Chapter 13
oh what fun it is to spy
Ivar
The stillness of the ranger station was almost suspicious.
Ivar leaned back in his chair, boots crossed at the ankle, one hand loosely holding a lukewarm tea. Across the room, Al lay in his usual spot under the desk, snoring softly with legs twitching like he was chasing snow hares in his dreams.
After dropping off Holly, Ivar had stopped by work to finish a few reports, despite it being his week off.
But his mind was somewhere else entirely.
Scratch that. His mind was entirely filled with her. With Holly. And with the odd swirl of things that seemed to follow them since her arrival: talk of vibes, special trees, and weird old brooms.
None of it should have made sense. Yet somehow, it did. She did.
Strangest of all, he trusted her. Instinctively. Otherwise, why would he have told her about the tree? That story had never left his lips before. That kind of comfort wasn’t like him. Usually, it took months for him to lower his guard. And he’d known her for less than seventy-two hours.
He didn’t know what was weirder—the way she hadn’t balked when he mentioned a tree with an aura or that she had him acting so unlike himself.
The cursor blinked on a half-written wildlife survey. With a sigh, Ivar rubbed a hand over his face and opened a new tab.
His fingers hovered above the keys. Research, he told himself. Nothing more than a background check of the potential land buyer. That’s all.
He typed: Holly Kringle.
And hit Enter.
Because of her name, a wide but unsurprising list of results came up. Holiday websites, craft blogs, corporate Christmas marketing. But nothing on her. So, he refocused the search: Holly Kringle toy manufacturer, Kringle family corporation, Adam Kringle toy expansion and so forth.
How could there be no mention of Holly or her family company? She was definitely the type to work on multiple charity boards and post articles on LinkedIn about corporate policy and women executives.
He was close to giving up when he found a rabbit hole: obscure forums, fringe subreddits, conspiracy pages in dated fonts.
“Is Santa real?”
“The Great Kringle Cover-Up.”
“Confirmed: Toy production facilities in Northern Quebec disguised as weather stations.”
He scoffed, but clicked anyway.
Stories unfolded about people who claimed to have seen “Kringle operatives” at airports, loading suspicious wooden crates onto small planes. One post told of a reporter who had “proof” that Santa existed but mysteriously published a puff piece about Alaskan artisans instead.
Another claimed that Santa Claus didn’t use elves but had a magical village for their human workers. Some said there was one Santa. Others claimed there was a network of interconnected Santas.
Halfway through a comment thread about chimney teleportation, a loud THWACK made him jump.
The door of the station had slammed shut. Carla, one of the part-time trail coordinators, breezed in holding a clipboard.
“Hey, Ivar. Aren’t you on vacation?” She dropped the clipboard on his desk as he slammed his laptop closed.
“I came by to catch up on a few things.”
“Oh yeah? Working hard or hardly working?” she teased, peering at him suspiciously. “Why do you look guilty?”
“You caught me. I’m trying to figure out what to get Lloyd for Christmas. I drew his name for the Secret Santa exchange.”
Al let out a sleepy woof under the desk, stretching his paws toward Ivar’s foot.
Carla thought for a moment. “Get him a Yeti travel mug. I’m tired of him spilling coffee all over the truck. Goodness knows why he uses a regular mug. I had to redo a report last week thanks to his coffee stains.”
“Good idea.”
“Anytime, chief. Now go home.” Carla shook her head as she turned to leave. “You two need a hobby.”
As soon as the door shut, the laptop opened again. “I think I have one now.”
***
Holly
Holly paced the worn rug in sock feet, robe belted tight over plaid pajamas. The map lay open on the desk, but she wasn’t looking at it. Not yet.
Her eyes flicked to the corner. To the broom.
“I know you’re trying to tell me something.” The words came out as a mutter. “You followed me to Winterwood. You turned up in the forest. I get it. I’m listening.”
The broom leaned in silence, its straw bristles curled with age. Rough-hewn and handmade, crafted in Italy ages ago and carved from the Tree of the Ancients. La Befana’s voice echoed in her mind. “When the time comes, it will guide you to the truth your heart has forgotten.”
Holly’s legs went weak, so she sat at the small desk. At the time, she’d chalked those words up to poetic ceremony. The broom was a tool. Transportation. Like a sleigh. Like a snowmobile. Like any other piece of operational equipment.
