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If Jean hadn’t happened to glance up at the clock, she would have missed the shock of burgundy hair flitting past her open office door. As it was, she barely caught the tail end of the flash of colour.
“Rosaria?” she called.
A beat of silence before the woman in question poked her head around the doorframe, scowling at the light. “What,” she said.
“How are you?” Jean asked.
Rosaria glared at her. “Just because Varka’s gone doesn’t mean you have to take his place as resident chatterbox.”
“Right,” Jean said. “Sorry.” She fiddled with her pen cap. “Uh, do you know what Barbara wants for Christmas?”
Rosaria tipped her head back and sighed a long-suffering sigh. “You have to stop asking me these things,” she said. “You know the Cathedral is a three-minute walk away, right?”
“I know,” Jean said. “I’ve been busy.” Not strictly a lie, but excuses tend to lose their power when you’ve been using them for close on five years.
In an uncharacteristic act of kindness, Rosaria did not point that out. Instead she rolled her eyes and said, “I don’t know. Am I your sister’s keeper?” A pause, a sigh. “I’ll find out.”
And she was gone.
—
Jean’s first meeting with Rosaria had, to put it lightly, not gone well.
She’d seen the hat first, poking up over the wall by the Knights’ practice grounds. Then the burgundy hair, as the owner of the hat clambered up the wall, locks sticking out at odd angles underneath the badly-secured veil. The stranger had a pale, gaunt face, and a skinny body draped in an oversized habit. She hoisted herself over the wall and dropped down in front of Jean.
“Hi,” said the stranger.
“Hi,” said Jean.
They stared at each other. Jean figured the other girl must also be around 17, but her malnourished appearance made her look older. “You’re new around here, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Impressive,” the girl said, sounding distinctly unimpressed. “You know a stranger when you see one.”
Jean flushed pink. “Sorry. Jean Gunnhildr, Infantry Captain of the Knights of Favonius.”
“Rosaria,” said Rosaria, and offered nothing else.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance. You’re a nun?”
“You really like stating the obvious,” Rosaria said. “Yeah, I just joined the Church. Praise Barsibatos, and all that.”
“Barbatos,” Jean corrected automatically. “Have you met Barbara yet?”
“The blonde kid? Yeah,” Rosaria said, crossing her arms. “Pain in my ass.”
Jean froze. The surprise hit first — how unwarranted, in a civil conversation — but the anger only took a second to catch up. She felt her face contort. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
Rosaria raised her eyebrows and leaned against the wall, too calm. “Why, you know her or something?”
“Yeah,” Jean snapped. “She’s my–”
A beat, as she ran through the possible ways she could end that sentence. My sister. My ex-sister. The sister I’m not even sure I can call mine anymore. My long-time confidante, my childhood best friend, the person I pretend not to see when I pass her in the streets.
“We know each other, yeah,” she said, and it fell flat even to her own ears.
“Okay, well, she’s annoying,” Rosaria said. “Little shit keeps–”
Jean’s sword was at Rosaria’s throat. She wasn’t sure how it got there. “I said not to talk about her like that,” she bit out.
Rosaria’s face was impassive. “Touchy.” Then a burst of frost and Jean’s sword went flying, knocked out of her hands by a polearm that was decidedly not there a second ago.
Jean fell back into a fighting position, calculating how best to fight a Vision bearer, but Rosaria was already sauntering away. She glanced back over her shoulder. “I’ll tell her you said hi.”
—
Jean would have run Rosaria out of Mondstadt before long if it hadn’t been for Barbara.
Barbara, who came to their next family gathering and punctuated the dead silence with glowing stories of the new redheaded nun, who was difficult and unapproachable but made the best roast chicken.
Barbara, who swore up and down that Rosaria wasn’t a bad person, that she just needed a little love and support.
Barbara, whose Christmas wish that year was that Jean please not complain to Grand Master Varka.
And so Jean bit her tongue.
I.
A year after their first meeting, Jean pushed open the door of her office — Master of the Knights, read the plaque on the door — to see a familiar figure lounging beside one of the windows.
