Christmas With The Elf King

Chapter 1

THE ELF KING

They said the Elf King had lived a thousand years. They said he was the most beautiful creature anyone had ever beheld. They said he took whatever he wanted.

That’s why today, when the last leaf fell, I was to hide away while the other girls were primped and painted.

The mothers of the village worked for the entire year to buy the right gown.

A brilliant shade of gold, like the Elf King’s eyes.

Or sage green to match the thick woods surrounding his alabaster castle.

Perhaps a bone white to match the massive elk he rode.

Whatever they could do to catch the Elf King’s eye.

For when he took—and he’d taken many maidens before—he rewarded the family handsomely.

But my mother kept me under close guard.

I could never join the other girls who gossiped and flocked like little sparrows in their eye-catching finery.

I was never to paint my face or array my thick brown curls in the latest fashion.

My mother dressed me as a young boy, even as the starchy white shirt and large trousers threatened to swallow my petite figure whole.

“Your father isn’t here to protect you, so I will do the best I can.” Mother plopped a large pile of unpleasant browns and tans on my lap. My father’s old clothes.

The sight of them brought a pang to my chest, remembering the last time I’d seen him.

He’d crumpled to the ground not two years ago at this very same festival, hand to his heart.

I’d begged the elves to use their magic to save him.

I’d cried for their compassion, but all they’d done was sneer and turn away as if our human lives were too fleeting to matter.

“Mother.” I winced at the musty fabric. “They’re huge, ugly, and brown.”

“Exactly, Noelle,” Mother said. “The last thing I want is for you to be this year’s snack.”

The girls who went past the Falls, the border between the human and elf lands, never came back. In the Undying Lands of Ravensong, the elves drank wine and honey. They lived forever in their beauty and finery. But their cruelty was every bit as infamous as their elegance.

I knew this firsthand. I would never trust the elves, but did I really have to dress in father’s old clothes?

The crisp air chilled me as I made my way downstairs to my bakery to set up for the day.

Silver bells jingled as the carriages rushed past the shop window.

As a baker, I was used to waking up before the sun, but I usually had a few hours of quiet before the hustle and bustle of Bard Street erupted in full effect.

Customers would line up early demanding their celebration pastries, and I was happy to oblige.

Better to be in here, safe among familiar customers and cinnamon rolls, than out there among the hateful elves.

Flour covered my arms, and clumps of cold butter squished between my fingers as I mixed the best cinnamon rolls this side of the Falls. Did they even have cinnamon rolls in Ravensong? Their meals probably consisted of eating beehives whole, bees included.

The bustling carriages were just another reminder that today was different.

Today, our village would be ‘blessed’ by a visit from the Elf King, and everything had to be perfect.

It wouldn’t do to upset him. Our treaty was tenuous, and the elves had dark magic.

Word was, they cursed the Barrows fields out by the Falls last year.

Now all that remained of the lush hills of grain were a blackened wasteland.

The Elf King and his retinue came once a year to find masters of craft, and to perhaps take back a maiden. The chosen few would leave the human realm and live among the frightening elves for the rest of their days, however long that was.

Craftsmen competed for this honor as if it were a sport, flaunting their wares in the street as the Elf King passed by on his mighty elk.

They believed the riches their families received more than compensated for their loss.

Many of the masters were unmarried, willing to try a new adventure in Ravensong.

None of us trusted the elves, but as long as their crystals were good, who would complain?

I brushed my flour-coated hands down my apron as I pulled the second round of baked cinnamon rolls from the oven. I’d already finished half of the orders, but there would be a rush in an hour when we opened, and we had to be ready.

“Mother,” I called up the stairs. “Got the creamed cheese for the icing?”

“Shhh,” Mother scolded as she crept down the stairs and tied a scarf around her wild brown and silver curls. “Do not wake Daisy. It’s much too early to have her toddling about.”

Mother trudged down into the cellar to collect supplies, smacking my hip on the way. I rolled out the dough of my next batch, the smell of yeast filling the air, and shaped it into a thick rectangle. Fast, efficient, and practiced. I could do this with my eyes closed. I loved my work.

Loved the smell of butter, salt, and flour, and the crisp sting of buttermilk.

I kicked the basket of holly berries and pine boughs I’d collected yesterday under the counter.

