11 December 2026
Friday. The season of office parties is upon Northbridge, and an office arrived at my door this evening fourteen strong, in paper crowns.
I can receive ten. Not eleven, not ten and a small one: ten. So the house did what it does every December and divided them. Ten came up to my graveyard and four went along the hall to one of the house’s other rooms, starting at the same moment, so that both parties could compare their misfortunes on Lake Street afterwards.
I asked whether the empty corners of my crypt might be filled with strangers on quieter nights, to make up the numbers. The house was shocked. Every party is private, it said, and always has been. Nobody shares a sacrifice with people they have never met.
For the very largest companies the house keeps people who arrange whole evenings across many rooms at once. I am told they are very efficient. I distrust efficiency in December.
Merry Christmas, Reader. Mind the mistletoe. My beloved does not care for rivals.
— D.
