NEW STORY – Naughty Arabella Gets the Sack – A Krampus at Saint Clare Story

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Foreword:

Every so often, a Saint Clare story arrives from an unexpected corner—this one came from an offhand comment on Bluesky about how “Arabella” is the name of a girl who is absolutely up to mischief. That joke blossomed into an open challenge to write a story with “Naughty Arabella” somewhere in the title.

https://bsky.app/profile/mija-again.bsky.social/post/3m754wu5vrc2n
This is my offering.

Naughty Arabella Gets the Sack – Winter 1925 at Saint Clare’s takes place firmly within the larger Saint Clare universe, but outside the Inez of the Upper IV arc. It introduces an earlier generation of girls—and a long-standing bit of school folklore involving a seasonal visitor who is, essentially, OFSTED with hooves. Krampus pays annual calls to Saint Clare’s, but this year he meets his match in Arabella Fairchild: blonde, brilliant, catastrophically charming, and overdue for supernatural accountability.

The result is part school-story romp, part institutional mythmaking, and wholly Saint Clare’s.

---

 STORY – Naughty Arabella Gets the Sack

Chapter I – In Which Saint Clare’s Watches a Drama Unfold

Saint Clare School for Girls slept beneath a frosty moon in the winter of 1925, its chimneys puffing industriously and its corridors stretching away into dim, draughty mystery. Most of the Second Form were fast asleep in their flannel nightgowns—except for those peering nervously from their beds, listening to the unmistakable CLONK—CLONK—CLONK of something decidedly not school-sanctioned approaching.

Arabella Fairchild, however, was not in her nightgown.

Oh no.

Arabella stood at the centre of the corridor, dressed in her full uniform—immaculate gymslip, snowy white shirt, hair ribbons neat at either side of her head—because Arabella firmly believed that if one must face the supernatural, one should at least look as though one were about to captain the lacrosse team.

She was, as the Headmistress had once remarked in a despairingly admiring tone, “the sort of blonde beauty who, in six years, during her first season, will oblige her father to consider hiring armed guards¹Borrowed from Terry Pratchett’s Hogfather (I think). in addition to the usual chaperones.”

Arabella knew this.

Arabella relied on this.

But Arabella’s beauty had never yet faced Krampus.

---

Girls Who Watched

Behind her, in the rows of narrow iron bedsteads, half the Second Form crouched behind blankets, whispering furiously.

“She’s done it again,” hissed Primrose Pembury, who had once taken the blame for Arabella’s practical joke involving a frog in the Latin master’s hat.

“And she’ll get away with it again,” muttered Clara Dawlish, who had written one hundred lines after Arabella persuaded her to switch name-tags on the exam papers.

“I’d like to see her caught. Just once!” whispered Lottie, who had been given detention when Arabella accidentally (on purpose) set off a smoke-bomb during sewing.

Little Sally Billings (who had been framed for the “ink-in-the-cocoa” incident) clutched her hot-water bottle and breathed, “Look at her! Smirking like she owns the place!”

The girls’ resentment simmered in the cold air.

This was the year Arabella Fairchild would receive her comeuppance.

They could feel it.

---

Enter Krampus

Something huge.

Something hairy.

Something that smelled faintly of brimstone and disapproval.

“It’s Matron!” squeaked little Sally—and disappeared beneath her bed so fast that only her plaits remained visible.

But it was not Matron.

No indeed.

Krampus filled the entire corridor, horns brushing the ceiling, frost curling around his hooves. His chains rattled ominously; his bells clanged with dreadful purpose. In his clawed hand he held the freshly made birch rod, bound in the traditional Saint Clare colours: red and navy ribbons—last year’s contributions from girls who had experienced “sack time.”

Several girls spotted their missing ribbons and shuddered.

Arabella, naturally, stepped forward as though greeting a visiting dignitary.

“Well! There you are. I daresay you’ve come to clear up this awful misunderstanding. I’ve been perfectly marvellous this term—positively angelic! If you’re carrying that rod for decorative flair, it is a splendid effort.”