“Rosaria?”
Rosaria turned. Mondstadt had been good to her in some ways. Her cheeks had lost their hollowness — but her eyes were still wary, and likely always would be. “Jean,” she said.
“How are you?” Jean asked, because Frederica hadn’t raised a boor.
Rosaria rolled her eyes. “Spare me the pleasantries.”
“Sorry,” Jean said. “How can I help you?”
Rosaria’s face contorted with something that, on any other person, might have been classified as embarrassment. “I have a request.”
“Okay,” Jean said, and waited.
Words did not seem to be coming easily to Rosaria. Her mouth twisted like the request was physically tugging at the edges of her lips, and her fingers worried at the fabric of her newly designed uniform. “Forget it,” she snapped finally. “It’s stupid.”
“Sister Rosaria,” Jean said. “If there’s something the Knights can help with, please let us know.”
This did not help. If anything, it seemed to contort Rosaria’s face even further. “I don’t want the Knights’ help, I want yours,” she snapped. “This is why Barbara never asks you for anything.”
Jean suddenly felt like someone had kicked her in the stomach.
“What?” she said, and her voice came out hollow.
Rosaria winced. “Shouldn’t have said that. I just– Ugh.”
Jean took a deep breath and reminded herself that Rosaria had had a tough childhood and should therefore be forgiven for being an asshole all the time. “If the favour is within my power to grant, I will try to help,” she said.
“Thanks,” Rosaria muttered. “It’s just– Barbara wants this stupid Yunjin figurine for Christmas, and I’ve been trying to get it but none of my sources have the necessary connections. Do you know how hard these damn figurines are to get? It’s daylight robbery, and I say that as someone who has actually engaged in daylight robbery.”
Jean held up a hand. “Wait. The favour you’re requesting is that I help you get a musician figurine, for Barbara, for Christmas?”
“Yeah,” Rosaria said, like that was a run-of-the-mill request and not a worldview-shattering occurrence. “Try to keep up. I thought since you know the Tianquan and all, you might be able to help.”
“How do you know what Barbara wants?” Jean asked, her brain strangely sluggish.
“She told me,” Rosaria said, and the words this is why Barbara never asks you for anything echoed around the room again.
“Oh,” Jean said, and wondered why her chest hurt so much. “I’ll… I’ll get in touch with Ningguang and see what I can do.”
—
That December, an unnamed donor left a very rare collectible figurine under the nuns’ Christmas tree.
The tag read only, “For Barbara” — neither of the co-conspirators had wanted to put their name on the gift. She told you, after all, one of them had said, and the other had responded, You were the one who sourced it, and the first had said, I think it would be awkward if she knew it was from me, and so neither of them had ended up signing the gift.
But Barbara gasped and cried and displayed it proudly on her shelf, and that was all that mattered, really.
II.
“A what?”
“A Christmas concert,” Rosaria repeated, looking as baffled as Jean felt. “I asked what she wanted this Christmas and she said she wanted to put on a concert. For free. For Christmas.”
“Alice.” Jean rubbed her eyes. “Her and her talk of idols and stardom.”
Rosaria slumped back into her chair. “We don’t have to continue this collaboration, you know. We did a nice thing last year. We could quit while we’re ahead.”
“Do you want to do that, though?” Jean asked. Rosaria sighed and glanced away. “Yeah, I thought not.”
“I just– This kid! I don’t understand,” Rosaria complained, dropping her head into her hands. “I don’t have any concert-planning experience, Jean. Most of my experience involves dead bodies.”
“Which would not be ideal at a concert,” Jean said.
Rosaria grimaced. “I’m not ruling out murder yet.”
“I think that would be inadvisable,” Jean said, having learned through the years to only take 70% of Rosaria’s homicide threats seriously.
“Have you seen that fan club of hers, though?” Rosaria asked. “I’m guessing not, or you’d have suggested murder first.”
“I’ve heard tell of a fan club,” Jean said, putting down her pen, “but whatever did they do to raise your ire?”
