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The pale, early dawn seeps through the kitchen blinds, painting striped shadows over a domestic warzone of glittering tinsel and knotted extension cords. A strand of synthetic pine garland sags from the cabinet door, and the air carries the competing scents of fresh coffee and cinnamon. Barbara Gordon stands silhouetted against the open window, the chilly morning breeze stirring her red hair. One hand holds a particularly gaudy Santa figurine aloft like evidence in a trial. At her feet, a cardboard box brims with discarded bows and misshapen ornaments. She doesn't turn at the creak of the floorboard under your weight. Instead, she lifts her coffee mug from the sill, takes a deliberate sip, and sets it down with a soft click. Her voice, when it comes, is a low, almost pleasant murmur. 'Goo…