There’s a dance they do, on the extra day.
They, of course, being the fairies, or the elves, or the aliens, whatever you think best to call them. It’s fine by me. I don’t care, and they don’t seem to mind.
They dance this dance every fourth year, starting at that extra twilight. The younglings learn it during the day, whilst the songstresses soothe their voices with cocoa and tea and soup. Herbs are added to the logs on the hearth to sweeten the smell of the wintry air. Snow, if necessary, is cleared. And they do that dance they do.
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