Rosaria leaned forward grimly. “Oh, you’re not going to enjoy this.”
By the time Rosaria finished recounting all the fan club’s behaviour — lurking near the Cathedral, cornering Barbara randomly around Mondstadt, begging her for autographs — Jean was pacing a hole into the carpet of her office.
“Do you know where they live?” she asked blandly, rubbing at the pommel of her sword.
Rosaria laughed mirthlessly. “I do. Up for a little homicide tonight, Master Jean?”
The use of her title pulled Jean out of her fog of rage (Rosaria hadn’t called her anything other than “Jean” in… oh, years). But tendrils of fury still writhed at the edge of her vision.
“She’s 16! How long has this been going on for?” she demanded, throwing herself back into her chair.
Rosaria shrugged. “Six months? Since she started gaining popularity.”
“She never told me,” Jean said, and swallowed down the grief that rose in her throat.
“She didn’t want you to worry about her,” Rosaria said, with a stilted, rusty sort of kindness.
“I’m her older sister; it’s my job to worry about her,” Jean murmured, and then shook herself. “You think they’ll be at this Christmas concert if we organize it?”
“They’re at every concert,” Rosaria said. “I don’t think any of them have jobs. They always drink too much and get rowdy, too.”
“The Knights should have been providing security,” Jean said, with a practiced self-recrimination. “I should have done better.”
Rosaria reached across the desk and thwapped her on the shoulder. “Stop blaming yourself, gods; it’s such a pain to watch. Forgive yourself as Barbathtub forgives you, or whatever.”
Jean laughed, and neither of them commented on the tremor in her voice. “Well, I’m not going to let some creeps interfere with Barbara’s Christmas wish. I’m sure the Church and the Ordo can pull this concert off somehow.”
“Fine,” Rosaria sighed, and then perked up. “And maybe we’ll even get to kill someone while we’re at it.”
—
The people of Mondstadt would remember that day as one of the most perfect Christmases of all time, with a light dusting of snow on the ground and strains of healing music floating over the city.
Barbara would remember that day with awe. The way everything came together so quickly and smoothly, facilitated by the Church and the Ordo’s combined resources, was nothing short of a miracle.
Members of a certain fan club would remember that day with fear. Those among them who got rowdy had been escorted gently away — by either the imposing Master of the Knights or a terrifying sister of the Church.
There were significantly more people than usual limping around the day after, but none of them visited the Cathedral for healing.
None of them dared.
III.
“Her Christmas wish this year is… a person?”
“Yeah,” Rosaria said, tipping back in her chair. “She wants to meet her idol, but she knows it’s a big ask.”
“But she mentioned it to you anyway,” Jean said. “She must… she must really trust you.”
“Yeah, well,” Rosaria said, looking embarrassed. “The kid is starved for attention. She would trust you too, if you actually made an effort to show up in her life.”
This last had become a familiar refrain over the years. Maybe you should pop by the Cathedral today, Jean, or Aren’t the Knights supposed to work closely with the Church, or, most bluntly, Come take your sister off my hands.
Jean said, “It’s complicated,” which she’d been saying for years, and “I’m busy,” which she’d also been saying for years, and Rosaria gave her an unimpressed stare.
“How long are you going to be busy for?” she asked. “Years? Decades?”
“I–” said Jean. “Varka’s going on an expedition in two months, and the Fatui presence in Mondstadt is growing, and–”
“Save it for someone who cares,” Rosaria said, kindly cutting her off. “How are we going to get this Xinyan girl to Mondstadt?”
Jean sighed, grateful for the reprieve. “I don’t know. Does she do tours or something?”
“No harm in asking. You still keep in touch with the Tianquan?”
“I don’t think this is something that can be arranged by the government,” Jean said.
“So you’re finally realizing that you bureaucrats should keep your noses out of some things?” Rosaria said, without any real bite behind her words.
Jean tapped her pen on her desk. “What about Kaeya?”
“What about him?”
