I see this and think of those book moments, the ones with a feeling so round as to be held onto for a long time. I see this and see my own 10-year-old imaginings of this book’s Christmas, a Christmas so delectable as to be beyond my comprehension — one of those perfect transportative bits of fiction to be remembered forever. I see knit sweaters and little parcels and treacle pudding and golden lights studding the halls. I see those book moments easily still: Harriet’s notebook game of Town, and the fish and chips from The Secret of Platform 13, and the zinnia gardens of Sharon Creech. I see the peppermint sticks and fiddles of Christmas from the Little House on the Prairie and splashing in the fountain of the Met after hours.
I hadn’t ever had fish or pudding or a Christmas in a castle, but those fictional moments steeped in my mind. And now they’re as warm to me as recalling my own life.