Paper flowers in the fireplace

As usual, we didn’t plane how to spend Friday’s evening. And this time, without saying a word gathered in the Margaret’s living room. We sat in the cozy glow of a real old fireplace, forming a loose semicircle in the center of the room.
From the vaulted ceiling hung green twigs of mistletoe, with buds ready to bloom above...
In general, each of us was waiting for the onset of Christmas, not without hope for some kind of a miracle.
Today, high windows were framed by thick dark turquoise curtains falling to the floor. There were graceful paper deer in silver sparkles on the window glass. The sofa and chairs were covered with fluffy, almost white covers. The butt of the fireplace was decorated with wreaths of living needles, which oozed with fragrant rosin.
From time to time a rare car drove along the road, illuminating the snow-covered trees outside the window. And then the street winter light for a few seconds merged with gleams of fireplace light and wall lamps. And the decor of the room seemed to be a continuation of the evening landscape of our quiet village.
Involuntarily I recalled the evening of Samhaine, when Margaret’s living room was decorated with orange and black, there were not flowers in the vases, but maple leaves and sprigs with late berries that fell to the ground.
Lamps did not burn at all, but pumpkin faces were smiling from the corners of the room. Lively lights of flame danced in their skilfully carved eyes, and there was a huge black cat which fell apart in the middle of the carpet. The cat seemed to feel at home, although it was the only evening when we saw him here.
His strand of wool seemed to live their own lives, chaotically standing on end, sparkling and crackling. If the cat also purred, it seemed that he was a kind of electric field, or rather, he was like ball lightning, frozen before changing the trajectory.
None of us decided to pet him, although he looked (or tried to look) as peace-loving and kindly squinted his phosphorescent eyes, looking at us.

Margaret was so lively and talkative that evening. She was wearing a gray loose-fitting trousers in a large cell and knitted sweater warm brown color. She braided her hair in two braids, not fixed at the ends, and if one of the braids was unraveling more than half, girl wove it again. At the same time she gently scratched cat’s back by her foot, popping glad cat this time was stretching to its full height and seemed incredibly big, but in some way he took up very little space on the floor.
   “This is Cat Si,” said Margaret, once again weaving a disheveled braid.      “She is my guest today.”
At the word "guest" we all involuntarily winced and looked away from Margaret and her sparkling cat, because we heard a knock on the window.
The trunks of the trees growing in front of the house were black against the background of an orange piece of sky lit up by the setting sun of the last autumn day.
An eared owlet perched on one of the small branches scratching the window glass. He desperately clung to the branch with his paws and flapped his wings so as not to fall, and clearly wanted to be let into the room. And this we happily did, because each of us has always secretly dreamed of a hand-feed owl.
Playing with a smart chick, we completely forgot about Cat Si, and then she gave a vote. Margaret smiled and nodded to her lightly. The cat reached out on its front paws, whether straightening its long back, or bowing. Her fur crackled loudly, and when we turned in her direction again, Cat Si disappeared without a trace.
This evening, as always, when we, without saying a word, gathered together here, the decor in the living room was special. And what we saw from the window of the room always paralleled what was inside.
But the strangest thing in Margaret’s living room was not this, and not even the fact that our phones and cameras never worked here. We have long ceased to carry them with us, just as call up before gathering in Margaret’s house. The strangest thing was that inside the fireplace there was always a small bunch of artfully made paper flowers that the flame did not touch.
Telling stories (real or not) was the “main theme” of our spontaneous parties at the fireplace. But whenever we asked the hostess to reveal us the “secret of her marguerites,” she, as always smiling at her eyes, quietly replied: “It is a long story.”
We were all fascinated by Margaret (and not just Jeremy, who fell in love with her at first sight). Her half-childish lips always seemed to smile a little, as did her slightly slanting dark-green eyes.
Today the girl was wearing a light beige sleeveless dress, with a long floor-length skirt. At the waist the dress was decorated with a wide turquoise ribbon, embroidered with a silver pattern. Thick hair that was a little darker than her pale peach skin was tied with a satin ribbon in the color of bleached bronze.
Margaret rarely spoke, but each of us enjoyed the sounds of that voice. It was quiet, but ringing, like silvery bells, it reminded of the dance of small snowflakes in the moonlight, of the Sugar Fairy’s laughter, of the melodies of an ancient magic people lodged in tall trees.
That evening, as always, the girl remained quiet and smiling and tried to keep closer to the fireplace, as if her thoughtful look, turned to the fire, did not allow the flame to die out.
Jeremy, who couldn't keep his eyes off Margaret, was now sitting very close to her. She did not move away and looked into his eyes directly, with a gentle smile (whenever he spoke to her). But, as on any other evening, she did not allow his hand to inadvertently touch hers.
I watched them absent-mindedly and tenderly, wondering to myself how long it would take before the curly Jeremy’s head let in the obvious thought: he and Margaret are completely unsuitable for each other. And I wondered if my long-legged and always slightly pale sister (always demanding that we call her not otherwise but Tin-Ting) would ever know that he had desperately tried to draw her attention to him for a whole year, but gave up, deciding that she will never prefer her “mysterious” inner world to real life.
These thoughts, the warmth of the room, the quiet conversations of friends and the cherry twigs' crackling in the depths of the “magic” fireplace made my eyelids feel heavy, and my body limp, and I didn’t notice how I fell asleep.

Apparently, I slept long enough because I was awakened by a strong aching pain in my back, caused by an uncomfortable posture. Finally opened my eyes and stretched my legs, I looked around. Rubbing my temples, I tried to put together a puzzle of memory, to recall how I found myself sleeping inside an abandoned old detached house, leaning against a wall, sitting on my half empty backpack.
Little by little, the fog in my head dissipated, and I remembered how did the three of us get here: for a few days at the resort, we were bored with skiing and sauna, and Tin-Ting persuaded Jeremy and me to walk through the picturesque local village.
My sister, as always, was eager to find something “strange” to photograph. Therefore, we wandered around the village for a long time, and when we finally found what we were looking for, the three of us were pretty exhausted, and in addition to all the strong wind got up.
Inside the old house it was surprisingly warm and dry, and we sat near one of the walls, exchanging impressions of a long walk. I did not remember how I fell asleep, but the sun had not set yet, which means I didn’t sleep long.

Before waking Tin-Ting and Jeremy, I decided to check something out. Going to the old fireplace, I was not surprised to feel the light smell of freshly burned paper. And I was not scared by what I saw when I brushed the warm ashes with my glove.
The inscription, carved with graceful serif font, said: “Thank you all for being with me.” For a split second, the feeling of warmth returned to me, and my ears caught the echo of thin silver laughter.
When we went down to the road, I got a little behind to look around the old house once more. Jeremy held Tin-Ting by the arm so that she did not slide down the slope. I gestured to them that I would drop off and walked a little distance away all the way, catching up with friends only near the camp.
They continued to hold each other's hands.