As the twilight deepened into a velvety winter night, the plates were cleared, and the festive air transformed into an electric hum of theatrical anticipation. Christmas night at the March house always meant one thing: the grand performance of Jo’s latest dramatic masterpiece, The Witch's Curse: An Opera Tragedy.
"Hurry, Laurie! You must be the audience, the orchestra, and the critic all at once!" Jo barked from behind the sheets hung across the garret doorway to serve as a curtain.
Laurie grinned, taking his seat on the lone footstool in the chilly attic. Marmee sat just behind him in a wicker rocking chair, wrapped in a heavy quilt, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.
The sheet jerked aside with a rattle of iron rings. Meg appeared, transformed into the tragic heroine, Zara. She wore a sweeping skirt made of old window curtains and a pair of tinsel-trimmed slippers. She clasped her hands, wailing dramatically to the rafters about her lost love, Rodrigo.
"Oh, cruel fate!" Meg cried, her voice trembling with stage agony. "Must I be wed to the villainous Hugo against my tender will?"
"Never!" shouted a muffled voice from offstage.
With a dramatic thump, Jo bounded into the scene as the heroic Rodrigo. She wore a pair of old leather boots that came up past her knees, a sweeping cloak made of a dark tablerunner, and a wooden sword painted silver. She struck a bold pose, her chin held high. "Fear not, fair Zara! My blade is sharp, and my heart is true!"
Laurie choked back a laugh, earning a sharp, theatrical glare from Rodrigo.
The plot thickened with delightful absurdity. Amy appeared next, playing the wicked witch, Hagar. She wore a black shawl and a pointed hat fashioned from stiff brown paper. She cackled with immense satisfaction, stirring an imaginary cauldron with a broken broomstick. "Boil and bubble, trouble and strife! Rodrigo shall never take Zara for his wife!" Amy shrieked, thoroughly enjoying her moment in the spotlight despite her tendency to drop her stage accents.
The climax arrived in a flurry of movement. Jo and Meg engaged in a dramatic pantomime of a duel with Hugo—a dummy made of a stuffed sack and a painted mask. The grand finale required a spectacular effect: the witch’s cave was supposed to collapse.
Beth, hidden behind a stack of old trunks, was in charge of the special effects. At Jo’s cue—"And thus, the dark magic crumbles!"—Beth enthusiastically rattled a tin tray full of marbles and pulled a string connected to a clothesline.
With a loud thump, a cardboard tower fell exactly as planned. However, the clothesline caught the edge of a shelf, sending a basket of old yarn balls cascading directly onto Jo’s head.
The tragic opera instantly dissolved. Jo stood buried under a dozen colorful, tangled skeins of wool, her silver sword sticking straight up in the air.
Laurie burst into a roar of laughter, clapping furiously. Meg and Amy dropped their theatrical poses, giggling uncontrollably, while Beth peeked out from behind the trunks, her face pink with apology.
"Oh, Jo! You look like a multicolored hedgehog!" Laurie gasped, wiping a tear from his eye.
Jo blinked through a fringe of red and blue yarn, then cracked a wide, boyish smile. She dropped her sword and bowed deeply, scattering the wool across the floor. "The tragedy is complete!" she declared triumphantly.
Marmee stood up, clapping warmly. "Bravo! A masterpiece indeed. I have never seen a more moving collapse of a fortress."
As they gathered up the yarn and props, the chill of the attic was entirely forgotten. They trooped back downstairs to the cozy kitchen, where Marmee had hidden a final surprise—a pitcher of hot spiced cider. They toasted to the playwright, to the actors, and to the neighbor who had become a brother. It was a Christmas born of poverty, but as they stood together in the firelight, they knew they were the richest children in the world.