“He has lots of contacts in Liyue — in every nation, for that matter. And he likes Barbara. I’m sure he’d help if we asked.”
Rosaria raised an eyebrow. “Not a bad idea. You’ll have to ask him, though. If I asked Kaeya to do my dirty work, he’d never let me hear the last of it.”
Jean winced. “On second thought…”
“What’s wrong? I thought you two were close.”
“We– We work together, yes,” Jean said. “I just don’t like relying on him too much.”
Rosaria laughed dryly. “You don’t like relying on anyone too much.”
“I don’t like letting down the people of Mondstadt,” Jean said primly, and Rosaria kicked her under the table.
“Be honest, Jean. It’s a pride thing, isn’t it? You’re just too vain to ask for help.”
“What?” Jean demanded, annoyed at Rosaria for the suggestion, annoyed at herself for letting Rosaria get under her skin again. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Rosaria sprawled out in her chair. “You think you’re the only person who can do what you do. You think that asking for help makes you weak, and you don’t like feeling weak. You think if something’s done less than perfectly then you’re a failure.” She propped her boots up on Jean’s desk.
“Get your feet off my desk. A-And you’re wrong about me,” Jean said, hating the way her voice wobbled. “I do what I do for Mondstadt, not out of any misplaced vanity!”
“Does that help you sleep at night?” Rosaria asked, pityingly. “You know what I think? I think this is why you haven’t made any effort to repair your relationship with your sister. You just can’t swallow your pride, Jean.”
Jean’s fingernails bit into the wood of her desk. “How dare you?” she breathed. “How dare you come into my office and spout this– this bullshit?”
Rosaria sighed. “Look, I’m not judging you. I do the same lone wolf shit. But at least I’m honest with myself.”
Jean stood up and shoved Rosaria’s boots off her desk. “Get out of my office.” When she didn’t move, Jean raised her voice and tried to suppress the shuddering fury. “Out, Rosaria.”
“Fine,” Rosaria said, rising to her feet. “Ask Kaeya for help, or don’t. But… think about how much your pride is worth, Jean.”
Only when the door slammed shut did Jean allow herself to raise a shaking hand and dash the angry tears from her eyes.
—
“Xinyan is coming to Mondstadt?” Barbara squeaked.
Kaeya grinned. “Indeed. You don’t mind if she stays at the Cathedral while she’s here, do you?”
Barbara wiggled with joy. “Of course I don’t mind! This is so exciting!” She stopped and narrowed her eyes at him. “Did you engineer this?”
“I had a hand in it,” Kaeya admitted. “But it was mostly through the machinations of a mysterious benefactor.”
She grabbed his forearms and shook him lightly. “Who?”
“If I told you, they wouldn’t be very mysterious, would they?”
She sighed. “I suppose. When is Xinyan coming, anyway?”
“Tonight,” Kaeya said, and Barbara nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Oh! I have to get a room ready for her, and make sure we’re fully stocked, and–”
Kaeya’s hands clamped down on her shoulders. “Breathe. Rosaria already handled all that.”
“Is she the mysterious benefactor?” Barbara asked, and he cackled.
“Imagine Rosaria having the money to pull this off! No, she fritters away her paycheque at the Angel’s Share like a true child of Mondstadt.”
“Oh,” Barbara said. “Well, when you next see the benefactor, would you thank them for me, please?”
Kaeya squeezed her shoulders. “I’ll be sure to pass on your regards.”
IV.
Rosaria stalked into the Grand Master’s office and dropped into a chair.
“Evening,” Jean said.
“She doesn’t want anything for Christmas,” Rosaria said, without preamble.
Jean looked up. “Really? Nothing?”
“I asked her point blank,” Rosaria said, slumping into her chair and making a face. “She said she didn’t want anything, thank you for asking.”
“But,” Jean said, putting down her pen, “she’s been so… subdued lately. I thought maybe if we got her something fun for Christmas…”
“You thought a thoughtful gift would cure your sister’s depression?” Rosaria asked, not unkindly, and Jean winced.
