Free Krampus: The Three Sisters (The Krampus Chronicles Book 1) by Sonia Halbach Page B

asked.
    “Chelsea Manor.”
    Madame Welles gasped. “Are you related to Clement Clarke Moore?”
    Maggie hesitantly nodded. “He’s my grandfather.”
    Madame Welles promptly turned her attention to Henry. “Henry, is it? Henry what? What is your last name?”
    “Livingston.”
    For a brief moment, Madame Welles appeared like her legs might buckle underneath her. She stared at Maggie and Henry as though they were ghosts.
    “What happened after you got to the Sleigh Pit? Who did you see? Or more importantly, who saw you?”
    They talked about McNutt punching Henry in Myra Lane and then spying on the Garrisons in the tavern. But they didn’t share what they had heard the men discussing.
    “And you saw Castriot?” Madame Welles asked. “But he didn’t see you?”
    “Yes. At least I believe it was him,” Maggie replied. “The man they called Castriot had a black beard. And he was quite angry. He threw a glass against a wall.”
    Madame Welles sighed. “That was indeed Castriot.”
    “Could you just tell us where we are?” Henry pressed.
    Madame Welles folded her hands together. “You two have discovered Poppel, Mr. Livingston.”
    Maggie and Henry stared blankly at the old woman.
    “Nikolaos of Myra founded the original settlement in Belgium. But Poppel eventually relocated to Manhattan in the seventeenth century when Annette Loockerman came to America and married a Dutchman named Oloff. And this underground settlement thrived independently until about thirty years ago.”
    “And how exactly are these names and dates relevant to us right now?” Henry asked with annoyance.
    But Maggie was intrigued and wanted to hear more. “Who are Annette Loockerman and Nikolaos of Myra? And what happened thirty years ago?”
    “Clement Clarke Moore’s poem happened,” Madame Welles stated.
    “It wasn’t his poem,” Henry snapped, but Madame Welles and Maggie ignored him.
    “How do you know about my grandfather?”
    “I have never met Clement Clarke Moore. But I knew your grandmother, Catharine,” Madame Welles said and then turned to Henry. “And I presume Sidney Livingston was your father.”
    Madame Welles finally had Henry’s full attention. Maggie watched his jaw tighten. “How did you know that?”
    “Catharine and Sidney used to visit Poppel with Catharine’s daughter, Margaret. That was before Clement Clarke Moore published the poem. And yes, Henry, I know―Major Henry’s poem,” Madame Welles added, anticipating his retort. “But it really doesn’t matter who wrote it at this point. What matters is that it entered into the public eye, and confirmed already established suspicions. We had struggled to stay hidden, but once the poem came to light, it didn’t take long for us to be found. The city officials knew we were able to get in and out of houses, but it wasn’t until the poem that they made the connection to fireplaces and Christmas Eve.”
    “Madame Welles,” Maggie interjected. “I truly do not understand any of this.”
    Madame Welles sighed. “Oh, I suppose I’ll have to start at the beginning. But I must make this quick.”
    Maggie and Henry exchanged uncertain glances.
    “Very long ago there was a good man named Nikolaos of Myra who lived east of the Mediterranean Sea. He was a kind and generous bishop, known for his particular concern for the wellbeing of children and women. There were three young sisters named Grace, Sarah, and Lily whose father was very poor and unable to provide them with a dowry to be wed. He was going to sell Grace, Sarah, and Lily into slavery, but before he could, each daughter mysteriously received a bag of gold.”
    “From the bishop?” Henry asked.
    Madame Welles nodded. “The gold was meant to liberate the sisters. But the sisters soon realized that the cruel men they were set to marry were no better than enslavement. And this is where Nikolaos of Myra gave the sisters true freedom.”
    Captivated by the story, Maggie leaned forward and rested her