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And it’s now that I notice I’m naked under these furs. “Where are my pajamas? Where’s my underwear?”
“You need to take this as quickly as possible to get warm before the magic wears off,” Cyran says, ignoring my questions.
Magic… he said magic.
That’s ridiculous, but I can’t deny the weird things I’ve seen.
The blue glow in his hands. The broth instantly making me feel better. The way he clambered down the steep slope to rescue me, without a rope or rappelling equipment…
The pointy ears that don’t look prosthetic. And then, there’s his alarming height and inhumanly dark eyes.
I could keep explaining things away, but I’m left with this: I’m alive because of some magic.
“Why did your hands glow?”
“Take your broth if you want to live.”
“Not until you tell me why your hands glowed blue,” I say, my teeth once again starting to chatter.
Cyran sighs heavily and gives me a baleful stare. “You ask too many questions.”
I tug the furry blankets up around my chin, but it doesn’t make the cold go away. “Excuse me? You’re the one who’s keeping me prisoner.”
“I didn’t know how much you enjoyed tormenting elves.”
“Torment? Me? You made me horrible tea, and I almost froze to death! Lovely neighborhood, by the way. I might build here myself. Does it have a park with a pickleball court? What are the schools like?”
Cyran’s face looks pained, and his body shudders. “And if you had died, I’d have never forgiven myself for bringing you here,” he says, ignoring my sarcastic questions.
Bringing me here?
“What does that mean?”
“Take the broth, woman.”
“You’re not the Frosts’ guru or one of the disciples after all, are you?”
Cyran looks at me like I’ve just suggested he’s besties with Stalin. “Certainly not. I would never align myself with employers who would make their nanny sleep on the floor.”
I shrink away from him in shock. “How do you know all of that, if you don’t know the Frosts?”
“Because I work for the big guy. Santa. He sees everything, and by extension, so do I.”
Santa is real? Elves are real?
All of it? Santa, elves, the North Pole.
If it’s not real, I got hit on the head.
“Wh-why did you take me?”
Cyran pauses as if gathering his patience. “You were so peaceful when you slept near the tree. I could not resist your beauty when I went ahead of Santa to deliver the presents. I wanted to keep staring. I didn’t want to leave you behind. And so I panicked and shoved you into my toy sack.”
He says all of this as if the details don’t matter.
I stare at him for several long minutes, letting him feed me broth as I process what he’s telling me.
I cannot deny the healing and warming effects of the broth. I can’t deny he has some sort of healing magic in his hands. The strangeness and magic of this place is real.