“I– Not like–” she started, then sighed. “Yeah, I suppose I did. I just… wanted to do something nice for her, Rosaria.”
Rosaria scrutinized her for a moment, then sighed. “Do you want to know what I think, Jean?”
For once, it sounded like a question and not a prelude to a scolding, so Jean nodded.
“It’s been hard for her without your dad around,” Rosaria started, slowly. “She won’t tell anyone, but she misses him a lot. Especially with no other family she’s close to — no offense.”
“None taken.”
“Her new Deaconess responsibilities are taking a toll on her, and she hates acknowledging that she’s struggling.”
“Runs in the family, I think,” Jean said.
Rosaria snorted. “Hey, at least you can admit it now. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that she’s lonely.”
“Oh,” Jean said.
“If you really want to do something nice, have her over for Christmas dinner,” Rosaria said, sounding strangely genuine. “Nothing fancy. Just… make a pizza or something and sit in awkward silence. It will mean a lot to her.”
Jean grimaced. “I liked it better when she was asking for musician figurines. Are you sure there’s no other option? I’m not the best at… social things.”
Rosaria shrugged, visibly uncomfortable at the sudden honesty in the air. “She doesn’t want anything for Christmas, Jean. She just wants you.”
—
“Are you sure?” Barbara asked, eyes wide. “I’m fine by myself, honestly. There’s a lot to do at the Cathedral over the holidays.”
“You don’t have to come over,” Jean said quickly. “I just thought it might be nice.”
“Oh,” said Barbara.
Jean tugged at a lock of hair that had come loose from her ponytail. “Mom’s out of town, so it will just be the two of us. If that’s okay.”
“Sounds… fun,” Barbara said, lying valiantly. “I just wouldn’t want to impose.”
Jean laughed before she could stop herself. “Barbara, you’re my sister. You could never impose.”
“Oh,” said Barbara again, and swallowed. “I– In that case, I’d love to come over for Christmas.”
“Cool,” Jean said, but that seemed inadequate, so she added, “Nice,” and wished fervently that she had Kaeya’s way with words.
“Uh,” Barbara said, and looked faintly embarrassed. “Do you mind… if Rosaria comes too?” She held up her hands. “She just doesn’t have anyone else to celebrate with, but I totally understand if you don’t want her there–”
“Please bring Rosaria,” Jean said, a little vindictively, suddenly understanding why people said that misery loves company.
“Oh,” said Barbara, for the third time in two minutes. “Okay. We’ll– We’ll see you there!”
—
“I can’t believe you roped me into this,” Rosaria hissed, slipping into the kitchen with a roast chicken.
Jean pulled her pizza out of the oven. “You were the one who suggested it,” she said, and smirked. “Don’t you want Barbara to have a nice Christmas?”
“I liked it better when you were the only one who’d have to suffer through awkward silences,” Rosaria muttered.
“Well, join the club,” Jean said, reaching for plates. “I don’t love this either. We’re doing it for Barb.”
The doorbell rang. “Speak of the devil,” Rosaria said, and headed to the front door.
“Hi!” Barbara’s voice floated into the kitchen, high and chipper and a little nervous. “Rosaria! Merry Christmas!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rosaria said, sounding bored. “Blessings from Barbershop.” Then she seemed to perk up. “Is that wine?”
“Oh!” Barbara exclaimed, and Jean heard the rustle of a paper bag. “Kaeya told me it was polite to bring wine to a dinner party.”
“Kaeya would say that,” Jean said, amused. “I’m in the kitchen, Barb.”
Barbara entered the kitchen. “Merry Christmas, Jean!” She held the wine out to her, realized that Jean couldn’t take it because of the plates in her hands, and pulled it back towards herself a little awkwardly.
“Merry Christmas, Barb,” Jean said. “Thanks for the wine. You can’t drink yet, though, right?”
“I turned 18 this year, actually,” Barbara said.
“I,” Jean said, and paused. She clutched the plates to her chest. “I must have forgotten. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay, Jean,” Barbara said, and offered her a sheepish smile. She set the wine down and held out her hands. “I can set the table if you’d like.”