Krampus unrolled a scroll.

Arabella’s name was at the top.

Beneath it, a long and damning list of her pranks spiralled off the paper like the tail of a displeased comet:

• Sweet Shop Incident
• The Snowfall Indoors Catastrophe
• The French Lesson Explosion
• Frog in the Inkpot, Parts I–IV
• Unauthorized Use of the Church Organ
• And, in bold letters: Ongoing Tendency to Inspire Havoc While Appearing Irreproachable

At the bottom, written in ominous black Gothic letters:

Recommended Procedure: Ribbon Reclaimation

 Arabella’s knees wobbled. She steadied herself.

Then she ran.

---

The Chase

Arabella Fairchild ran.

Her golden curls flew behind her like a banner of rebellion. She skidded past doorways, dashed down stairwells, and barrelled through clouds of dust that had been peacefully minding their own business since the Boer War.

The watching girls followed from doorways—pale, breathless, wide-eyed.

“Look! Krampus nearly got her!”

“Oh, go on, Krampus! Catch her!”

“I don’t want to watch!”

“She deserves it after the caterpillars-in-the-bath fiasco! I know *I* got slippered enough for *both* of us!”

Down the Long Gallery Arabella ran. Past the Founder’s portrait (its painted eyes seeming to follow her), past Matron’s office (where Matron snored loudly within), past the trophy case (which rattled in fright).

Krampus gave chase with steady, dreadful inevitability.

His bells clanged.

His hooves struck sparks.

His sack flapped ominously.

The birch twigs whipped the air.

Arabella’s gymslip fluttered behind her, legs pumping enough to reveal flashes of knickers beneath, any attempt at strategy or control dissolving into pure flight.

At last she reached the end of the East Wing, cornered between a locked linen cupboard and a very judgmental bust of Saint Clare herself.

“Oh come on,” Arabella pleaded wildly. “Surely we can bargain? Chat? Reason? I’m frightfully reasonable when I … eeep!”

Krampus lifted the sack.

Arabella darted left.

Krampus blocked her.

Arabella darted right.

Krampus blocked her again.

She stared up at him with all the helpless charm she could muster.

…Which, in all fairness, was considerable.

But Krampus was old, wise, implacable… and entirely immune.

With one deft swoop, he scooped her up and, despite a shriek that should have woken the school’s rumored Tudor ghosts, in she went.

The sack wriggled.

The bells clanged.

The frost dissipated.

And Krampus was gone.

And Arabella was gone.

Just like that.

---

Aftermath

The girls poured into the corridor, whispering excitedly, breath misting in the air.

“Was that?”

“Did he?”

“Is she?”

“She’ll be back by morning,” said Primrose wisely. “They always come back.”

“But changed,” Clara added.

“Yes,” said Lottie solemnly, “slightly improved in temper, slightly humbled, and slightly sore in pride. That’s what I’ve heard”

Sally nodded. “And with fewer ribbons.”

“No, with new ribbons.”

The girls shivered—not from cold, but anticipation. No one would sleep in the second form domatory tonight.

---

Dawn

At dawn, the sack appeared, neatly folded on Arabella’s bed.

Arabella herself materialised moments later, deposited with supernatural efficiency onto her coverlet—hair tousled, pride slightly bruised.

Her gymslip was unchanged. Her knickers were modestly covered.

But beneath them…

Tucked under her pillow were new red-and-navy ribbons—fresh, crisp, ceremonial. There were also faint and matching patterns of her old ribbons’ left upon her person:

On her skin, a light, tidy, tracery of “ribbons,” of discipline, exchanged discreetly and traditionally, as Saint Clare’s lore required.

Arabella winced.

Arabella sighed.

Arabella sat up very gingerly.

But Arabella smiled, too, for no one would ever know the details

(except perhaps Krampus, the Foundress, and the portrait of Saint Clare, who definitely watched and winked).

And the girls?

They leaned over the bed-rail and, for the first time, saw Arabella Fairchild blush shyly.

