Cora’s voice became the only real thing in the room. It wove around the clinking ice in Mark’s scotch, the crackle of the fire, the distant sound of sleigh bells from a TV commercial. She spoke of deep forests, of soft snowfall, of the perfect, heavy silence after a storm. She didn’t erase their personalities; she just… unclenched them.
“Enough,” Lila finally snapped, her voice cutting through the wailing. “This is Christmas . Can we please just… be happy for one hour?” Mistress Of Hypnosis Holidazed
And then there was Cora.
Dinner was, predictably, a car crash. Lila praised Serena’s ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend’s Instagram. Mark accused Chloe of burning the yams (she hadn’t; he was just drunk). The toddler, Leo, began a sustained, high-decibel meltdown because his mashed potatoes were “too lumpy.” Cora’s voice became the only real thing in the room
Cora sat in her corner, eating a slice of her clay-like fruitcake, which she had secretly laced with a calming, non-psychoactive tincture of chamomile and skullcap. The pendulum was back in her pocket. Can we please just… be happy for one hour
Cora just smiled, adjusting her velvet cloak. “Hypnosis isn’t about control, Aunt Lila,” she said. “It’s about permission. You all just finally gave yourself permission to be happy.”
That would be fun to untangle.