The snow was coming down hard, the flakes small and sharp, more like ice droplets than the fluffy white puffs one usually thought of when considering this particular type of precipitation. But after a century or so of living in the Village, Cornelius Cane had grown immune to the cold and the various forms of solid water the clouds heaved down upon them.
As he crunched along the well-decorated cobblestone street that led to his home, his mind only vaguely noticed the impeccably hung twinkling white lights that decorated each of the cottages, shop fronts, and various other buildings, their iridescence broken up only by the velvet bows and greenery interspersed every few feet. Here, Christmas decorations were not seasonal; they were part of everyday life, and while he did occasionally stop to marvel at their splendor, particularly when they had recently been changed out, after a while, like the snow, the decor became part of the background, an inconsequential part of his existence.
Corey wasn’t particularly tall at five foot three, though he towered over every other male in his family. He had dark black hair that he carefully sculpted into a wavy point atop his head each morning using a special gel his father had created ages ago, the secret ingredient only known to him and now his son. He had a handsome face which he always kept clean shaven, with piercing green eyes which his mother likened to an evergreen. His smile, when he chose to wear such an adornment, was often broad and warm, but it always seemed to read as forced to those who were particularly discerning, and that’s because often times it was. Though Corey was extremely talented when it came to recruiting--he’d never failed, not once--he was keenly aware that the job had grown a bit tiresome, and while he couldn’t fathom any other line of work, he often wondered if it was all worth it.
Nevertheless, as he pushed open the door to his cottage, he couldn't help but reflect on the conversation he had just had with his boss, the head of operations around here, and he was certain this most recent recruit was going to be precisely what was necessary to fill the gaps left by the recent demise of Mrs. Maple D. Meriwether, Doll Maker Extraordinaire.
Corey brushed a few lingering snowflakes from the shoulders of his red velvet topcoat before removing it and hanging it on a hook next to the door. The rest of his suit was also red velvet, with the exception, of course, of his starched white shirt. Even his tie was mostly red with thin white stripes. He always dressed in a similar three-piece suit in red and white, green and white, or the occasional mixture of the three. It paid to look professional and in keeping with the family name and spirit of the season, no matter how mundane his current occupation may have become. His parents, both retired, still lived in the Village, and he wouldn’t dream of either of them seeing him look anything but dressed to impress.
The fireplace blazed, providing enough light for him to ignite the lamps in his quaint living space. His cabin consisted of a great room with a massive fireplace adorned with a mantle sporting the carved heads of two reindeer with full antlers in a rich mahogany wood. A swinging door kept the cooking quarters separated, and a steep staircase led to three sleeping chambers; his own room was the largest, of course, with a smaller room for guests, which were rare, and then a room for his valet, Mr. Waddlebug, who was likely in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. All of the rooms were decorated in a rustic fashion, as were most of the dwellings in the village. And of course there were reminders of Christmas everywhere one looked. From the reindeer on the mantel to the mistletoe hung above the doorway to the kitchen, to the angels that sat upon the window sills near the ceiling, little touches were everywhere, and while Corey certainly didn’t decorate this way himself, he didn’t even notice it anymore unless the team of elves responsible for changing out such decor came by and left something new, in which case after a day or two the unfamiliar item would begin to blend in with the rest becoming little more than the visual equivalent of background noise.
“Mr. Waddlebug?” Corey shouted as he straightened a stack of books on the end table next to his chair. “Are you present?”
There was a clattering from the kitchen which confirmed Corey’s idea that Mr. Waddlebug must be preparing their supper, and he sat down in the cushioned chair, stretching his back as he did so. After a short moment, the kitchen door swung open, and an older man no more than three feet tall with a long white beard and pointed ears emerged, his red tunic and green tights covered with a long white apron dusted with what appeared to be flour.
Corey eyed him suspiciously for only a moment before shaking his head dismissively and idly picking up a snow globe from the table, turning it over in his hands, unleashing a blizzard upon the members of the tiny white church encased inside.
“Oh, hello, sir,” Waddlebug greeted him, his voice a higher pitch than one would have suspected considering the length of his beard. “I didn’t hear you come in. I was just tossing together a shepherd’s pie for supper. How was your meeting?” He paused a few feet in front of the kitchen door, as if he knew he would need to run back in momentarily so as not to ruin the meal.
