Big city airports always looked the same. It didn't seem to matter whether you were in Hong Kong or Johannesburg, Frankfurt or Dubai: there were always the same acres of shiny floors; the same tall ceilings lined with long fluorescent tubes emitting a sleep-defying blaze of light; the same postage-stamp-sized shops selling duty free perfume, purses and booze. There were always what you'd swear were identical zig-zagging lines of poles and colored tape outlining the queues for the check-in desks; rows of bright vinyl chairs bolted together in rows that were surely the same ones you'd just sat in at the departure gate in that faraway city. And the crowds…they were always the same, too: the ones in the middle of the concourses moving swiftly and purposefully, their compact, built-for-speed carry-on luggage scurrying behind them on little wheels no matter whether they wore suits, shorts or dishdashas; the ones to either side milling around in slow confusion like eddy pools off the main current, as if they couldn't quite decide whether to go to the restaurant, the bookstore or the bathroom.

Alan Tracy had always said a silent prayer of thanks for the privilege of being able to escape to the haven of the first class lounge. These also tended to be pretty similar in every airport, but in a much better way. The atmosphere was quiet, the lighting subdued, and people didn't tend to let their children run around and scream.

Despite all those advantages, he had to admit that his appreciation of Air Terrainean's luxurious first class lounge at Paris's Charles de Gaulle International Airport was starting to wane a bit, tonight – which he supposed wasn't surprising after all the hours he'd been sitting here. At least while it had still been daylight there'd been a view of the snow-sprinkled runways to look at through the expansive plate glass windows. Now it was just a maze of lights peppering the darkness, and they weren't even moving about anymore.

For what felt like the thousandth time, he glanced over at the holo of the departures and arrivals board that glowed softly on the wall above the bar. All the flights still said the same thing: DELAYED.

A movement caught his eye then; his companion on this trip, Tin-Tin Kyrano, was on her way back to the table. He sat back and watched her approach, letting himself enjoy the graceful way she moved, hips swinging with subtle sensuality.

"Alan," she said quizzically as she grew close enough, "what are you smiling about?"

"Oh, nothing," he said, remembering. "Just the best vacation ever."

He pulled out the chair beside him for her. "And you wondered what you'd do for five whole days with no motor racing or rescues to distract you," she said, mock scolding. "I told you, you just needed to learn how to relax."

Alan let his smile widen to a grin. "If that's your definition of relaxing, then consider me taught, ma'am!"

Tin-Tin rolled her eyes and pretended to hit him. "It was fun, though, wasn't it," she said softly.

He nodded. "It was." He took her hand. "Thank you."

"What for?" Her beautiful green eyes widened a little.

He leaned in close, brushing the dark, shining wing of hair away from her cheek with his free hand. "For being so…relaxing."

The moment was ruined by the appearance of one of the lounge's attendants. The man cleared his throat discreetly. "M'sieur Tracy, Mademoiselle Kyrano…"

Alan dragged his gaze away from Tin-Tin reluctantly and refocused on the newcomer. "Yes?"

The attendant's French accent was strong but his words were clear – although Alan instantly wished they hadn't been. "I am sorry, sir. But I must inform you that you will not be able to fly out tonight. All flights are canceled."

As if to punctuate his words, all the green DELAYEDs on the departures board holo abruptly faded out and were replaced with a solid red column of the word a traveler dreads most: CANCELED.

"The volcano…" the attendant said, trailing off apologetically.

"The volcano," Alan echoed glumly. "Yeah, I know. Thanks."

The news coverage on the large vidscreen that hung beside the departure board holo might have its sound muted, but the pictures told the story quite clearly on their own. Iceland's largest volcano, Bárdarbunga, in full eruption, spewing ton after ton of ash high into the atmosphere. No airline wanted to risk flying in that.

No help for it, now. The Tracy family Christmas morning, one of Alan's favorite times of the year, was going to happen without them.

