceiling caught Eris's eye. Near the top corner of the kitchen window, the air wavered like heat haze on a summer road. Then, a face resolved—pale, framed by wispy, out-of-style hair, wearing an expression of exaggerated impatience. Sarah Torbit. The ghostly witch poked her head down through the plaster as if it were a curtain, pointing urgently toward the hallway and mouthing words only Eris could hear: "We need to talk, sweetie. It's rather urgent."
Eris's brow furrowed, a spike of cold annoyance cutting through the kitchen's warmth. Not now.
"—so, what do you think?" Jessie asked, his voice pulling her back.
Eris blinked, reaching for a glass of water on the counter to buy a second. "Think? About what?"
Jessie's smirk was both confident and nervous. "About Biltmore. The Christmas lights. I haven't been since the hurricane messed up the grounds. They say they've fixed the trail. We should go."
Up by the ceiling, Sarah rolled her eyes and mimed playing a tiny, sad violin.
"Oh!" Eris said, forcing her attention to Jessie's deep-set, hopeful eyes. "Oh, yeah. That would be great. I love Biltmore. I haven't been either. We should definitely go."
Jessie's whole face brightened, the kind of smile that probably made his soccer coaches want to hug him. "Great. That's… great."
A phone pinged, the sound sharp in the quiet. Jessie fished it from his pocket, his thumbs flying. "It's my mom. I did promise to help her find a gift for dad. 'The search for the perfect non-scented candle continues,'" he read aloud, his voice fond.
Eris chuckled, the sound a little strained. "You better go then. Can't keep her waiting."
"Cool. I'll text you." He hesitated for a second, as if he might hug her, then seemed to think better of it, offering another small smile before turning.
Eris watched him leave, listening to the murmur of voices at the front door. "Hey there, Jessie." That was her dad.
"Hey, Mr. MacDuffie. Cool dog!"
"He's a… depreciating asset with fur. But thank you."
The front door clicked shut. Silence returned, heavier now. Eris looked up. Sarah Torbit was fully visible from the waist up, hovering horizontally as if lying on an invisible shelf, chin in her hands. She waved a transparent hand in a 'come hither' gesture that was anything but subtle.
Eris narrowed her eyes. She would not be summoned in her own home. Turning on her heel, she marched out of the kitchen and down the hall, ignoring the faint, whispered, "Eris, honey, it's important!" that trailed after her like a cold draft.
She pushed open the door to her bedroom and closed it firmly behind her, leaning against the wood with a sigh. Here, the other world didn't intrude. Here, there was only the Going Merry.
Her room was a shrine to a different kind of saga. The walls weren't painted; they were collaged. A vast, sun-faded poster of the Straw Hat Crew dominated the space above her bed, Luffy's grin perpetually stretching toward an unseen adventure. Surrounding it were smaller prints: Zoro wielding three swords, Nami mapping a storm, Sanji mid-kick. A shelf groaned under the weight of meticulously posed figurines—Tony Tony Chopper in multiple forms, a fierce Nico Robin, a grumpy Trafalgar Law. The comforter on her bed was a deep blue covered with the Jolly Roger, and her desk lamp was shaped like a Den Den Mushi.
The air smelled of old paper, vinyl from the rolled-up posters in the corner, and the faint, clean scent of the acrylic used to dust her figures. It was the smell of childhood obsession, carefully preserved. A set of expensive track spikes, their pins sharp and clean, sat enshrined on a special stand by the window—her other altar. Textbooks on Norse mythology and advanced chemistry were stacked beside a well-worn copy of the One Piece manga, Volume 97.
This was her sanctuary. A world of defined friendships, clear villains, and dreams of a tangible treasure. No cryptic Fae marks, no binding contracts, no ancient Huntsman with a weight of centuries in his eyes. Here, she was just Syl, the fan, the cosplayer. She ran a finger along the edge of her Nami figurine's base, the cool plastic a grounding touch.
A soft, insistent tapping sound came from the window.
Eris froze. It wasn't the door. It was the window. On the second floor.
Slowly, she turned.
Pressed against the glass, distorting her view of the winter-bare oak tree outside, was the translucent, pleading face of Sarah Torbit. The ghost had followed her, floating outside in the December air. She pointed downward, toward the backyard, her mouth moving in exaggerated, silent words: "Please? It's about the gate."
Eris stared at the apparition, then at the joyful, chaotic freedom of her pirate-wallpapered walls. The pearl necklace from Rhiannon felt suddenly heavy, a cold anchor to a reality that was now, quite literally, knocking at her window. With a groan that would have made Buster proud, she let her forehead thump against the door. So much for a normal holiday.