The old grand­fa­ther clock struck mid­night, twelve solemn bells that sig­ni­fied End­ing and Begin­ning in the way that no other num­ber, and no other clock, ever could.

Jack sighed, downed the last of his whiskey, and stood up. The can­dles that splut­tered near to the end of their wicks on the mahogany throne behind him finally gave up and smoked away into nothingness.

“Lords and Ladies of the Court, ladies and gen­tle­men both liv­ing and departed, I must now bid you farewell. My time is over for another year, and I must now hand over to my sis­ter as your host for the next four moons and two. Now if you will indulge me a few more sec­onds – one last toast! Whether you rest here or beyond the West­ern sky this Win­ter, may you rest in peace!”

“May you rest in peace!” returned the court, even its incor­po­real mem­bers man­ag­ing to drink to the sentiment.

The doors at the back of the audi­ence cham­ber blew open, bang­ing back against the stone walls as their hinges creaked and com­plained. A chill wind blew through the room, car­ry­ing on it leaves of red and yel­low in their thou­sands that spi­ralled in the air. And fol­low­ing it came a tall woman dressed in red and brown cloth and with the same leaves plaited into her hair. In her left hand she car­ried a staff of chest­nut wood, and in her right a flagon of froth­ing cider. She was fol­lowed by three girls and three boys, each dressed in autum­nal brown, who car­ried jugs of the same cider to refill the glasses of any­one who desired.

The woman gave her brother a hearty hug as they passed each other down the aisle.

“Farewell my brother, Jack of the Lanterns,” said she.

“Wel­come my sis­ter, Lady Novem­ber,” said he, and the Court cho­rused “Wel­come Lady November!”

The Lady Novem­ber reached the front of the cham­ber, turned to face the Court, and sat down upon the throne that was now hers. The doors slammed shut, and bereft of wind the leaves set­tled on the ground, giv­ing the impres­sion that the whole floor was aflame. And at that moment the clock began to strike twelve again, for as all present knew, when no Lord or Lady sat upon the Throne of Sea­sons there could be no pass­ing of time in the world.

She addressed her audience.

“My Lords, Ladies and Gen­tle­men,” she said, “the nights draw in, and it is but a short time until I must hand over this throne to the eldest of my broth­ers, Saint Nicholas. At this time of year it becomes nec­es­sary to stop think­ing only of enjoy­ing the day, but also of enjoy­ing the night.

“And so,” said the Lady Novem­ber with a grand sweep of her arm, “let our hearts be warmed by blaz­ing bon­fires and free-flowing drink! And…” She stood, and turned away from the Court to look through the great glass win­dows and the night beyond. “Let the fire­works begin!”

With a drum­roll from the orches­tra and a bang and a flash of gun­pow­der, the sky lit up in a blaze of all the colours of the rain­bow — and then some — as hun­dreds of fire­works shot up into the ink-black night. The Court raised a cheer, and raised a glass, and the month of Novem­ber began.