"Thank you," Tin-Tin was saying to the attendant, who gave her a grateful smile and swiftly withdrew. Alan understood where he was coming from…there were a lot of wealthy people in this lounge, and he and Tin-Tin were probably among the easiest travelers the attendant would be addressing tonight. Given to outbursts of impatient temper as a youngster, Alan had many times been on the receiving end of his father's stern instruction to respond with grace under stress. It's pointless to shoot the messenger, Jeff Tracy had often told him. The people who have to deliver the bad news are almost never the ones responsible for it.

"Well," Alan said, looking at Tin-Tin. "What now?"

She sighed, checking her watch. "I suppose we should go back to the hotel."

"Naah, there has to be something fun to do. Something we didn't get around to."

She smiled at him, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "There was a lot we didn't 'get around to.' I wanted to take you to the Christmas market on the Champs-Elysees but they're all closing by now. Besides, it's Christmas Eve! Nothing will be open. People will be getting ready to go to Midnight Mass."

She paused, looking out of the window at the glowing lights of the runways. "My father took me to Midnight Mass once at Notre Dame Cathedral. I didn't want to go…I was just a kid, and we aren't Catholic, after all…but it was an amazing experience. The choir, the lights, the bells… It's just magical."

Her face was soft with the reminiscence. "You've never told me much about your life here," Alan said.

She was silent for a long moment. "I didn't appreciate it," she said at last, quietly. "I was eight when we arrived here, and we'd been…traveling so much. I didn't speak the language, and it was cold and rainy all the time at first…I missed my home, I missed my…" She took a deep breath, frowning a little. "I cried a lot. My poor father, what he must have been going through, and to have to deal with me being so unhappy on top of all that…"

Alan listened, his scattered knowledge of her childhood filling in some of the gaps. They were still hard for her to talk about, those early years when she and her father had been on the run, exiled from their home; pursued relentlessly by her terrifying uncle, who had declared that he would not only take away everything they owned but their lives as well. Alan still knew next to nothing about Tin-Tin's mother; Tin-Tin never spoke of her, except to say, once in a while, that she wished things had been different.

"It wasn't your fault," he said, when he was sure she wasn't going to continue. "You were so young. I don't know how you got through it all."

He could see the subtle shift in her expression; she was already gathering herself again, fastening the armor in place. Alan hid his disappointment. Vulnerable moments were few and far between with this lovely woman and he had learned to treasure every second of them. He certainly never wanted to do anything that might discourage there being a next time.

"Show me where you lived," he said, impulsively.

"What?" Startled out of her memories, she tilted her head quizzically.

"I mean it. Take me to where you lived when you were in Paris. I want to see it."

"Alan, it's almost eleven! And it's cold out there!"

"I don't care," he grinned. "It'll put some color in your cheeks."

"Now you sound like your grandmother," Tin-Tin said.

He just stood up, holding out his hand for hers.

She sat there, staring up at him as if she couldn't quite believe he was serious. "Come on," he said, reaching down to capture her hand when she didn't offer it. "It'll be fun."

She shook her head, but she let him pull her to her feet. "Of all the terrible ideas, Alan Tracy…"

He silenced her with a kiss.

She wouldn't get out of the taxi right away.

Alan had bounded out immediately they'd arrived, breath misting in the sharply cold air as he paid the driver; even managing to put a smile on the somber Frenchman's face at the handsome tip he included. He'd then turned to Tin-Tin, but she still sat inside the vehicle, staring up at the building. Alan didn't know a whole lot about architecture, but he thought it looked quite typical for Paris; an eight-story wall of creamy limestone with inset windows, topped by a dark mansard roof that looked like it might have something of a terrace in front of it. It was hard to get a good angle to see that far up; the street was too narrow. Most of the windows had lights around them and he thought he could glimpse a decorated tree behind one.

Tin-Tin responded at last to his expectant gaze. "All right, you've seen it. Let's go."

