Lenya Adeline Von Morganstern stood at the base of the long dock. Snow and ice hung heavily from the branches of the pines which swept down to the rocky shore. It was Saint Martins Day and, in Lenya’s mind, the official beginning of the Christmas Season. Lenya had even less reason to be religious than most, but the trappings of Catholicism were pleasantly nostalgic for her.
 
The path behind her was lit with twinkling lights contained in intricately decorated crystal spheres, hung in the bows of trees with springs of mistletoe and holly. It wound its way up the steep bluff to where her house perched on the height overlooking the sea. It had only recently been finished and she admitted a certain pride to show it off. It was a modern design favouring rich brown woods and glass under a slate tiled roof. It was far too large for her but, like all her kind, she tended to build for a coven.
 
The gardens, though snow covered, were meticulously tended. She had a gardener who lived down in the village who dotted on the place. Several ice sculptures stood in the open area in the centre of the garden around her large decorated Christmas tree. They depicted various classical goddesses as imagined by art students at the University of Maine. Lenya found the Juno to be particularly beautiful, though she had paid for them all cheerfully.
 
The distant chug of a diesel motor punctured the contrived peace of the scene. She could see the old fishing boat, so called although it hadn’t fished in a decade or more, rounding the point, its storm lantern blinking cheerfully on the soft swell. She had deliberately chosen to make her home on the island, which meant she needed a boat to get back and forth to the mainland. To that end she had hired Bert, a salty old lobsterman, who was just as happy to ferry her and, today, her guests around.
 
The figures of her work mates, invited to share the celebration of the Saint’s Feast, were clustered on the deck. Some were wearing coats, others defiantly underdressed despite the cold. What would hardy old Bert make of that? Probably just shake his head at the foolishness of people ‘from away’. Seph had offered to create a portal for her guests but Lenya had demurred. She rarely resorted to magic when mundane means were available, as they were here. Besides there was talk enough about her in the village as it was, a strange foreign woman who built an expensive house on the deserted hill. It was hardly good practice to add guests who mysteriously appeared from nowhere.
 
The boat pulled expertly into the dock. Bert, as wrinkled and parched as old leather, sprang onto the dock with all the surety of a mountain goat and looped the heavy rope ties around the bollards, snugging the boat in tight.
 
“Welcome to my home everyone,” she called out with a smile, “A fine Martinmass to you all.”