In the Land of the Long White Cloud

Lucas had excused himself an hour earlier in order to review the setup one last time. Young Hardy Kennon was to help him with it if he wasn’t too drunk already. Gwyneira went to check on the champagne stores. She found Witi just taking a bottle from the ice bucket where they were being kept cool.
    “Hopefully not shoot someone,” he said with concern. The pop of the cork when the champagne bottles were opened still made the Maori servant nervous.
    “It’s totally harmless, Witi,” Gwyneira said in an effort to calm him. “When you’ve done it a few more times…”
    “Yes, whe…when…there was mo…more often a reason!” That was Gerald, who had just tottered back up to the bar to uncork a new bottle of whiskey. “But you don’t give us an…any reason to celebrate, my Wel…Welsh princess! Thought you weren’t so prudish, loo…look like you got fire enough for ten and could even get Lu…Lucas hot, that limp…that block of ice!” Gerald slurred, catching himself before he said something even more inappropriate as he stared at the champagne. “But now…a year, Gwyn…Gwyneira, and still no grand…”
    Gwyneira breathed a sigh of relief when Gerald was interrupted by a fireworks rocket climbing into the sky with a hiss—a test shot for the later spectacle. Witi popped the corks, squeezing his eyes shut anxiously as he did so. Gwyneira thought about the horses in a searing flash. Igraine and the other mares had never experienced fireworks before, and the paddock was relatively small. What if the animals panicked?
    Gwyneira cast a glance at the big clock, which had been specially brought into the garden and placed in a highly visible spot.Maybe there was still enough time to bring the horses into the stables. She could have kicked herself for not having given James McKenzie the directions to do so earlier. Muttering apologies, Gwyneira made her way through the mass of guests and ran to the stables. But the pen was already empty, except for one mare, which McKenzie was just then leading out. Gwyneira’s heart leaped. Had he read her thoughts?
    “I thought the animals were looking unsettled, so I thought I’d bring them in,” James said when Gwyneira opened the stable door for him and the mare. Cleo jumped up on her mistress as she did so.
    Gwyneira laughed. “That’s funny. I was thinking the same thing.”
    McKenzie gave her a rakish look, between flirtation and mischief. “We should think about why that happens,” he said. “Maybe we’re soul mates? In India they believe in the transmigration of souls. Who knows, maybe in a past life we were…” He pretended to think hard.
    “As good Christians, we shouldn’t give it a thought,” Gwyneira said, interrupting him sternly, but James just laughed. In perfect harmony, they filled the horses’ hayracks, and Gwyneira tossed a few carrots in the stall for Igraine. After all that, her dress no longer looked quite so clean. Gwyneira looked down at herself ruefully. Oh well, no one would notice in the lantern light.
    “Are you done here? I should wish the help a happy New Year while I’m here.”
    James smiled. “Maybe you even have time for a dance? When does the big fireworks show start?”
    Gwyneira shrugged. “As soon as it strikes twelve and cheering has died down.” She smiled. “Or, better yet, as soon as everyone has wished everyone else all the happiness in the world, even if he doesn’t mean it.”
    “Now, now, miss. So cynical today? It’s such a wonderful party!” James looked at her probingly. Gwyneira knew this look too—and it set her on edge.
    “Spiced with a good dose of schadenfreude,” she sighed. “Over the next few days, everyone’s mouths will be flapping, and Mr. Warden only makes it worse—with the way he talks.”
    “What do you mean ‘schadenfreude’?” James asked. “Kiward Station is in tip-top shape. With the profit Mr. Warden is going to make from the wool, he could throw a party like this every month. How can he be unhappy?”
    “Oh, let’s not talk about it,” Gwyneira muttered. “Let’s start the year with something more cheerful. Did you say something about a dance? As long as it’s not a waltz.”
    Andy McAran fiddled a rollicking Irish jig. Two Maori servants beat the drum in accompaniment, which did not quite fit but was great fun nevertheless. Poker Livingston and Dave O’Toole swung the Maori girls around. Moana and Kiri let themselves be led in the foreign dance. The other