“It went quite well,” Corey confirmed, losing interest in the globe and setting it aside. “I believe Nick is on board with our selection. Now, I just need to head down and collect her.”
“That’s assuring, considering you already sent the letter,” Mr. Waddlebug said, glancing over his shoulder toward the kitchen with a sniff of his bulbous nose.
Corey chuckled to himself quietly. “I’ve never been wrong,” he reminded his friend. “Never once in over two hundred and seventy appointments…”
“Yes, I know,” Mr. Waddlebug interrupted, “but did you explain to St. Nicholas about her… situation?”
“Of course not,” Corey said, adjusting himself in his chair. “There was no need to. He already knows everything. He is aware of the… incident. He understands what transpired, why it transpired, and that has nothing--and I mean nothing--to do with her ability to make a high-quality product that thousands of little girls all around the world will love and enjoy.”
Mr. Waddlebug stared at his master intently for a few moments, his dark eyes narrowing in deep thought. After a bit, smells from the kitchen brought him out of concentration, and he shrugged his shoulders before turning back to his important work on the other side of the door, shouting over his shoulder as he went, “Well, I suppose you know better than I do, sir. Supper shall be ready in about fifteen minutes.”
Corey watched as the door swung back and forth a few times after the little man had disappeared beyond it, a few terse words shouted and muffled by its closure and the bang of metal on metal as short legs blustered about the small space. He picked up a candy cane from the dish off of the table, one that was always well stocked, and began to twirl the striped candy between his thumb and first finger, contemplating Mr. Waddlebug’s question. Of course, St. Nicholas was aware of what had transpired at Marwolaeth Hall. He knew everything--from the smallest indiscretion to the most unselfish act of kindness. And if Serendipity’s error had not been enough to remove her permanently--or even momentarily--from the Nice List, why would it prevent her from moving to the Village and using her talents to their very fullest? No, he was certain Mr. Waddlebug’s concern was nothing more than a trifle based on fear and misunderstanding. Ms. Fizzlestitch would be a fine addition to the team of human toy makers that oversaw the worker elves, of that Corey was certain. And once she arrived in the Village next week, everyone would see that there was absolutely nothing to be afraid of.
Lizzette Sassafras was dressed in her finest holiday gown, complete with white bloomers and black boots, a stylish matching hat atop her blonde curly hair, ready to be wrapped up and shipped out to whichever sweet little girl had petitioned for her creation when Serendipity heard a slight knock at the door, followed by a rattling of the knob and the stomping of heavy boots against the mat that somewhat protected the rough wooden floor. She did not turn, not yet, as she was still admiring her work. Instead, she called over her shoulder, “Good morning, Maevis.”Maevis was satisfied with the dryness of her boots and she crossed the few steps to the table, dropping the heavy basket she carried in the only cleared off place as she replied, “Morning? Serendipity, it’s practically evening. It’s past five in the afternoon. Why don’t you open the curtains and let some light in here?”At the suggestion, Serendipity turned her head sharpl
Maevis’s eyebrows grew together. “What of it?” she inquired, not sure what her charge was getting at.“Why can we not sell it? Keep this cottage and one of the others for you, let Ms. Crotlybloom go. Why must we keep that dreadful place? I shall never step foot in there again.”“Serendipity,” Maevis began, leaning forward, her hands on the table, “we can’t. That’s where all of the doll parts are kept. There’d be no way we could store them all here.”Nodding, Serendipity suddenly remembered it had not been that long ago that Maevis had asked to sell the last remaining warehouse. It had required making space in the hall for all of the fabric, hair, eyes, bisque heads, what remained of her father’s initial supply of paint--everything Serendipity used to assembly her art. “All of the money from the warehouses is gone then?” she confirmed.Maevis’s curls bounded up
Maevis watched for a few moments as Serendipity worked at her craft table, laying out the hair for her next project and readying her tools. Clearly, she was not in the mood to talk today. Occasionally, when Maevis came to the cottage to visit, Serendipity would want to converse, but Maevis could never predict what circumstances would cause her to be chatty and what would prevent her from voicing whatever was on her mind. Maevis glanced around the room one last time, looking to see if there was anything else she could do to straighten the space. The lanterns were still full, since Serendipity rarely turned them on. Everything seemed to be in its place, and she was just about to turn to leave when something white caught her attention. Out of the corner of her eye, Maevis noticed an object that shouldn’t be in the cottage and turned to look at the suspect item. “What’s that?” she asked, staring in the direction of Serendipity’s rocking chair.Serend