"Not a chance! I was just thinking on the way here, what if the people are home? They might let us see inside."

Tin-Tin's cheeks flushed in horror. "Alan, no! You can't do something like that!"

Alan grinned. "Why not? Let's face it, the French think all Americans are crude, rude and socially unacceptable. Can't say I agree, but why should I disappoint them?"

She was still shaking her head. He reached in and pulled her out of the taxi, apologizing to the driver, who was looking at him like Alan had grown another head. "I hate you," Tin-Tin hissed at Alan, who only smiled when the driver made a loud snort of agreement with her and drove off while the going was good.

There was no elevator (something Alan had become accustomed to in cities like this), so Tin-Tin trudged up the five flights of stairs in front of him in stiff-backed silence. She paused at the entrance to the fifth floor and tried to launch another protest, but he pushed her forward. "Come on, what's the harm? People do things like this all the time back home."

"Uh-huh," she said, making a face that indicted him and everyone else 'back home.' "Alan, you have too much money and not enough common sense!"

That one just made him laugh out loud. "I'll remind you about that the next time we're in New York and you want to just 'take a quick look' in Tiffany's."

"Oh, you…!" She cuffed him.

Alan hugged her to him swiftly, partly in affection and partly in self-defense. "Honey, I love you. But we're doing this."

A few moments later they were standing outside the slightly shabby, black-painted door of apartment 5D. Tin-Tin made one more attempt to dissuade him, but Alan wasn't having any of it. He knocked firmly on the door.

There was no response. After a moment, Tin-Tin caught his arm. "See? There's nobody home. They're probably at Mass. Let's go."

Then they both heard the sound of locks turning, and the door was suddenly flung wide. In the opening was a tiny Chinese woman in what looked like embroidered silk pajamas. She had to be in her seventies at least, Alan thought, her head thrown back, arms spread out and her face beaming in welcome, smiling so wide that her eyes were crinkled almost shut. She greeted them with a stream of what he could identify, thanks to long experience of manning shifts on Thunderbird Five, as Mandarin.

But there was no Brains-built AI unit here to translate. Alan and Tin-Tin glanced at each other awkwardly. "Um," Tin-Tin managed.

The woman slowly opened her eyes and lowered her head enough to see them. Her painted brows drew together. These two people were clearly not who she had expected to see. When she spoke again, it was in heavily accented English. "Who you? What you want?"

"Joyeux Noël, Madame," Tin-Tin said hastily. "We're so sorry to disturb you. We were just leav—"

"What she means," Alan cut in, "is that we were in the neighborhood, and, well, Tin-Tin here, she used to live in this apartment…"

"Years ago," Tin-Tin said. "Ages. Seriously. Alan, let's just—"

The old lady looked her over appraisingly. "Here? You live here?"

Tin-Tin nodded. "With my father. When I was a girl. I'm so sorry…my boyfriend just wanted to see it."

The Chinese woman glanced at Alan. "American," she said, winking and pushing at Tin-Tin's arm in conspiracy. "Not your fault."

Tin-Tin giggled, and Alan felt an odd rush of gladness at the unexpected sound. "Come in, come in," the Chinese woman said, moving back and gesturing. "I get you some tea."

"Wow," Alan said as they entered and their host closed the door behind them. "This is really small."

Tin-Tin dug him in the ribs, hard. "It's very nice," she reassured their host.

The Chinese woman made a wry shrug. "Your boyfriend right. Small. Paris very expensive."

She bustled off towards what Alan presumed was the kitchen. Tin-Tin was taking in the apartment. "Does it look different?" he asked her.

"Completely," she said. "I'm trying to remember it the way it was. We didn't have nearly this much furniture…just what came with the apartment. The walls were painted cream, and there were white curtains over there." She indicated the floor-to-ceiling windows at one end of the room. "We had a pull-out couch in here for Father – he insisted that I sleep in the bedroom so he could be the first line of defense, just in case…"

Alan glanced around at the furniture, elegant and distinctly Asian with its red and gold silk and dark, lacquered carving. There was a small, plastic Christmas tree on top of a table by the windows, decorated rather unexpectedly with red Chinese lanterns and white silk flowers that he thought might be lotuses.

