DAY NINE: Nine Ladies Dancing

The bungalow was too quiet.

Not peaceful—tense. The kind of hush that made Stephen feel the universe was holding its breath, waiting to lob something regrettable through their front door.

Day Eight had ended with Jane hollow-eyed, Roo uneasy, and Stephen whispering promises he badly wanted to keep.

He wasn’t confident.

Jane padded into the kitchen in her “World’s Tiredest Illustrator” hoodie, hair pinned up with two mismatched pencils. She carried her sketchbook like armour. Her cow-in-ballet-slippers sketch was circled three times in red: Still looking judgmental. Fix expression or retire entirely.

Roo, as ever, was on her back — the only creature in the house who’d truly figured out happiness.

Jane set her sketchbook down and let out a slow, steadying breath. “Publisher dinner tonight,” she murmured. “Real distributors. Real opportunities. Please, Stephen… tell me nothing alive is arriving today.”

He hesitated.

Her eyes narrowed—small, brittle, tired.

“Stephen.”

“They’re not animals,” he said quickly. “Just… performers.”

Her expression folded flat like emotional origami.

His phone buzzed.

Delivery confirmed: Nine Ladies Dancing.

He closed his eyes. “Jane… I can explain.”

She rubbed her forehead—the same gesture she’d used when dairy interns informed her the cows’ shading lacked “udder realism.”

“I don’t need an explanation,” she said softly. “I just want one day without consequences.”

The doorbell rang.

A minibus gleamed on the drive, proudly advertising:

FlashMob4U — Surprise. Delight. Confuse.

Eight dancers stepped out in sequins, glitter, and heels that defied structural engineering. The ninth emerged last, carrying a speaker and the kind of confidence that didn’t ask permission.

“Mr. Stanley?” the leader—Crystal—asked. “Premium Christmas Routine? Three minutes, one run. Freestyle included?”

Stephen checked the invoice.

Freestyle included. Entirely non-refundable.

Behind him, Jane whispered, “I’m going to evaporate.”

“I thought it would be figurines,” he said weakly. “Or… a snow globe.”

Crystal clapped. “Ladies! Living room setup!”

Jane stiffened.

“My portfolio is in the living room.”

There was no pause. No sympathy.

The dancers surged inside like a well-rehearsed invasion.

A quiet dread settled under Stephen’s ribs.

I’m doing it again, he thought. Trying to make magic and just making mess.

Chaos bloomed instantly.

The coffee table screeched aside.

Pages of Jane’s character concepts fluttered like startled birds.

The pear tree trembled in the corner, looking like it might resign from service.

A dancer spun too close to Jane’s water jar—it wobbled alarmingly. Jane lunged, catching it with both hands, panic flickering across her face.

Another dancer stepped squarely on the hedgehog sketch.

“My hedgehog!” Jane gasped. “He looks traumatised!”

The dancer leaned in.

“Aww. Cute. Needs more tummy shading, though.”

Jane inhaled so sharply Roo sat upright, ears pricking.

Music erupted.

An aggressive shimmer of glitter followed.

The partridge flung itself into the pear tree in outrage.

The French hens peeked from beneath the sofa, delivering a single, unified look of distaste.

From the bathroom doorway, a lone pigeon watched silently—wide-eyed, like a stage manager witnessing creative collapse.

Roo trotted straight into the choreography and attempted a belly-up spin—an interpretive choice met with universal confusion.

During a brief lull, she discovered a fallen hair scrunchie, seized it triumphantly, and marched it to Jane, tail high, as if presenting a diplomatic offering to ward off meltdown.

Jane pressed a trembling hand to her chest.

Her breath was shallow, eyes too bright, shoulders rigid—overstimulated, overwhelmed, inching toward overload.

When the first routine ended, the dancers paused for hydration and strategic glitter reapplication.

Jane stood in the hallway, sketchbook clutched to her chest. Not angry. Not even shocked.

Just tired.

Tired in that specific creative-person way—overextended, sensory-saturated, fighting the kind of exhaustion that sits behind the eyes.