“What?” she said defensively. “Don’t look at me like that. It was—symbolic.”

And, after a pause:

“Does anyone have a cushion?”

---

Chapter II – In Which Arabella Requires a Cushion, Salve, and a Favourable Audience OR The Second Form Girls Learn More Than They Bargained For)

Morning arrived at Saint Clare School for Girls with the usual racket of bells, feet thundering along corridors, shrieks of laughter echoing everywhere. Yet something was unmistakably different.

For once, just for once, Arabella Fairchild did not bounce out of bed like a golden-haired whirlwind.

Instead the girl rose gingerly, wincing in a manner that would have been quite dramatic had she possessed the strength to make it so. Her gymslip, still perfectly pleated from last night, (of course, blast her) shifted stiffly as she slowly stood.

The rest of her Second Form housemates watched in breathless fascination.

“Are you…” Primrose ventured, “all right?”

Arabella inhaled through her teeth in the delicate way of someone pretending not to be in pain. She was clearly fighting for control, held together by sheer stubborn charm.

“I am,” she said, “entirely marvellous. Though I should like, perhaps, to sit on something… softer. Preferably something that will not fight back.”

“Like a cushion,” Clara suggested.

Arabella glared at her. “Yes. Like a cushion. Do stop being clever before breakfast. No one likes that.”

The other girls exchanged looks. Clearly some were enjoying it, even if Arabella didn’t.

---

The Traditional Exchange

Word travelled through the dormitory with the speed of, of, of scandal in a boarding school. A *girls’* boarding school.

Arabella was back from the sack!

Arabella has marks!

Arabella wants a cushion!

Arabella is vulnerable!

Within ten minutes, half the form had gathered round her bed, clutching their dressing gowns and whispering as though attending a royal christening.

Little Sally Billings held up a small tin. “I brought Matron’s special salvet. For… er… traditional post-disciplinary purposes.”

Arabella eyed the tin with the reverence usually given to sacred relics.

“Hand it over.”

“Only,” Sally said bravely, “if you show us.”

Arabella froze.

“And if I get to put it on you,” Sally added.

Primrose coughed delicately. “It is the custom, you know. When a girl returns from a caning or a senior tawse—well, she gives her form a peek. For solidarity.”

“And sympathy,” Lottie added.

“And accuracy,” Clara muttered.

Arabella pressed a hand to her heart. “I cannot believe I’m being blackmailed in my own dormitory.”

“You blackmail us all the time,” four girls said, in perfect harmony.

Arabella considered.

Arabella sighed.

Arabella relented.

“FINE. Gather round. But no squealing. No pinching. Gentle touch only.”

---

The Glimpse

Now, Saint Clare’s girls are never improper. Even when discussing impropriety, they do so with the sort of decorum found only in old-fashioned boarding schools (and particularly discreet duchesses).

So, when Arabella, with a wince and an eye-roll, lifted the hem of her gymslip and pulled up a knicker leg just far enough to reveal the faintest edge of what lay beneath it…

Every girl gasped.

Not in horror.

Not even in sympathy.

But in awe.

Because peeking just below her knicker elastic were the faintest, neatest pale “ribbons.” Weals of the sort of patterned reminders that came not from the school cane or tawse, but from the red-and-navy tied birch rods wielded by Saint Clare’s oldest legend.

Clear enough to be believed, vague enough to be decent, elegant as only folklore could be.

“Good gracious,” whispered Primrose.

“Beautiful,” gasped Lottie, before blushing violently and clarifying, “I mean, not beautiful, but… oh, you know what I mean.”

Sally nodded solemnly. “They are pretty. Krampus does tidy work.”

Arabella gently snapped her knikcers back into place.

“All right. That’s ENOUGH. Salve please. And gently.”

---

Terms and Conditions

The girls handed over:

• A tin of liniment
• A fluffy cushion
• And three extra handkerchiefs “just in case”

In return, Arabella granted:

• One glimpse
• Two minutes of unburdened honesty
• And a promise not to blame any of them for anything that happened ever again. Ever. Or at least not until after Easter.