"Please," the Chinese woman said as she reappeared, carrying a tray of tea and small cups. "You sit."

They took seats on the long brocade couch. "My name is Tin-Tin Kyrano," Tin-Tin offered. "This is Alan Tracy."

"Please to meet you," the old lady nodded. "Vivienne Chang. V-i-v-i-e-n-n-e. My parents give me English name after they see Gone with the Wind, but they spell it wrong."

She laughed at was obviously an old and well-worn joke. The sound was genuine and infectious, and Alan and Tin-Tin found themselves joining in.

"We won't stay long," Tin-Tin said. "I know you're waiting for someone."

"Ah, yes, my number two son. Big engineer. He work in America. He bring my daughter-in-law and my two grandsons to see me for Christmas. We have big feast, ba bao ya, very good. Lot of fun. Show my grandsons Paris."

"Ba bao ya, that's duck, right?" Tin-Tin's brow furrowed as she tried to remember.

"Yes! Eight treasure duck. Chinese Christmas turkey." Vivienne laughed. "Stuff with chicken, ham, shrimp, chestnuts, lot more. Very good."

"I didn't know Christmas was a thing in China," Alan admitted.

"Oh, yes," the Chinese woman's face lit up. "Some people love." Her face fell again. "But not enough, so no holiday. Why my husband always want to move here. Saw movie once, when we went on plane to visit number two son. Woody Allen, they go to Paris for Christmas. He always want to go after that. He say, I want real Christmas, Santa with elves, not just Chinese Shèngdànlaorén and his sisters in red and white skirt. I think he get over it one day, but no. It take us long time, but he retire at last, and we come. He still want his ba bao ya, though."

"Shèng…?" Alan couldn't quite wrap his tongue around it.

"Shèngdànlaorén," Tin-Tin supplied. "That's a word I know. It means 'Old Christmas Man.' He's the Chinese Santa Claus."

"I don't know how you do that," Alan admitted. "You're like John, you can pronounce anything on the first try."

"Not everything," Tin-Tin said. "But remember, English wasn't my first language. And when my father and I were…traveling, I had to learn a new language and a new culture most times we stopped anywhere, just to blend in. You get good at it – you don't have much choice."

"Well, you're certainly better than I am, "Alan said. "And miles better than Scott!"

Tin-Tin giggled. "Who isn't miles better than Scott?"

She noticed Mrs. Chang regarding them quizzically and explained. "Scott is Alan's eldest brother, Mrs. Chang. He's terrible at languages. He has what we call a 'tin ear.'"

"Tin ear? You mean, like me?" the old Chinese woman was laughing again, the lines of her face making her look a little like a tiny female Buddha. It was impossible not to join in and laugh with her.

"What about your husband, Mrs. Chang?" Alan asked after a bit. "Where is he? Out with ol' Shengie and the elves?"

He could have kicked himself when she looked at him, and her dark eyes, for a brief moment, looked their true age. "He pass away after we are here for one year."

Tin-Tin drew in her breath. "We're so sorry," she murmured, reaching out to touch the other woman's arm.

Mrs. Chang gave a smile tinged with sadness. "But is OK. He get his Christmas in Paris."

"So…your son and his family," Alan said, after a moment's silence. "Are they having trouble getting here because of the volcano?"

She looked at him blankly. "Volcano?"

"It's all over the news," Alan continued. "None of the airlines can fly, so nobody can get in or out. That's why we're here."

"You are here because of volcano?" Mrs. Chang looked even more confused.

Tin-Tin stepped in to straighten things out. "We've been here on vacation and we were supposed to fly out this afternoon, but the eruption has grounded all the flights. So Alan asked me to show him where I used to live, and so we're here."

