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nightingales.
    She had just rinsed her cup and saucer when the bell rang and she went to the front door, wondering who would call on Christmas morning. No one was there, but a bright parcel lay on the step, directed to The Hon. Miss Phryne Fisher. Ruth turned it around, shook it experimentally, and then took it inside and put it under the tree. Miss Phryne had a lot of admirers.
    She heard an ominous boiling-dry noise and ran back to the kitchen.
    ‘Well,’ said Phryne expansively, taking another slice of breast, ‘that was the best goose in all the world.’
    ‘Never tasted better,’ beamed Miss Eliza.
    ‘Delicious,’ agreed Lady Alice, holding out her plate for more goose, brussels sprouts (and who would have thought they did taste that good with chestnuts? Even Jane had eaten some, Ruth marvelled, resolving never to doubt her texts again), potatoes, gravy, chestnut stuffing and peas. Ruth was delighted. Not by the spoken compliments, though they were very nice, but by the second and even third helpings for which everyone was asking.
    ‘There’s pudding to follow,’ she warned. ‘And iced sorbets.’
    ‘In due course,’ said Phryne. ‘Just a little more gravy, please.’
    The party relaxed and nibbled their favourite tidbits. Phryne and Eliza began to reminisce about the ceremonies taking place even now in their father’s house and how glad they were not to be witnessing them.
    ‘He’ll be on his third bottle by now,’ said Eliza, smothering a giggle at her daring in criticising the Patriarch.
    ‘Drunk as a lord and bellowing at the butler,’ said Phryne, pouring another glass of the moselle which the Barossa Valley was making so competently.
    ‘Mother will be scuttling along, protesting,’ continued Eliza.
    ‘And he will not take a blind bit of notice. He will invade the kitchen and dismiss the cook for insubordination, and she will fling a gravy ladle into his face and stalk out, leaving mother, who cannot boil an egg to save her life, to cook dinner for twenty-five.’
    ‘So she will rush after the offended cook.’
    ‘And perhaps James might manage to get the master into the parlour to amuse the guests,’ said Eliza. ‘Oh, such a fuss! It’s lovely to have this feast just laid out without any panic and hysteria, though we do appreciate how hard Ruth must have worked to produce it.’
    ‘No, really, I just followed the instructions,’ said Ruth modestly. She and Jane had changed into their summer frocks, skimpy cool things with short skirts and scooped necklines, pale mauve for Ruth and pale green for Jane, who was blonder. Ruth had decanted the pudding and left it to drain and seethe before she had dared replace her boots with sandals.
    She accompanied Jane into the kitchen as they began to clear the table. Just the pudding, cream, brandy sauce and sorbets to go. Jane scraped each plate into the greasy baking dish and stacked them for washing. She was careful, because when she lost concentration she had a tendency to drop things and this was Miss Phryne’s Clarice Cliff dinnerware. Molly lurked under the table, knowing that as soon as the plates were cleared, that baking dish piled high with leftovers was her Christmas dinner. She salivated and licked her chops loudly.
    Jane carried the baking dish out into the garden and Molly leapt to follow, tail whirring. When Jane came back she found Ruth transfixed with horror.
    Ember had become bored waiting for his treat, or had possibly lacked sufficient trust in humans to be sure that it would eventuate. He had decided to reward himself and was whiskers deep in the bowl of whipped cream, purring like a dynamo.
    ‘Oh, Jane! What shall we do?’ whispered the hitherto redoubtable Ruth, wringing her hands. ‘I can’t serve whipped cream with cat fur in it! And I haven’t got time to whip more cream!’
    ‘You get Ember,’ said Jane. ‘I’ll get a big spoon.’
    Ruth grasped Ember around the middle. Jane scooped out a generous amount of cream