With the Elf King on his way, any signs of Christmas would spell disaster.

We wouldn’t want to sour the elves’ visit.

I didn’t know if they hated the holiday or just saw it as a meaningless human celebration.

Either way, we didn’t mention Christmas around the elves, but as soon as they left in the afternoon, we’d finally be able to decorate! Christmas was only six weeks away.

“Coming through.” Mother bustled through the cellar door with the large crock of creamed cheese and another crock of softened butter. “Got the sugar?”

“Yep.” I spread the softened butter on the rectangular dough with my wooden spoon, then sprinkled the brown sugar, cinnamon, cardamom, and nutmeg.

Mother stopped in front of me and clicked her tongue. “Honey, your hair.”

My brown curls had fallen from the loose bun under my hat. I wiped my sugar-coated hands on a cloth and tucked my hair back up.

“You are a boy today.” Mother’s lips set in a straight line. “A stupid, ugly village boy that the Elf King will have no interest in, correct?”

I sighed, re-rolling the massive sleeves for the twelfth time. “Obviously. Look at me.”

Mother placed the tin of cinnamon on the wood block countertop and peered into my eyes. “It’s only for the day, honey.”

“I know.”

“Noelle,” Mother grabbed my chin. “You are my beautiful girl. You’re not meant for this world, but you sure as Christmas aren’t meant for Ravensong, either.”

I shook my head as I rolled the rectangle of spiced dough into a perfect spiral, then chopped the roll every few inches. “Mother, I’m eighteen. I can handle myself.”

But strangely, my stomach squirmed with new nerves today.

As much as I hated the elves, I was dreadfully curious about them.

I just wanted one small, tiny peek of the Elf King.

Everyone in the village had seen him. They gushed over his otherworldly beauty and grace, but I’d never seen more than the last of the elves as their parade passed by the bakery.

Father always said the big celebration in the square after the parade was a waste of time.

He would give our offering of baked goods to the king’s elven servant, then we would go right out to the Moon Forest to get the best Christmas tree before anyone else.

Father was always funny about getting the perfect tree.

And two years ago, after father passed away? Mother hid me under layers of giant men’s clothing and forced me to stay in the bakery until all the elves were gone. What did the Elf King look like? Was he as handsome as the villagers claimed?

Mother raised an eyebrow, and I almost squeaked. My face heated as I got back to work.

If Mother could read my thoughts, she’d lock me up in the cellar until nightfall.

I placed the dough spirals onto greased trays and put them into the warming oven to proof, holding my hands in the heat a bit longer than usual. Warmth spread through me.

Mother dipped her wooden spoon into the softened cheese and whipped it with white sugar and vanilla, but turned as a familiar knock sounded on the back door.

“Looks like our egg delivery is here.” Mother wagged her eyebrows and sauntered through the shop door to set up for the day, swishing her ample hips deliberately. “Tell Sammypoo hello for me.”

I rolled my eyes and pulled open the back door, letting in a burst of cold autumn air. A familiar pair of bright green eyes stood well over six feet high on the other side. “Hey Sam, you can put the eggs over there.”

I motioned to the only open spot on the wooden countertop.

“Hey ‘Elle.” Sam bustled into the kitchen, covering the distance in three giant strides. I swear he’d gotten larger every time I’d seen him this past month.

He placed the baskets of eggs on the counter and held a bluebell out to me.

“Found this down by the bridge. I think it’s the last flower of the year. ”

He looked at me with such giant green eyes, my stomach dipped. He knew I loved bluebells. I took the offering. “Thank you. You always remember. You’re such a great friend.”

He was my friend. My only friend, really.

There was a time when we were both sixteen, and he wanted to be more.

Then I lost my father, and Sam? He was there for me in a way that cemented us together as inseparable.

Though he was tall and handsome with his auburn hair and brilliant green eyes, he was like a loyal brother to me, and I loved him fiercely.

“So, anything new?” I weighed the cold butter for the next batch of cinnamon rolls.

“You mean you didn’t hear?” Sam’s eyes flashed. He knew I hadn’t heard anything yet. It was barely dawn.

I smacked him on his giant shoulder. “Out with it!”

“Well, there are rumors of wild animals slipping through the Falls.” Sam raised his eyebrows and voice to match. “Livestock and crops being torn apart.”