(Arabella’s promises were generally worth very little, but this morning she looked earnest enough that even previous victims considered she *might* be sincere.)

She dabbed salve with as much dignity as possible under the circumstances, then perched gingerly -oh so very gingerly- on the cushion.

“Listen,” she said, lowering her voice. “What I endured last night was not strictly a punishment. It was… symbolic.”

“Yes,” Clara said dryly, “it symbolised you losing a few ribbons.”

“Are symbolic marks painful?” queried Primrose.

Arabella stuck out her tongue at her.

“But, I am not ruined. I am not defeated. And I am, despite everything, still *very* cute.”

“We noticed,” the form said, offering a collective eye-roll.

“And,” Arabella added, straightening her ribbons with a defiant flourish, “I shall return to my usual self immediately after second breakfast.”

A pause.

“And after sitting down becomes comfortable. Or feasible,” she admitted.

---

The Form Decides

As Arabella fussed with her hair ribbons—new ones, crisp and red and navy, still smelling faintly of frost—the girls glanced at one another.

“It’s rather nice,” Lottie whispered, “seeing her… you know. Human.”

Primrose nodded. “It might be healthy for her.”

Sally added, “It might be healthy for us.”

Clara crossed her arms. “Just wait. By teatime she’ll be plotting something grand again.”

Arabella, overhearing, lifted her chin.

“I have never plotted anything grand before tea,” she said indignantly.

“I do it after tea.”

And the Second Form burst into helpless giggles.

---

Later

By breakfast, Arabella had regained enough composure to descend the stairs without whimpering. By mid-morning she had regained her swagger.

But the girls of the Second Form had gained something far more important:

A tiny glimpse into the vulnerability of Arabella Fairchild,

A treasured tin of Matron’s salve,

And a story they would whisper for years to come.

For the first time since anyone could remember, Arabella Fairchild had been caught.

Properly.

Inevitably.

Mythically.

And for one single glorious morning…

She needed their help.

---

Chapter III –  In Which the Saint Clare’s Staff Know Nothing, Suspect Everything, and Drink a Concerning Quantity of Tea

(Starring Matron, Who Knows Rather More Than She Should)

The staff-room at Saint Clare School for Girls was one of those solemn, fusty places where silence hovered in the corners like a particularly strict sub-prefect. The walls were lined with dark bookcases, the windows rattled whenever the boiler grumbled, and the air smelled faintly of papers, chalk-dust, and Earl Grey strong enough to wake the dead.

This morning, the atmosphere was more peculiar than usual.

The French mistress, Miss Pembrook sat by the fire looking pale and jumpy. She clutched her cup with both hands, as though afraid someone might steal it—or that it might leap out and attack her.

Miss Thistledown, the Latin mistress, was polishing her spectacles for the fourth time in a row.

Miss Ridgeway, the Deputy Headmistress (a woman who believed that all life’s problems could be solved by firmness, punctuality, and a properly sharpened pencil), cleared her throat.

“Well,” she said.

Silence followed.

A rather loaded silence.

Finally she added, “Does anyone… know anything about the disturbance last night?”

Miss Pembroke’s teacup rattled so violently she almost spilled.

MissThistledown’s spectacles squeaked alarmingly.

No one answered.

“No?” Miss Ridgeway said. “No one heard the clanging? The door-slamming? The thundering of…” She hesitated, hunting for a word appropriately non-committal. “…feet?”

“We live in an old building, Ridgeway,” sniffed Miss Pembroke. “Doors slam. Pipes groan. Floors creak. Entire corridors occasionally… er… shake.”

“Yes,” Miss Thistledown added quickly, “Pipes. Which are perfectly normal for the season.”

“Exams cause stress,” offered the Chemistry mistress, nodding sagely. “And stress causes auditory hallucinations. Entirely medical.”

The staff nodded simultaneously, like a flock of owls refusing to admit they’d seen a fox.

---

The Elephant in the Room (Wearing Bells)

Miss Ridgeway folded her arms. “The girls reported bells.”