“Stephen,” she said quietly, “I need to walk into that dinner looking competent. And right now our home looks like an illustrator had a breakdown in a craft aisle.”

“I can contain them,” he insisted. “No freestyle. No expansions.”

She shook her head, mouth trembling into something too tired to form humour.

“I can’t carry one more surprise today.”

She slipped into her studio and closed the door.

The soft click landed heavier than any slam.

Crystal reappeared. “Encore!”

“We just—” Stephen protested.

“Two performance minimum. Audience engagement is high.”

He glanced at the partridge vibrating in the pear tree.

“That counts?”

“It counts.”

Music erupted again.

The dancers swept into the hallway, then rolled into the kitchen.

One slipped on a stray feather but recovered with athletic grace.

Another toppled Roo’s treat jar, which Roo interpreted as a formal invitation to assume supervisory duties.

Stephen scrambled behind them, apologising, pleading, attempting futile traffic-control gestures.

A dancer with kind eyes and a hoodie sat beside him between routines.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Not remotely,” he admitted. “My wife is one critique away from combusting.”

She nodded with quiet understanding. “Trying too hard?”

He swallowed. “I thought… if I made Christmas big enough, it would mean something. But I think I’m just making things harder.”

“Effort matters,” she said. “Calm matters too.”

He exhaled.

“How do you balance them?”

“You don’t,” she said simply. “You just try not to break the people you love.”

Her words landed with quiet force.

She nudged him gently.

“Come on. Make it ten.”

This time, he danced out of surrender rather than bravado.

His dancing was catastrophically awful.

Roo barked like a loyal hype-woman.

The hens looked scandalised.

The partridge shrieked like a kettle in distress.

But for one bizarre minute, chaos cracked open into catharsis.

Mid-afternoon brought silence at last.

The dancers packed up and left behind:

• glitter in the radiator fins

• sequins in Jane’s pencil tin

• a dented blender

• a faint strawberry scent that might outlive them all

The bungalow glowed faintly, as if joy had given one last half-hearted stretch.

Stephen collapsed on the sofa.

Roo hopped up and rested a paw on his thigh—a warm, grounding presence.

His chest tightened.

He wanted this day to be more than another entry in the logbook of Things Stephen Made Worse.

He checked his phone.

No disasters.

No message from Jane.

Just quiet.

Jane arrived home at dusk, cheeks flushed from cold and nerves.

She paused in the doorway.

Took everything in: glitter catching lamplight, her sketches neatly arranged, Roo curled loyally against Stephen, and Stephen himself—sparkly, exhausted, holding himself like someone desperate to get it right.

Her gaze lingered on him a moment longer than usual, something softening around the edges.

“How bad?”

He gave a defeated flick of the hand. “Moderate glitter fallout.”

She plucked a sequin from his collar. “You danced.”

“It was… iterative.”

“Did they pay you?”

“Sadly, no.”

Her laugh was small but real—tired, warm, threaded with affection.

“You’re going to be the end of me.”

“I thought maybe… magic would help.”

Her expression gentled even further.

“It sort of did,” she admitted. “In a strange, glitter-lite way.”

Roo nudged her hand firmly—reunion protocol.

They both reached to stroke her, their hands meeting briefly in soft fur and shared exhaustion.

Jane kicked off her shoes.

“Tell me tomorrow is inanimate.”

“Definitely,” he said. “Mostly.”

She gave him a look that could fill a chapter in her next book.

Stephen watched her move toward the kitchen—still tired, but just a fraction lighter.

Something shifted quietly in his chest:

Christmas didn’t need fixing.

He just needed to stop making life harder for her.

Outside, early snow drifted across Roo’s well-trodden kingdom.

The pear tree caught the lamplight, sequins glinting like it hadn’t meant to participate but was trying anyway.

Stephen checked his phone.

A notification blinked:

Ten Lords a-Leaping — Delivery Confirmed.

He turned the screen face-down.

Just for tonight, he chose to breathe.

And to keep choosing Jane, even if the universe—and the delivery company—had other plans.