“I– Sure,” Jean said, handing her the plates.
Rosaria entered the kitchen as Barbara left. “Off to a great start,” she whispered.
Jean punched her on the arm. “Shut up or no wine for you,” she whispered back, and Rosaria gasped in mock affront.
Eventually they got themselves settled at the dining table — after some scrambling on Jean’s part to find her woefully underused wine glasses.
Barbara bowed her head and said grace, while Rosaria produced a knife from up her literal sleeve. Jean forced her to wash it before carving up the chicken.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, with Jean getting steadily more uncomfortable. How could she be perfectly at home in a diplomatic negotiation, she wondered, and yet so far out of her depth at dinner with her sister?
“So,” she said finally, and two sets of eyes snapped to her. “Barb. How’s, uh, how’s the promotion to Deaconess?”
“It’s good!” Barbara said, obligingly. “There’s a lot of work to do, but I enjoy it!”
“Good,” Jean said. “That’s great.”
And they fell into silence again. Barbara splashed hot sauce on her pizza and ate it with relish. Rosaria slurped her wine loudly. Jean fiddled with the edges of her tablecloth.
“Tell Jean about your correspondence with Xinyan,” Rosaria said eventually, taking pity on them all.
Barbara lit up, pizza forgotten. “Oh! After she came here last Christmas, we started writing letters to each other and we’ve kept in touch ever since. We’re trying to figure out if we can collaborate on a concert in the new year!”
“That’s amazing!” Jean exclaimed. “Oh, Barbara, that’s wonderful. I’m glad you’re” — she almost said I’m glad you’re making friends, but cut herself off for fear of sounding condescending — “finding more colleagues in the music world.”
“Me too!” Barbara said, eyes shining. “Her sound is so revolutionary. I want to be at the cutting edge of the industry like her.”
“Wow,” Jean said, totally uncomprehending. “That‘s incredible.” Then, because she was nothing if not loyal, she added, “I’ll always like your music best, though.”
Rosaria rolled her eyes, but Barbara went pink in the face and squeaked, “Thank you!”
Then she seemed to remember something and dived for her bag. “I forgot I got you both presents!”
“Hmph. Unnecessary,” Rosaria said, despite the gleam in her eye.
“You didn’t have to,” Jean said. “That’s very kind.”
“Nonsense,” Barbara said, emerging with two wrapped packages in her hands. “It’s the least I could do, really.”
She handed Rosaria a weirdly wrapped gift, and Jean a parcel that looked like a large brick. “Open them!” she ordered.
Rosaria tore the paper impatiently with her claw rings, revealing a bottle of… water? Jean squinted at the clear liquid, trying to make out the text on the label.
“Barbara,” Rosaria said, sounding strangely awed. “Is this firewater?”
Barbara clapped her hands in delight. “Yes!”
“How did you get this?” Rosaria demanded. “It’s been almost impossible to get since the Winery declined to import it.”
“I have my ways,” Barbara said, enigmatically, which probably meant Kaeya had had a hand in it. “Now you open yours, Jean!”
Jean slid her finger under a flap of wrapping paper, peeling the tape off slowly. She repeated the process on the other side, gently detaching an unfolded edge.
Rosaria tapped her claws on the table. “Hurry up.”
“I don’t want to tear perfectly good paper,” Jean said, flipping the parcel over and doing the same on the bottom. Rosaria groaned.
Once all the tape had been peeled off, Jean unwrapped the box and gasped. “Barbara.”
Barbara giggled uncontrollably. “Do you like it? Do you?”
“What is that?” Rosaria asked, peering over.
“Collector’s edition box set of Vera’s Melancholy,” Jean said, half breathless, running her fingers over the hand-bound spines. “It had one printing ten years ago and I’ve been trying to source a set ever since.” She looked up at Barbara, whose eyes were shining. “How?”
“I told you,” Barbara said gleefully. “I have my ways.”
