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“Who taught you how to dress, Artie?”Owen nudges her with his elbow as they weave among the trees.

“What’s wrong, dear? Not sure what sort of tree you’d like?” the older woman asks.

“Oh, I am… I’m not looking,” the Greek says easily, with a smile. The pair stops, looking almost confused and sort of mortified.

“You’re not looking for a tree?” Owen asks. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those that has one of those aluminum ones sitting in a dusty box in the attic.”

Artemis shakes her head. “I’ve never had a tree.”

And that gets her a weird look as well. Surely they knew that not everyone celebrated Christmas? Of course, they assumed that she was just a run-of-the-mill American woman, fresh out of college, or whatever it was that women who looked her age did. It occurs to her how woefully unadjusted to human life she was, and she refrained from biting her lip. It was a nasty habit that she seemed to be developing more lately.

“My family doesn’t celebrate Christmas,” she says slowly. Yule, maybe? That would be the closest thing that would seem appropriate as a former Pagan goddess, but not Christmas.

Miriam takes her hand. “What of your roommate? Do they not celebrate Christmas?”

Artie’s mind drifts to Apollo. He would think it silly, assure her that they were Greek Gods, not mortals, which would result in her telling him that she wasn’t immortal anymore, and was, in fact, a mortal. Or it might. She wasn’t sure that he would talk to her, or even look at her. Seeing him actually register that she was sitting in front of him, in this universe and not all of them? That would be nice. Arguing with her brother again would be a blessing that she had been praying for, but she doubted that the Gods heard her prayers anymore. The thought made her physically ill.

She shakes her head. “No. He’s never there enough to celebrate with me, even if he did.” And that was true, though they probably didn’t understand her meaning. They would think that she meant physical absence, where she meant mental absence.

The older woman obviously was not happy with this, and immediately began talking the young woman’s ear off to tell her so.

By the time that she returned home, it had gotten dark, and her face stung from the cold. The house is warm, it’s always warm, but quiet also. The lack of sound after being coerced out of the house with Owen and Miriam is very nice, and she doesn’t even bother breaking it with her voice, only with the sounds that she makes preparing tea.

The smell of pine needles unnerves her for the first time in centuries.

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