"Ah." Mrs. Chang nodded. "How old you were?"

"When I was here? Eight. We were here nearly two years…I was nine when we left."

"You have family in Paris?"

She shook her head. "No. My father and I were just…passing through. We did that a lot."

Feeling Tin-Tin's discomfort, Alan stepped in. "Mrs. Chang, you said your second son was an engineer. One of my brothers is an engineer as well."

Mrs. Chan nodded vigorously. "Is good profession. Good money. He can send grandchildren to good schools. Your brother, how many children he have?"

"Uh, none. He's not married."

"Not married? How old he?"

Alan grinned. "Thirty-two."

The Chinese woman shook her head emphatically. "He need to be married. Not good for a man not to be married. Need wife to keep him in line." She looked at the smiling Tin-Tin. "Maybe you and your boyfriend here inspire him. Lead by example."

The smile disappeared. Tin-Tin flushed dark under her tan, looking anywhere but at Alan. Unfazed, Mrs. Chang looked at Alan knowingly and winked.

Alan tried to keep his face neutral, to give nothing away, but cold chills were stealing down his spine. His fingers crept into the pocket of his coat to feel the outline of the ring box. He'd meant to ask Tin-Tin to marry him during this week, had brought her here to Paris, the most romantic city in the world, all for that reason. He'd had everything ready. But at the last moment he'd gotten overwhelmed by it all, and he'd chickened out.

How could this old lady, this total stranger, possibly have known?

Tin-Tin was on her feet, roving across the room, tension flowing off her in waves that Alan could practically see. She stopped by the plastic Christmas tree. "I love the lanterns," she said. "Is this how you used to decorate your tree in China?"

Mrs. Chang nodded, crossing the room toward her. "Number one son manager of big factory in China, make lots of things like this for export. They make tree, he send to us. I tell you something funny. In China we make Christmas decoration for whole world. We export to many country. But most people at home who make these decoration – they don't know what they for!"

They all heard the sudden sounds of laughter and footsteps outside in the hallway. Mrs. Chang looked quickly toward the doorway, her face lighting up in anticipation. But the footsteps passed, and laughter faded, and she turned away again in disappointment. Before Alan or Tin-Tin could say anything, she disappeared into the kitchen, coming straight back out again with a bright red apple in each hand. "Ping'an ye," she sang, "sheng shan ye, wan an zhong, guang hua she…"

She paused as she saw them staring at her blankly. "Ping'an ye. Mean 'silent night.' We sing?"

Alan held up his hands. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Chang, if that was Silent Night, I don't know that version."

"Do you know the western one?" Tin-Tin asked.

"No," Mrs. Chang said. Her brow furrowed for a moment. "How about Jingle Bell? I know Jingle Bell."

"OK," Alan grinned. "But what are the apples for? The Old Christmas Man's reindeer?"

Mrs. Chang grinned back. "I like you. You will be good father, have strong sons."

Alan didn't dare look at Tin-Tin. "Um…you were saying… Apples?"

Mrs. Chang followed his gaze to her hands and looked surprised, as if she had forgotten she was holding the fruit. She held out an apple to each of her guests. "Chinese tradition. In Chinese Christmas Eve is called Ping'anYe. It mean 'Silent Night' but the word sound like the Chinese word for 'apple.' So Chinese give apple on Christmas Eve."

Tin-Tin gave a wide smile. "That's a lovely tradition."

"Sounds a little healthy for me," Alan said. "I don't think I'll give up Santa's cookies and milk just yet."

They both accepted an apple each. Somewhere in the city, church bells began to chime midnight.

Tin-Tin met Alan's eyes. "Alan," she said softly, "We should go."

He nodded, put his apple in his pocket and took the little Chinese woman's hands. "Mrs. Chang, thank you for your hospitality."

