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"What’s the deal with all this anyway?" Arthur asks.
Mal squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath, like an opera diva preparing for her entrance.
"Oh god you’re going to get her started," Cobb moans from behind her as she whips around to glare.
"It is not my fault that Americans do not understand Christmas," she announces.
Cobb smacks his face in his palm.
"You need the Christmas crackers," Mal begins what is clearly a well-rehearsed rant. "You need le foie gras and the Christmas pudding," Mal continues while Cobb makes a gagging motion behind her. "It is not Christmas without the snow."
"It doesn’t even snow in Par—" Cobb protests, unheard.
"It is a festival of midwinter. Not—" Mal whirls around and points accusingly at Cobb’s shorts. "—that."
Cobb raises his hands and steps back. "I can go change."
Map rolls her eyes. "That is not the point."
Cobb backs out of the room anyway. Coward.
"Not that I have opinions on Christmas or anything, but…" Arthur points at a piece of wood sitting on a side table. "—what is that thing?" It’s a small log, decorated with two little googly eyes and a drawn-on mouth, wearing a red sock as a hat.
"Ah, that." Mal looks away, suddenly not meeting Arthur’s eyes. "That is… difficult to explain."
Arthur looks at Mal expectantly.
"I got it for the children."
"I see."
"It is a tradition from the south of France."
"Okay…"
"I think Philippa will like it." Mal’s definitely avoiding the question now.
Arthur presses on. "What’s it called?"
"It has many names. In Occitania it is called the soc de Nadal."
"Okay. But what is it for?"
"It holds gifts. On Christmas Day, the children hit the log with sticks and—" Mal’s squirming. She’s fidgeting.
Arthur is fascinated. Mal is beautiful, elegant, and poised. Mal never fidgets. He leans forward.
"And then?"
"—and then the log, it…" Mal closes her eyes and sighs. "—it defecates gifts."
Arthur blinks. He feels a snicker coming on. He’s trying so hard not to laugh but he can feel his entire face twisting involuntarily as he desperately fights the giggles.
Mal looks at him, her lips tight, but her eyes are sparkling with barely repressed laughter. She snorts.
Arthur loses it. He doubles over, howling with laughter until he feels the blood rushing to his head. He looks back up, grinning widely, barely able to breathe. Mal’s head is tipped back, her tinkling laugh occasionally punctuated by an unladylike cackle. They’re gasping, practically in tears, when Cobb re-enters the room. He’s in jeans.
"What did I miss?" he asks.
Mal lifts her chin, suddenly regaining her poise. "You can explain it to Dom," she says and escapes the room in a cloud of perfume.
"I don’t even celebrate Christmas!" Arthur yells at Mal’s retreating back. "Mal! Come back!"
Cobb squints curiously at the log. "What is that thing?"
Arthur sighs deeply, then begins.
"It’s a tradition from the south of France…"