“A sleigh?” Miss Pembroke suggested desperately.

“In December?” Miss Thistledown added helpfully.

“Quite common at Welsh schools,” the Chemistry mistress claimed. “Er… cultural.”

Miss Ridgeway stared.

The room stared back.

Miss Pembroke coughed.

“No one,” she said, “shall mention… you-know-who.”

“Certainly not,” gasped Miss Thistledown. “We have a reputation to uphold.”

Miss Ridgeway sniffed. “Saint Clare School does not officially acknowledge such folklore.”

“Quite right,” murmured the staff in careful chorus.

“And any odd circumstances, students mysteriously improved in behaviour, sudden shortages of hair ribbons—”

“Happen in all fine institutions,” Miss Pembroke said firmly.

“Particularly in the 1920s,” added the Chemistry mistress.

“Wild times,” Miss Thistledown muttered.

---

Denial at Full Steam

Miss Ridgeway sat.

She poured herself tea.

She stared into it like a general contemplating a battlefield.

“If,” she said slowly, “a certain… visitor… were to have been present last night (which of course he was NOT) one might reasonably expect some form of, ah… disruption among the girls.”

“Absolutely,” Miss Thistledown agreed.

Miss Pembroke shivered.

“And yet,” Miss Ridgeway continued, “first bell rang, and every Second former was lined up for breakfast looking unusually meek.”

The staff exchanged glances.

“Particularly Arabella Fairchild,” murmured Miss Pembroke, in a tone usually reserved for the appearance of comets or royal inspectors.

Miss Thistledown nearly dropped her spectacles. “Arabella? Quiet?”

Miss Ridgeway nodded. “She sat down very slowly. Carefully even.”

“Aha,” whispered the Chemistry mistress.

“No aha, Miss Potter,” Miss Ridgeway snapped. “We aren’t making implications.”

“Of course not,” said Miss Potter, her eyes sparkling with far too much implication.

Miss Pembroke set down her tea. “It is just… fascinating how the girls improve every year around the 6th of December.”

Mr. Thistledown coughed. “A seasonal miracle.”

“Indeed,” said Miss Ridgeway. “One entirely unconnected with bells, sacks, or birch rods. Especially birch rods.”

A chorus of firm nods.

Silence returned.

And then—

---

The Knock

Three sharp raps sounded at the staff-room door.

Ever teacher jumped.

Miss Ridgeway called, “Enter!” in her firm Deputy-Headmistress voice.

The door opened.

Matron stepped in.

Matron, with her starched apron, her iron-grey bun, her unfathomable stare, and a moral authority so potent she could have disciplined the Archangel Gabriel with a raised eyebrow.

Every teacher straightened at once.

“Good morning,” Matron said, in a voice that implied the morning had better behave itself.

“Matron,” Miss Ridgeway said carefully, “we were just discussing–”

“Nothing,” Miss Pembroke blurted. “We were discussing nothing.”

Matron’s eyebrow arched like a trebuchet preparing launch.

“I see,” she said.

The room quivered.

“Since you are discussing absolutely nothing,” Matron continued, “I require Arabella Fairchild.”

Every teacher froze.

Matron folded her arms.

“She is, I believe, in need of a second application of liniment salve. And possibly a note allowing her to stand for her lessons.”

Her eyes narrowed—just slightly.

“And perhaps,” she added, “a conversation about how she came to require either.”

Miss Ridgeway swallowed.

Miss Pembroke squeaked.

Miss Thistledown looked ready to hide behind the umbrella stand.

And Matron, terrifying and omniscient as ever, concluded:

“Fetch her to my office.

I know exactly what happened last night. And unlike some, I admit it.”

The staff-room went as silent as snowfall.

Matron turned smartly and left.

Behind her, the teachers stared at one another. They looked to a one, pale, rattled, and utterly defeated.

Miss Ridgeway took a shaky sip of tea.

“Well,” she murmured, “thank heavens someone does.”