Tin-Tin chimed in. "Yes. It's been good for me, to see the old apartment again." She smiled. "And I really love what you've done with the place."

Mrs. Chang smiled back, reaching up to hug her. Tin-Tin hugged her back, and Alan pretended not to notice the moistening of her green eyes. "You tell your son and his family Merry Christmas for us, OK?" he said.

Mrs. Chang walked them to the door. She hugged Alan, patting him knowingly on the very pocket where the ring was hidden. "She will make you fine wife," she whispered.

He jerked upright, staring at her. "How…"

But the telephone inside the apartment began to ring. "My son," Mrs. Chang exclaimed. She ushered them into the corridor. "Shèngdàn jié kuàilè," she said. "Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas," they chorused back as she closed the door.

"What a great lady," Tin-Tin said, smiling. "We should come and see her the next time we're in Paris."

Alan laughed. "We should bring Grandma. For some reason I think they'd get along great."

"Excuse me, but what do you think you're doing?"

Alan and Tin-Tin both looked up, startled. Standing a few feet away was a young woman, dressed in a gray winter coat with matching boots and towing a red Samsonite case on wheels behind her. From her clipped accent she was English.

"I'm sorry," Alan said. "What do you mean?"

"Don't give me that rubbish," the woman snapped. "I just saw you come out of my apartment."

Alan glanced at Tin-Tin for confirmation that he wasn't hearing things. "Your apartment? I thought it belonged to Mrs. Chang."

"Mrs. Chang? Who on earth is that?"

Tin-Tin held up her hands. "Chinese lady, in her seventies, widow from what she said. We just had tea with her."

"She gave us apples," Alan supplied helpfully. "For Ping'an Ye." He fished in his pocket, but couldn't locate the evidence.

The English woman's expression had changed when he looked back at her. "You saw her? You saw her in there?" She wrapped both arms protectively across her chest, her complexion a shade paler than it had been before. "They told me about her when I took the apartment," she said slowly. "They told me it was haunted. None of the locals would rent it. I've never seen or heard a thing, though."

All Alan could do was stare at her. The English woman frowned, seemed to gather herself all at once, and marched purposefully toward the apartment. She fished out her keys and unlocked the door, throwing it open.

Tin-Tin let out a gasp. As soon as he took a step back and looked past her shoulder, Alan saw why.

The apartment was totally different. It was furnished in light wood and lots of pastels, a bright striped rug on the floor. Gone was the silk and carved wood and the lacquer, and the plastic Christmas tree with its lanterns and lotuses. And Mrs. Chang.

"I…don't understand," Alan said with difficulty, the ground shifting under him, his stomach queasy. "It didn't look…like that."

The English woman looked at them both. "I don't know much about it," she said at last. "The landlord told me she came here with her husband, but he died soon afterwards."

"How did she die?" Tin-Tin asked intently. "Do you remember?"

The English woman thought about it. "She was waiting for her son and his family to get here from America, if I recall. Their plane crashed in the Atlantic. There were no survivors. My landlord said he was with her when she got the phone call. She had a heart attack."

Tin-Tin's hand flew to her mouth. "She died tonight! On Christmas Eve!"

"Yes." The woman looked from her to Alan uncertainly. "Um…do you want to come in, or something..?"

Alan glanced at Tin-Tin, who looked very shaky indeed. "Thank you, but no," Alan said. "I'd better get my girlfriend back to our hotel and get some brandy into her. She's had a bit of a shock."

He put an arm around Tin-Tin's shoulders and led her away down the corridor as the English woman looked after them. "Are you all right, honey?" he asked, a little anxiously.

She gave a jerky nod. "I think so. Alan, what happened to us back there?"

"I don't know."

A few more paces, and then he said: "But I do know one thing. You and I have to talk. It's important."

"What about?" she asked – and then he had to catch her as she stumbled over something in the hallway. "What was that?"

He turned, looked down, and stared. There in the middle of the hallway floor were two perfectly round, shiny red apples.