24. The Keys To the Castle
24
THE KEYS TO THE CASTLE
PATRICK
The toy workshop is a ghost town.
“The elves won’t return to work until January second, so over these next few days you’ll have a ton of time to get familiar with your new workplace,” says Samson as we venture along a catwalk that goes around the perimeter of the main floor. It’s a candy-colored wonderland of production machines I couldn’t name if I tried.
During the tour, I try to silence my inner architect who is commenting on everything. The space is huge, but still somehow cramped. The walkways are cluttered with carts and boxes.
In the present-wrapping room, ribbons are left hanging lifeless off spools for anyone to trip over. Scraps of patterned wrapping paper are piled high on tables. One wrong swing of a fan and the whole organization system would scatter to the wind.
The workflow in the workshop overall could use some serious fixing up. I already have seventeen design ideas to make this place more efficient. However, I decide now is not the time to share them with the Priors. It’s my first day. Overstepping would be a bad look.
In the garage where the sleighs are kept, Jorge, a former mechanic, talks me through the ins and outs of maintenance.
Next, we enter the vaults where the Naughty and Nice lists are locked away in hard copy to be transferred to digital. They are explained, in great detail, by Chris. He even takes us into a heavily secured room—they call it North Pole Headquarters—where there’s a holographic projection of the globe and a series of monitors and tablets that control it. Little red and green lights blink on and off at various intervals.
“You can look up any person from any part of the world here. We use this for Naughty and Nice disputes. We have special-mission elves go out into the human world, and we can view their feeds from here. We also use these records for vetting our next Santa,” Chris says.
“Santas who don’t come to the position through frying pans,” jokes Samson.
“This is all a little Big Brother, no?” I ask. I’m more than a bit creeped out by the whole he sees you when you’re sleeping song and dance.
The four of them blink back at me with apparent confusion over my reference. I tell them to ignore me and carry on.
Samson relishes detailing the production process of different toys when we enter Toy Maker Tower. As a former floor manager at a beer company, he’s a self-proclaimed “how the sausage gets made” kind of guy. “As you can tell, we’ve got toys coming out the wazoo.”
“There are a lot of toys in here,” I say of what must be the leftover dolls and bicycles and block sets.
“No, this baby,” Samson says, slapping a metallic funnel that’s connected to a bunch of colorful pipes that line the ceiling, “is called a wazoo. Toys, when they’re finished, come out of here.”
I stifle a laugh when I realize he’s serious.
It’s all interesting and I’m learning a lot, while remaining in awe of how this building could combine so many levels and architectural styles and still work . Usually grafts have a somewhat clunky quality to them. You leave one wing, enter another, and it’s like you’ve time-jumped into an entirely different decade. Not here. The workshop is a feat of magic. In more ways than the literal.
The final stop on my introductory tour is Santa’s— my— office. It has the same stately, looming doors that the cathedral hall has, except when these are pushed open a more relaxed vibe greets me. There’s a stone fireplace to my left, which is roaring already. Above it are the large golden initials: SC.
In front of me there are shelves and shelves of books and ledgers with weathered leather spines. To the right, there is an impressive cherry wood desk behind which a big circular window overlooks the main work floor.
This is a big upgrade from the tiny desk I had at Carver & Associates. The air in here is charged with importance. My nostrils are graced with that cinnamon-sweet scent that has followed me everywhere since I first donned the cloak.
The finger-tingle I’m still not accustomed to returns tenfold.
“This is where the magic happens,” says Samson. He sits down in one of the brown leather chairs in front of the fireplace.
“By magic, he means the magic of Christmas. This is your domain,” Chris says. He gives me an encouraging pat on the back.
“For the next year,” Nicholas is swift to add. I can’t tell if his gruffness is directed toward me or this is his natural demeanor. Seems antithetical to the glimmery magic that is the North Pole and the position he once held. “This is a trial run. Santas can quit at will, but they can also be let go at will as well, should they not be performing their duties in a way that is satisfactory to the council and to the elves.”
His warning is a hard punch to the still-healing bruise of my recent firing.
Jorge leans in for a theatrical whisper. “Buuuuuuut, that has never actually happened before.”
“The firing part. Not the quitting part. As you witnessed, the quitting part has happened,” Samson says. He kicks his feet up on a rustic wooden coffee table. It’s got rough, unfinished edges.
“As we learned on Christmas Eve, there is a first time for everything,” Nicholas says, his tone harsh. He’s staring out the circular window. “We can’t afford any more shake-ups. This place, and our mission, are too important. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly,” I say. I train my expression into submission even though I hate being treated like a child or an underling. But I’m willing to prove my worth.
Jorge waves a hand. “While Nicholas is definitely right, this is also fun. It’s unlike any other job you’ll ever have.”
“However, there is the matter of the rules and paperwork,” Nicholas says. From a safe hidden behind a portrait of the first-ever Santa—not shockingly also named Nicholas—he produces a golden, glittery parchment scroll, a feather pen, and a glass well of ink. “As mentioned when we met, you will reside at the North Pole for the duration of the year, you will perform all your duties to the best of your ability including the Christmas night flight, and you will lead with love always. No exceptions.”
I nod. “I understand. This seems like a lot, though, for one year.”
“The legacy of a true Santa is not how long he serves, but the mark he makes while he does.” Nicholas’s conviction shocks the whole room to attention.
“That makes sense.” I’m overwhelmed with a single thought: I don’t want to let them down.
“Good.” His dark eyes pierce through me. “Sign here.”
I take the quill and ink my name onto the contract. It glows brightly for a second before the scroll snaps itself shut. Nicholas stores it away once more. It all feels a bit like Ariel giving up her voice for legs. Am I going to regret this?
“Now that the business is taken care of…” Jorge begins. He practically skips across the room toward a door I hadn’t noticed before. “Let’s get to the good stuff.”
“We got you a little belated Christmas gift!” Chris exclaims. All together, they roll a large object out from the artfully concealed door.
It’s a finely crafted, dark-stained oak drafting table with turn- of-the-century detailing. It has an adjustable angle mechanism. Chris brings out the matching stool. Both pieces fit in magnificently with the design aesthetic of the room, which is an important touch in my book.
“A little welcome present from us to you,” says Samson, smiling. As if welcoming me to a brotherhood I didn’t even know I was aching to be a part of.
“It’s incredible. I don’t think I’ve ever owned one this nice before.” I run my hand along the surface and feel the pencil grooves. “Thank you.”
“Moving and becoming Santa can be an adjustment, so we wanted you to be able to continue your passion for architecture here,” Jorge says, stroking his black beard.
“When you’re not performing your Santa duties,” Nicholas says.
Samson snickers at this. He’s clearly the most immature of the council, and I assume he’s the youngest as well. Nicholas hits him with a disapproving scowl, and he shuts up quickly.
“On that note, we’re going to leave you alone,” Chris says. He corrals them all toward the door we came in from. “Explore, redecorate. The bell button on the main desk connects you to Hobart, wherever he may be, if you need him.”
“By the way, go easy on Hobart,” Jorge says. “He’s new as well and highly skilled, but he’s maybe too eager for his own good.”
“Deluded by ideas of grandeur is more like it,” scoffs Nicholas.
“Never mind any of that,” Chris says. “Take it in. This is all yours now.”
All mine now. A week ago, I was a slow-turning cog working on bathroom partitions at an architecture firm that didn’t appreciate me. Days ago, I was unemployed. Currently, I’m the face of a global gift-giving and magic-bringing operation.
This is the promotion of a lifetime.