It hadn’t taken long for Serendipity to get over her shock at Maevis’s departing words. She was certain that, even if Maevis had read the letter correctly, the information had to be incorrect, or else someone was playing a prank on her. She was quite certain that St. Nicholas was not trying to recruit her services. If there was such a person as Santa Claus in the first place, and she had stopped believing in him the year her father had passed away, there was little doubt in her mind that murderers could be on the Nice List, and why would St. Nicholas look to recruit a doll maker who wasn’t even on his list of those who deserved a gift?Serendipity had been extremely busy since the day the letter had arrived, not because of its existence, but because of the conversation she had carried out with Maevis that afternoon. The money was almost gone, which meant there would soon be no place for the dolls. She needed to finish them. At the rate she was going, it woul
Corey could hear in her voice that she was no one to be trifled with--not that day anyway. He had been in similar situations before, though never with someone in their youth such as Ms. Fizzlestitch. Generally speaking, the younger the crafter, the more capable he or she was of believing in magic. This was particularly true when it came to young ladies. Nevertheless, Serendipity was beginning to challenge him, and while he was up for the challenge, he was not up for the rain; snow was one thing--rain was something else entirely. “Very well, then,” he replied. “Might I trouble you for a drink of water then?” he called, hoping that he would make more progress with her if he could meet her face to face. Then, she could look into his dazzling green eyes and fall captive to his mesmerizing gaze as so many young ladies had before her.Serendipity was puzzled. She had not expected him to give up so quickly, nor had she expected him to make any requests of her
Serendipity looked at his hand as if she had no idea why he had held it out in her general direction. She adjusted Pozzletot on her shoulder. “Thank you for contemplating my work, Mr.….”“Cane, Cornelius Cane. But, please, call me Corey. All of my friends do,” he smiled, his hand still waiting for hers.“Mr. Cane,” Serendipity continued, “but I assure you I am not right for your team. And while I appreciate your consideration, I have neither the desire nor the ability to join you in the North Pole. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have much work to do.”“But that’s the beauty of joining us,” Corey prodded, finally withdrawing his hand, glancing at it as if he were the one with some sort of unsightly stain before resting it on his hip. “There will be hundreds of elves assigned to your shop, Ms. Fizzlestitch. You’ll be in charge of supervising each of them so every doll is crafte
It didn’t take too long for Corey to navigate back to his home, considering he had magic traveling powers of his own, much like Santa’s though not as powerful, particularly when it came to speed and the manipulation of time. Nevertheless, he found himself pulling into what was now deemed the “airport” landing strip in no time, and the elves who oversaw the transfer of the flying teams to and from the barn quickly set to work freeing the reindeer from their harnesses, inspecting their condition, and moving them back to their stalls where they would be brushed, fed, and watered.Corey did not pause to speak to either the reindeer who had gotten him to and from his destination safely and speedily or the elves that greeted him as they went about their jobs. Instead, still keeping one hand securely in the pocket of his topcoat, he made his way swiftly back to his own lodgings, mindlessly nodding in response to a few passersby who yelled out to him in greeti
Before she even finished her sentence, Corey was up and making his way toward the swinging kitchen door. Once he entered the kitchen, he could see there was simply no excuse for Mr. Waddlebug not answering him when he had yelled for his servant earlier. He was sitting at the round kitchen table, one elbow supporting his rather large noggin, a well-worn book in one hand and a cup of steaming tea at the ready. When Corey entered, he didn’t even look up, as if he was mentally transported away by the story in hand. “Waddlebug!” Corey spat out in a sharp whisper. The sound of his name caught his attention, and the old elf sat up quickly, rattling the table and sending droplets of tea onto the wooden surface with a splash, his spoon clattering against the side of the china cup.“Sorry, sir,” he replied, righting his spoon and setting the book aside. “I didn’t hear you come in.”Corey had no time to argue.“Get me a j