Jean shook her head. “Barb, this is… this is too much. We didn’t even get you anything.”
“Not this year,” Barbara said, and Jean truly wouldn’t have thought anything of it if Barbara hadn’t clapped her hands violently to her mouth and frozen mid-sentence.
“Uh,” Jean said.
Rosaria set her firewater down very, very slowly, as if it were a Jumpy Dumpty primed to explode. She raised her eyebrows. “Barbara?”
Barbara’s cheeks reddened behind her fingertips. “I! Just! Just ignore what I said!”
Rosaria leaned forward. “Did you say, ‘Not this year?’”
“I didn’t say anything about anything!” Barbara squeaked, covering her guilty eyes.
Rosaria set her jaw and met Jean’s eyes with a grim sort of embarrassment. “Seems the jig’s up, huh?”
“Oh, Barbatos,” Jean said, suddenly feeling as though everything in her house had just shifted two inches to the left. “How long have you known?”
Barbara peeked out from behind her fingers. “Known what?”
Rosaria flicked one of her pigtails lightly. “Don’t play dumb with me.”
Barbara sighed and emerged fully from behind her hands. “A few years, now.”
“Years?” Jean asked, feeling somewhat foolish. “You’ve known for years?”
“You two are not very good at keeping secrets!” Barbara protested. “The first year, I literally told Rosaria that I wanted the figurine and then it showed up miraculously under the tree. It wasn’t particularly difficult to guess who sent it!”
“But how did you know I was involved?” Jean asked.
“Well, the concert went so smoothly that I knew someone in the Knights had to be involved in its planning. But I didn’t realize it was you until last year, when Xinyan came to Mondstadt,” Barbara admitted. “There’s only one person in the country with the resources and connections to pull something like that off in a matter of weeks.”
Jean dropped her head into her hands. “I feel like an idiot.”
“That makes two of us,” Rosaria said, reaching over to thump her sharply on the back. “Godsdamn, Barb.”
“Sorry!” Barbara said. “But I didn’t want to spoil the tradition! And I liked that you two were working together.”
“Took us a couple years, but we got there,” Jean said, lifting her head to grin sheepishly at Rosaria.
“Can’t say it was altogether terrible,” Rosaria conceded, which was about as complimentary as Rosaria ever got. “Although we wouldn’t have had to do the whole song and dance if you hadn’t pulled the wool over our eyes, kid.”
“I know!” Jean exclaimed. “And now what are we going to do next year?”
Barbara poked at her pizza sheepishly. “I was thinking. Maybe next year… we could all give each other presents?”
“Ew,” said Rosaria.
“Seconded,” Jean said. “What do you even get a sullen, homicidal nun for Christmas? Knives?”
“I like knives,” Rosaria said. “I’m a woman of simple tastes. My question is, what do you get a prideful, overachieving Knight for Christmas? Pens?”
Jean scowled at her. “Nothing wrong with liking pens.”
Barbara clapped her hands together, interrupting their spat. “Great! Sounds like we have a plan for next year.”
Rosaria sighed. “Fine. But you’re getting coal next year, Deaconess.”
“But I don’t want to lose our tradition,” Jean protested.
Barbara patted her gently on the shoulder. “We can make new traditions, Jean. Just because something changes doesn’t mean it’s lost.”
Jean glared at her pizza for a few seconds. “Fine, okay,” she grumbled finally. “I can’t believe my baby sister is so wise now.”
Barbara laughed, high and bright and delightfully unfettered. “I think this calls for a toast.”
She lifted her glass, and the light caught in the facets of crystal. “To new traditions!”
Rosaria reached out, bypassed her glass entirely, and grabbed the wine bottle. “To alcohol.”
Jean glanced around the table. At Barbara, eyes bright and pigtails swinging. At Rosaria, whose pointy accoutrements did little to disguise the fondness in her posture. At the remains of a humble meal, made exceptional by the people around the table.
She raised her glass. “To us,” she said. “To family. To the past few years, and to many more.”
She tipped her glass to her lips and drank.