---

CHAPTER IV – In Which Arabella Meets Matron, and Matron Produces a Very Disturbing Ledger OR How Arabella Learns That Her Days of Scot-Free Mischief May Be Numbered)

Arabella Fairchild did not glide into Matron’s office, as she usually did. She crept.

Her uniform was immaculate as ever (pressed gymslip, crisp shirt, hair ribbons set to perfect jaunty angles) but her movements had the careful, gingerly quality of a girl whose pride was intact but whose seating arrangements were still under fierce negotiation.

Matron sat behind her enormous oak desk, polishing a pair of spectacles that she did not need but used for effect. Sunlight glinted off the lenses like judgment.

“Close the door, Arabella,” she said, in a tone that indicated the door would regret it if it didn’t obey.

Arabella closed it.

“Sit.”

Arabella stared at the wooden chair, then at Matron, then back at the wooden chair. She opted instead to perch very slightly on the padded stool reserved for sprained ankles.

Matron raised an eyebrow. “Comfortable?”

“Quite!” Arabella squeaked.

Matron did not believe her. Then again, Matron rarely believed Arabella.

---

Matron Silently Begins the Conversation

They sat in silence for a long moment.

Arabella fidgeted.

Matron waited.

Arabella fidgeted harder.

Matron waited harder.

Finally, Arabella cracked.

“Oh, very well!” she burst out. “Yes, something may have happened last night. Something slightly chilly, slightly sack-shaped, and, well, slightly prickly! But I assure you, Matron, it was all terribly symbolic and…”

“Arabella.”

The word cut through the air like cook cutting through a sandwich.

Arabella froze mid-explanation, mid-gesture, and (regrettably) mid-wiggle. She winced.

Matron folded her hands. “I am not here,” she said, “to discuss symbolism.”

Arabella gulped.

“I am here,” Matron continued, opening a drawer, “to show you something.”

---

The Staff Ledger

From the drawer, Matron withdrew a large, ancient volume: cracked leather, iron clasps, gold edges worn thin. It looked like the sort of book in which one might record the debts of kings, the feuds of old houses, or the number of teaspoons girls had ‘borrowed’ from the dining hall.

The cover read:

SAINT CLARE SCHOOL FOR GIRLS

STAFF LEDGER (CONFIDENTIAL)

Established 1874

With Certain Annotations Following the Winter Incident of 1875

Arabella blinked. “Er… what happened in 1875?”

Fifty years ago.

Matron’s lips pressed into a line so thin it could have sliced cheese.

“Nothing,” she said sternly.

“Absolutely nothing, ” she lied.

Then she opened the ledger.

---

The Annotations

Arabella leaned in.

The ledger’s early pages contained neat academic records, staff salaries, notes on brooms that needed replacing.

But further in, much further in, the ink was darker, the handwriting sharper, and strange symbols danced in the margins.

One page was titled:

VISITOR PROTOCOL: December 5th

(For Staff Use Only — Pupils Not to Be Informed)

Below it:

• Ensure all windows are shut
• Ensure all staircases are clear
• Ensure Matron is awake
• Ensure the materials for one birch rod (ceremonial) are on the entry table
• Ensure cushions available in the infirmary

Arabella felt faintly insulted by the last note.

Then Matron turned another page.

And Arabella saw:

INDIVIDUAL CASE NOTES

Compiled by Staff & External Seasonal Inspectors

And there, under the “F” section—

FAIRCHILD, ARABELLA

— A long list.

— A distressingly long list.

— A list easily rivaling Krampus’s scroll.

Beneath it, written in Matron’s famously exact script:

“Subject has developed concerning immunity to staff discipline. Exhibits charm in weaponised form. Likely to attract ‘outside intervention’. Monitor closely”.

Arabella gasped. “You—you knew? You finked on me?!”

Matron shut the ledger with a thump that rattled the windows.

“My dear girl,” she said calmly, “I’m no so green as I am cabbage looking. I have known for years.”

The Warning

Matron leaned forward, fixing Arabella with a gaze so penetrating it could have melted icicles.

