New York, Manhattan—this incomparably bustling and busy district only grew somewhat quieter at night. By the time darkness had fully fallen, the snow had gradually stopped, though the air remained cold. A whole day's worth of snow lay piled along both sides of the streets, tinted warm beneath the lit streetlamps.
In the display windows on either side of the street, mannequin models had already been dressed in off-white reindeer sweaters and red-and-green scarves. Strings of shining bulbs hung overhead, while absurdly numerous gift boxes were stacked in the corners.
Although Christmas was still some time away, the businesses occupying New York's best locations had long since prepared for the coming holiday shopping frenzy.
The enormous Christmas tree in the middle of the central roundabout had been set up as usual, though its scattered lights had yet to be switched on. Thick snow covered the gift boxes beneath it, not yet cleared away, but people lining up for photographs were already arriving in an endless stream.
In the reception room on the top floor of Arkham Asylum's west wing, Schiller stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows with a cup in one hand, watching the children chasing and playing in the street below. Strange sat on the sofa, tidying up some scattered magazines.
"I wonder who it was that told me yesterday that he would rather die than wear a reindeer sweater this Christmas." Schiller did not turn around, but Strange could hear the mockery in his voice. He snorted through his nose and looked down at the blue-and-white reindeer sweater he was wearing.
It was an exceedingly ordinary turtleneck sweater. From the collar to the shoulders, it was light blue, then white, then light blue again. The white section bore blue patterns of reindeer and snowflakes. It was safe to say