By Selma Carvalho
Christmas Day arrives—sounds muffled, hands mittened, necks sunk in scarves, the air crisp as a ciderapple. Mother returns from morning church service, singing softly to herself, ‘Joy to the world, the Lord is come…and heaven and nature sing.’ This being their last Christmas at the manor house, Anju has put up the Christmas decorations. The house smells of pine, its telltale needles leading to a green spired-tower
