By Abigail Hart
“One hundred twenty-one, one hundred twenty-two, one hundred twenty-three…” Scrooge muttered, his thin lips pursed as he stacked the last coin. He paused, squinting at the desk with rheumy eyes. Last time he counted, there had been 124.
“Who stole my sovereign?” he thundered, slamming his shriveled palms on the table.
The scratching pens ceased. His clerks glanced up, fear flickering in their hollow eyes.
“Well?”
“S-Sir.” His head clerk stood slowly, hands trembling. “I haven’t touched your desk since I’ve worked here. And I can vouch for my fellow clerks, too. None of us dare go nearer than we must.”
“Someone did!” Scrooge’s glare swept the room like a whip, and the clerks shrank beneath it. “You’re the only people who have entered since this morning, when I brought the money from the bank. So where is it?”
“Maybe you miscounted, sir!” the newest clerk blurted out, voice cracking. The room gasped, and he immediately ducked his head. “With all due respect, sir.”
Scrooge stepped down from his desk, cane clicking sharply against the floor. His breath rasped through yellowed teeth as he loomed over the young man, expression twisted with disbelief.
“Never in seventy years of my life have I miscounted!” The cane lashed across the clerk’s shoulder with a crack, causing him to cry out. “For that insult, you are fired! Get out of my sight.”
The other clerks urged the man with their eyes to do as Scrooge said. Unfortunately, the clerk could not let this injustice go. He stood so sharply that his chair crashed to the ground. Staggering, he clutched his arm and fury sparked in his eyes.
“It was just a suggestion!” he yelled, inches from Scrooge’s face. “I’m your employee, not your slave—I should call the police.”
“You are no longer my employee,” Scrooge hissed with enough power to cut glass. “And the police can easily be assuaged by a little… compensation. Perhaps they’ll even look into the sovereign you stole from me.”
The boy’s bravado faltered. He stumbled backward, then turned and fled. The door slammed behind him, and silence spread like frost.
Scrooge straightened his coat and smoothed back a few wiry strands. “Until whomever stole my sovereign returns it, no one will be paid. And…” He grinned. “If anyone decides to leave, I’ll see to it no employer within a hundred miles hires you. Understood?”
The clerks bent their heads wordlessly, ink scratching once more.
“I’m going on a walk.” Scrooge grumbled. He swept the 123 sovereigns into his safe, spun the lock with twitching fingers, and stalked out into the snowy day.
Christmas wrapped the streets in a warmth Scrooge could not feel. Vendors hawked geese and sugar pies, carolers sang with flushed cheeks, and men rattled tin cups for charity. The air was thick with roasted chestnuts and pine smoke. Yet Scrooge brushed aside every “Merry Christmas” with a scowl.
Why did everyone have to be so humbug cheery? Scrooge thought, lips curling. Such a waste of time, money, and energy that people could use towards useful pursuits.
Suddenly, a boy collided with him.
“Sir!”
“Boy, I could call the police on you!” Scrooge grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.
“But sir—”
“You vagrant!”
“Sir, let me talk!”
Scrooge froze. No one had dared speak over him in decades. The boy’s boldness unsettled him.
“I brought firewood to your lending house this morning,” the boy continued. “You paid me too much.”
He held out his hand. It contained a sovereign. The missing sovereign.
Scrooge blinked. His hands fumbled at his pockets: one jangling with loose change, the other was empty. He must have drawn from the wrong pocket that morning.
He snatched back the sovereign. “Thief! So you refrained from telling me until now, did you? A guilty conscience is too much to bear, eh?”
The boy’s face tightened, but his voice was steady. “Sir, I brought it back as soon as I realized your mistake. I never meant to steal.” He stared at Scrooge as if he were beneath him. “Would you have done the same?”
Scrooge faltered under the boy’s intense gaze. For a moment, he was a child again, pocketing coins that weren’t his, convincing himself no one had noticed. His throat constricted. He thrust the sovereign back at the boy. “Here. Keep it.”
The boy turned toward the crowd, disgust sharpening his features. “I don’t want your bribes.”
The fire of this boy trying to provide for his family, yet his pride refusing to accept charity. Scrooge felt an unfamiliar hitch in his chest. Could he help where many people had failed in his youth?
“Wait!” Scrooge lurched forward. “D-Does your family have enough money for a proper Christmas?”
The boy turned around and regarded him coolly.
“Take it as a gift… for your family.”
The boy cocked his head. “On one condition: share our Christmas feast with us.”
Scrooge’s mouth twisted as he examined the boy—his torn clothes, his face stained with soot. What feast could he offer that Scrooge couldn’t buy?
Scrooge shook his head. “I couldn’t.” Christmas held too many bad memories. It was a waste of time that could be spent making money.
The boy turned away. “Have a merry Christmas then.”
As he walked away, the sovereign seared Scrooge’s palm. When he was that boy’s age, a single coin would have been a miracle to him.
“Boy!”
“Yes?”
Scrooge tossed him the coin. “I’ll… I’ll think about it. No guarantees though; I might be working.”
The boy shook his head. “Not on Christmas. We’ll be expecting you.” He smiled and tipped his hat. “Thank you, sir. Mum will be pleased. Merry Christmas!” Snowflakes dotted his blond hair as he hurried away.
Scrooge turned away grumbling, already regretting his moment of weakness. Back at the lending house, his clerks were startled when he lifted his threat.
But he couldn’t forget the boy’s gaze, and suddenly the carolers outside didn’t seem like such a waste of time.
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