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“Can you really call that a rhyme?” asked Maud, shuddering delicately.

“A rhyme, certainly,” said Ethel Ledbetter, “but is a rhyme necessarily a poem? The troubadours of old—”

“I’m a doctor, not a poet,” retorted Dr. Stringfellow, cutting Ethel off before she could get started on chansons de something or other. “You try making fourteen doggerel verses all by yourself.”

Nell’s poem was about her library; Anne Dawlish had an elaborate conceit about their savior being a carpenter; Alice worked wonders with their cars.

Liza blushed at “‘She always wants to lend a hand, despite a broken arm / Canadian, Ami, Engineer / Alike have felt her charms.’”

And while Maud tossed her head at “‘No peddler sells better / Than she who runs our store / She sells them soap and sabots / And aprons by the score,’” Emmie could tell she was pleased.

“Have we had any outbreaks of lice since I sold everyone soap? I thought not,” Maud said haughtily. “And there were washtubs too, I’ll have you know.”

“I think all the lice just died of cold,” said Alice, shivering.

“If you wore more wool and less lace—” began Gwen Mills in her patronizing way.

“Then how would we keep up the elegant reputation of the Unit?” drawled Julia, who was perfectly happy to defend Alice if it meant squashing Gwen.

Emmie watched them all bickering and thought how very odd it was that six months ago most of them hadn’t known each other at all, and here they were, with a very clear idea of each other’s strengths and foibles. They might mock Alice’s lace collars, but they all knew that Alice could fix any truck that had a bit of life left in it. And Gwen Mills might be an utter pill, but if you were sick in the middle of the night, she’d be there with a washbasin, holding back your hair. Even Maud. She complained, but she was out there in that truck in all weathers, peddling with all her might. They might not all love each other, but, by a strange alchemy, they all worked together.

Even if Emmie wished that someone would remember her for something other than chickens.

“These are lovely,” Emmie said, to make up for feeling ungrateful. “How did you ever do it all?”

“Don’t you mean Santa? I do pay attention, you know,” said Dr. Stringfellow, looking pleased. “I’m not one for speeches, but what you’re doing here—what we’re all doing here—is something worth doing, and I think you all, every single one, should be proud of yourselves. Those poems may not be much in terms of meter, but they’re a tribute to each and every one of you and all you do.”

“There you go, rhyming again,” pointed out Florence Lewes cheerfully.

“Thank you,” said Dr. Stringfellow. “I’ll try to keep this bit in prose, shall I? I wanted to do something for all of you before I go—I’ll be leaving in January. It’s been an honor and I’ll dine out on tales of the Unit for the next decade, but my own work and family are waiting for me in Philadelphia.”

“She has a family?” whispered Alice, on Kate’s other side.

“I heard that, Miss Patton. And yes, I do. You’ll be getting a new director and a new doctor—but not until January! You’re stuck with me until then, and I warn you, I mean to eat my share of the Christmas chocolates.”

“Must you go?” asked Emmie. Dr. Stringfellow was brusque, impatient, and frankly uninterested in administration, but there was something terribly reassuring about her.

“Bless you, child. I never wanted or asked to be director—and I only hope you’re better served by the next one. I only agreed to be assistant director because Betsy promised me I’d never actually have to do anything about it.”

For a moment, the ghost of Mrs. Rutherford was there with them. If a living person could be a ghost, thought Emmie. It seemed wrong that they should be celebrating all this here without her, when all of it was, one way or another, her doing, from the design of the uniform to the purchase of the chickens.

Dr. Stringfellow cleared her throat. “Let’s give thanks where thanks is due—to our assistant director, who did all the real directing so I could go on doing the job I actually know how to do. Kate, the first chocolate is for you.”

There was hugging and exclaiming and ironic comments from Maud and general pandemonium and Emmie watched her friend surrounded by the Unit, her thin face glowing, and thought how long ago August felt, and how wonderful it was how Kate had come into her own, and how she wished, just once, she could be more like Kate, confident like Kate, strong like Kate, organized like Kate.

“It’s no more than anyone would do,” said Kate, once the last strains of “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow” had died down.

“Oh, it is,” said Dr. Stringfellow frankly. “And I hope our new director realizes how lucky she is to have you.”

“Who will the new director be?” asked Alice, putting into words what they were all wondering.

“You all know her already—Mrs. Barrett of the Paris Committee. And the new doctor, not that you asked, will be Dr. Clare of the class of ’92. Here.” Dr. Stringfellow rooted around under her chair and produced a large box of chocolates. “Mrs. Barrett sent this as an earnest of her good intentions—and it’s an earnest of my good intentions that I didn’t eat it all myself and hide the note.”

“Shouldn’t we save it for the children?” suggested Emmie, and was promptly booed down.

“Hush, angel of the barrack,” said Nell. “Christmas won’t be Christmas without scarfing down all the chocolates and feeling sick after.”

“If you do,” said Dr. Stringfellow, “don’t come to me. I’m strictly off duty today and mean to be as much of a glutton as the rest of you. All dyspeptics report to Dr. Pruyn. Now let’s make sure we’re ready to receive our guests, shall we? Everyone to their stations! And that’s as much directing as I intend to do.”