It was cold-so miserably cold. Athena knew by the numbness in her own fingers and toes that Annabel's, Marta's, and Bronwen's must be frozen stiff. Yet she hoped that their merriment-in singing Christmas carols on the doorsteps or in the parlors of those who opened their doors or invited them inside for a moment-would offset their discomfort. After all, a happy heart warmed many a frigid soul, as well as ice-cold appendages. As a child, Athena had adored caroling. It was with warm fondness that she thought back on all those Christmas seasons of the past when her entire family would carol to their neighbors. Always her mother had made puddings, cakes, and other sweet treats to bring with them, to give as gifts of affection to their kind townsfolk and friends. And once the caroling was at an end, the Monroe family-Athena's father, mother, and sisters Annabel, Marta, and Bronwen-would return to their own home to sit before the fire and enjoy roasted chestnuts and wassail. But this Christmas season-the season that had always been bright and shining, the season that had always been to Athena a time to consider others, to give and serve-this Christmas season was stark in opposition Never had Athena imagined that she would find herself in such dire, desperate circumstances as she did then. As she followed her younger sisters to the next door on the row of lovely houses-houses so similar to the one in which she and her sisters had spent only the very last Christmas season-she hoped that the next kind family to open the door might offer her sisters (and herself as well) a token of goodwill-a warm mug of wassail, a small butter biscuit, anything for their stomachs...