“Arabella,” she said, “once Krampus has sniffed you out, once you have been… marked, the enchantment that blinded your teachers to your antics will fade.”

“Enchantment?” Arabella squeaked.

“Call it what you like. Charm. Luck. Your pretty-little-angel-face immunity.” Matron waved a hand. “Whatever it was, you’ve had it in spades.”

Arabella tried to look modest. She failed.

Matron leaned forward, fixing Arabella with a gaze so penetrating it might have melted icicles.

“Arabella,” she said slowly, “once Krampus has taken proper note of a girl, things change. Your charm, your excuses, your… facility for avoiding consequences — all of it weakens. He sees through what others have not.”

Arabella swallowed. “You mean—”

“I mean,” Matron cut in, “that he has weighed you for himself. And now that he has, he has added you to his list.”

She paused, letting the silence tighten around them like frost.

“You are very much…”

Matron tapped the ledger with one deliberate finger.

Recorded In His Ledger

… my girl. And don’t you forget it. He surely won’t”

Arabella swallowed. “Is that bad?”

“For your future conduct?” Matron said. “Yes. Quite.”

She folded her arms.

“Teachers who once looked at you and saw daisies and sunlight will now see… Arabella. As you are.”

Arabella recoiled. “You mean… my charm won’t work?”

“Not as it used to.”

“My excuses?”

“Will be examined.”

“My innocence?”

“Will be questioned.”

“My eyelashes?”

“Are useless.”

Arabella slumped like a wilting flower.

Matron relented. “They’re quite nice, your eyelashes. Very long and surprisingly dark. Perhaps not entirely useless.

---

Matron’s Final Word

Matron stood.

Arabella stood too.

Well, really, she rose gingerly.

“Arabella Fairchild,” Matron said, “your days of skating by scot-free are over. If you choose to behave, all will be well. If you do not…”

Matron glanced meaningfully at the ledger.

Arabella’s hair ribbons trembled.

“Do we understand one another?”

Arabella opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“Yes, Matron,” she whispered.

Matron nodded.

“Good girl. You may go. Slowly as you wish.”

Arabella went. Slowly. Very.

---

Alone With the Ledger

When the door closed, Matron replaced the ledger in its drawer with reverent care.

She pressed her palm against the cover.

And, very quietly, she said:

“She’ll be back next December, won’t she?”

From somewhere far away -in the woods behind Saint Clare’s- the faintest sound of heavy bells answered:

Ting-a-ling…

Tang-a-lang…

Matron sighed.

“Thought so.”

---

EPILOGUE

Krampus in 1925: Considering the Fiftieth Anniversary, With a Glance Back to 1875 OR A beast’s memory is long; Saint Clare’s mischief is longer

Krampus padded through the snow with the deliberate tread of a creature who never hurried as time obligingly moved around him.

He knew it was 1925 not because he followed calendars, but because the winter air carried a particular note of ritual expectation. Schools were predictable things; Saint Clare’s especially so.

And this year had weight.

A soft tolling in the season.

A cycle completing itself.

Fifty years.

Half a century since the very first night he had found Saint Clare’s irresistible.

Half a century since 1875.

He wasn’t sentimental, he told himself.

(He absolutely was, though only in the way glaciers might be sentimental: slowly, coldly, and with enormous collective memory.)

Tonight that memory stirred.

---

The Girl of the Year

The school lay before him like a slumbering stone creature, windows twitching with candlelight. He inhaled deeply, catching the scents of chalk dust, soap, pen ink, peppermint drops… and one unmistakable strand of mischief.

Arabella Fairchild.

Ah yes.

Her.

Arabella. Naughty Arabella. The naughtiest girl in this whole naughty school.

A swirling little comet of charm and audacity. He had encountered many troublemakers in his long career, but Arabella was the kind of delightful menace that made the bells on his belt hum in anticipation.

Pretty as a postcard.

Sharp as frost.

And guilty in the most creative ways.

Krampus liked the creative ones best of all.

---

Flashback: The Founding Winter of 1875

In 1875, Saint Clare’s had been new.

