Decembers were difficult precisely because so many past ones hadn't been. December in Holland, living with Adriana, making wistful plans about their future. December with Hudson visiting the Dempseys for dinner and meandering through the garden afterwards, getting into the soft sort of trouble that left a smile in your eyes. December watching Elfrieda's eyes moisten when he presented her with a thoughtful book of poetry, cramped annotations in the margins. December in Spain surrounded by Valencia's boisterous family with their thousand traditions, as alien as they were heartfelt. Decembers, Decembers, Decembers. This year the month felt like a graveyard of past memories, of relationships he'd buried. He'd been — indulging a lot, to pass the time and take the edges off his recollections. After tonight December was over, so the party tonight was something of a celebration. A personal victory, his continued survival.

He'd been drinking, but he wasn't drunk. Someone had turned the wrong way on the dance floor and practically sent their partner careening into him, and he'd been obliged to quickly get out of the way, and yes, perhaps he had wobbled slightly in doing so. He certainly didn't think he was staggering, and would have been offended that someone felt the need to jump in and help him no matter who it had been. The fact that it turned out to be one of the ghosts he'd spent the month hiding from only made matters worse.

"I'm fine," he snapped. "Where are the damn stairs?"

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