But what if it was more than that? It had followed her to Winterwood of its own free will, and now, she was talking to it. She didn’t talk to her car. Or her sleigh. Neither of those followed her around. So… what did that mean?
Growing up around magic meant never questioning its existence. But she’d always seen it as infrastructure. An energy grid to be harnessed, measured, forecasted, and distributed. Magic as logistics.
And yet, Ivar had said a tree had helped him. Not covered him. Not sheltered him. Helped. It had kept him warm through the night.
Her fingers twitched.
That wasn’t systemized magic. That was… intent.
Ivar’s tree. The Yule Tree. The Tree of the Ancients.
With a slow exhale, her focus returned to the map. She smoothed the crinkled edge, appreciating the topographical lines, color-coded markers, GPS overlays, and coordinates. Comfort. Structure. Logic.
Then she pulled out Ivar’s map.
It was everything hers wasn’t—hand-drawn grids, smudged pencil notes, a faint coffee stain in the corner, some tree doodles along the edges. Messy. Real. Totally him.
She should’ve laughed it off.
Instead, she placed them side by side under the lamplight.
The crossed-out sections and directional arrows all seemed to orbit a patch of forest that didn’t even appear on hers. A blank spot. A gap. A pocket of nothing.
Her finger tapped at that spot, and her eyes returned to the broom.
“Is this it? Is this where we're supposed to go?”
The broom didn’t move. Or did it? No. The floor creaked. Old houses did that, right?
A sigh escaped as she rubbed her forehead. “I’m not doing this. I’m not becoming that Kringle. The one who talks to brooms and follows breadcrumbs into the woods like she’s in a Christmas movie.”
The broom said nothing.
“I’m a businesswoman. I run supply chains. Forecast global toy logistics. I don’t believe in—”
A whoosh of air brushed past her, making the curtains stir, but the window was closed.
Then the fire flared, just for a heartbeat. Shadows stretched along the far wall like reaching branches, then melted back.
Holly’s breath caught.
Another look at the broom, voice barely above a whisper. “You really are trying to tell me something, aren’t you?”
The air in the room held still but charged, as if full of static waiting to spark.
Her finger slid across the map, stopping over the blank spot that pulsed in her mind like a heartbeat.
Because she knew where that blank spot might lead them.
To the Yule Tree.
A legend no more.
And if her broomstick had been carved from that same ancient lineage, then of course it would be drawn there. But how had it known when she left home, and why now?
Her head throbbed with more questions than answers.
Resting her head in her hands, she stared at the spot on Ivar’s map until she reached the only conclusion there was.
“I’ll go.” The words came softly as her gaze slid to the broom.
“We’ll go. But if you pull any magic-stunt nonsense in front of Ivar, I will donate you to the nearest charity shop. ”
The curtains settled. The fire crackled.
And Holly climbed into bed, her mind racing.
Decisions were familiar territory. But this was different. Uncovering a legend might have consequences she couldn’t begin to predict. And of course, it might not be anything, but if it was the Yule Tree… then what?
It was far too soon to share her suspicions with her father. Calling him up and causing a stir over unfounded suspicions might derail any chance at promotion. But presenting proof? That was a game changer.
Ivar would need the coordinates so he could plan for tomorrow. But it was after nine, and texting him at this hour felt oddly intimate, given they’d never texted before.
How to begin? “Hey, Ivar, it’s me.” No, because what if she came up as an unknown number? And “hey” was far too familiar. “Hello” sounded weirdly formal. She decided on, “It’s Holly Kringle. I have a suggestion for tomorrow.” Unfortunately, that’s not what she typed.
Holly: It’s Kringle.
Trying to backspace and fix her mistake, she hit enter and grimaced when three dots appeared.
Ivar: Copy that, Kringle. Ranger here. Over.
She laughed, despite her embarrassment.
Holly: I have a suggestion for where to start tomorrow.
Ivar: Copy that. Please send mission coordinates.
Laughing harder now, she sent him the location.
Ivar: Document received. Mission commences at 0900. Goodnight, Kringle.
(pause)
Holly: Goodnight, Ranger.
Holly set her phone to charge and turned out the light. Closing her eyes, she willed her thoughts to still. But instead of spreadsheets and site plans or even thoughts of the Yule Tree , she saw a quiet pond, a cozy cabin, and a certain park ranger’s smile.
He believed in a magical tree. If she revealed herself, would he believe in her?