Old castle stones made a new school.  New rules, new traditions.

New girls with pristine pinafores and appalling talent for mischief.

He remembered arriving uninvited (he never waited for invitations), slipping through the half-built cloister. The builders had run off when his darkness fell. Humans are always so skittish around shadows that walk.

The Headmistress then, Miss Adelaide Penhaligon, had been formidable: tall, angular, with a moral code braced by steel corsetry and at least two degrees in Latin.

“You may NOT,” she had declared, storming down the half-finished corridor holding a lantern like a weapon, “interfere with my girls!”

Krampus remembered this vividly because he had been holding three of those girls by their pinafore straps at the time.

They had deserved it.

They had stolen the entire Christmas pudding before it was even cooked. Ate the currents. Drunk the brandy. Naughty girls, still so heady they giggled as they ran from him, excitement and terror making them loud.

Miss Penhaligon, unlike many humans, had not tried to trap him or banish him or negotiate.

Instead she’d said:

“If you are going to meddle in my school, you will do it properly.”

And she had handed him a list.

A list written in fine copperplate of girls “in need of correction,” arranged alphabetically, with footnotes neatly detailing their transgressions.

He had been enchanted.

He’d smiled at Miss Penhaligon. He liked her. He felt SEEN.

Together they’d spent the next hour storming through the unfinished dormitories, she with her lantern, he with his bells, ensuring the pudding thieves were chastised (both symbolicly and corporally) and firmly placed back in their beds with stern notes admonishing them to reform pinned to their blankets.

By morning, the builders refused to return until the sun was high (AKA Spring), the girls refused to misbehave for nearly a fortnight, and Miss Penhaligon had created the first entry in the Staff Ledger Protocols.

Thus began the partnership.

A partnership conducted mostly in denial and pretend ignorance… but a partnership nonetheless.

And now, fifty years later, he still walked those halls.

Schools changed; Headmistresses came and went; Matrons grew… wherever Saint Clare grew them.

But the mischief never dried up.

Especially not in 1925.

---

Returning to the Present: The Fifty-Year Mark

Snow drifted across the roof tiles as Krampus paused beneath the shadow of the astronomy tower.

He listened.

The girls were chattering, whispering, gossiping in their rooms.

But Arabella’s voice rose above them all. Even when she whispered, she whispered like someone giving a speech. How had she ever gotten away with all she had?

He could feel her recent defiance still fizzing in the air.

She had elbowed him.

Nobody elbowed Krampus.

Not on purpose, anyway.

He respected her greatly.

She had also tried to bargain with him, tried to distract him, tried to weaponise her eyelashes.

All admirable, if ineffective.

He marked her. Not harshly, not cruelly, but unequivocally. A child touched by winter discipline even once was never quite the same.

Teachers would now see her as she was, not as her charm wished to present.

The enchantment around her had thinned.

Her days of skating by had ended.

But would she reform?

Or adapt?

How often would she find herself over her teachers’ knees? How many of her tears would water the carpet’s flowers?

Krampus chuckled softly.

He suspected she would double down.

He hoped she would.

---

Krampus’ Verdict on the Year 1925

A great gust of icy wind blew across the school.

Krampus lifted his head, satisfied.

He enjoyed anniversaries.

They made him reflective.

And reflective moods made him thorough.

He had been particularly thorough this year.

“Fifty years,” he rumbled.

“Fifty years since the pudding thieves.”

He wondered if Miss Penhaligon, wherever stalwart headmistresses spend their enternities, would approve of Arabella Fairchild.

Probably not.

He did.

He began his slow retreat to the woods, bells chiming faintly.

As he went, he cast one final, fond thought toward the girl currently struggling to sit comfortably in the infirmary:

“Sleep well, Arabella. Do try to behave.

… But if you don’t, I shall see you next December.”

The bells gave a wicked little laugh.

And Krampus disappeared into the deep winter dark, already dreaming of his next visit.

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  Borrowed from Terry Pratchett’s Hogfather (I think).