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Gwen scurries off to join her husband, the short train of her floor-length sparkly gown trailing behind her.
The door closes, and I feel like I’m more stuck than I’ve ever been.
But I get on with it. I readThe Night Before Christmaswith the twins, despite their complaints that it’s old-fashioned and silly. I say goodnight to them, then head to the kitchen to make the cookies for Santa and prep some non-cliché vegetables for the reindeer. By the time all this is done, it’s almost midnight.
I’m exhausted but also fuming, and too worked up to go to bed.
I stand and glare at the fire, the Christmas tree, and the festive decorations. Then I glare at the palm tree outside. I want snow, dang it. I want spruces and snowball fights and hot chocolate and wine. The weekend weather report at the vineyard is supposed to be perfect, with an inch of fluffy snow overnight.
As I’m brooding, I get a text from Gwen.
Gwen:And make sure you run the photos by Pamela. The Halloween photos of the girls were a disaster; we have a social media manager for a reason. Thanks!
This is my breaking point. I’ve had enough.
I march to the fridge, pull out the forbidden eggnog, and pour myself a glass. Then I bust into the Frosts’ liquor cabinet and top it off with some super-expensive rum. A lot of rum.
I take the spiked eggnog and the platter of Santa and reindeer food into the den, turn on some soft Christmas music on the stereo, sit in front of the fire with a blanket, and have a great time enjoying this little bit of rebellion.
I’m just going to sit here and eat all of these cookies and drink all of this eggnog, and then I’ll go to bed.
There’s just one problem. This fire is so nice, I don’t want to put it out. The tree is so pretty, I want to stare at it all night.
I’m just going to curl up next to the tree and rest my eyes. Someone should enjoy this crackling fire after a long day.
Yeah. I’ll just rest my eyes for a minute, then I’ll go to bed.
ChapterTwo
Cyran
I shouldn’t be out on Christmas Eve, but duty calls.
As the North Pole’s chief reindeer wrangler, I usually spend this night alone in my house, resting and congratulating myself for keeping the nine reindeer happy, healthy, and strong for one more year.
But this year, Santa asked me to fill the role of a reconnaissance elf, one who makes sure the coast is clear for the big guy and helps fill the stockings.
“You spend all your time alone with the animals, and yet more alone in your house,” went Santa’s speech last month. “I’m changing things up for you, and for all the elves this year. I don’t want anyone stagnating in their jobs.”
I don’t say no to Nicholas. No one does. And now I’m here, and the messenger elf, Eliyen, is at home, prepping the barn to receive the tired reindeer after a job well done.
I hate this.
In the times before the elven revolt, every elf had a specific duties that never changed. Some Common elves worked in security, keeping the North Pole Village cloaked in secrecy. I and my mother before me and her father before her—we’ve all served as Common elves who are closely tied to nature. Specifically, my people are the reindeer elves. That’s what we do. We groom them, feed them, and keep them happy and fit. It’s all I know.
The Uncommon elves possess a much more wild magic. They can teleport, turn invisible, and be in multiple places at once, making them important to the work of Saint Nicholas when it comes to delivering presents. In the old days, the wild magic of Uncommon elves aided the surveillance of children and kept the old “naughty and nice” lists updated.
But the times, they are changing. At the end of the elven revolt, the Common and Uncommon elves united and crowned Eldrin the Uncommon as our new Saint Nicholas. This new Nicholas did away with spying on children and declared everyone worthy of presents. That was controversial enough. And now he wants everyone to trade jobs?
I love Nicholas like a father, but his micromanagement makes me tired.
Our last stop is at 834 Pacific Court, the Frost residence. The digital readout in the sleigh monitor shows me the rundown of the family. A mom, dad, twins, and a nanny live here. I pull up the feed that shows the fireplace, at which there are only four stockings.
Sadness pricks at my chest when I think about the kind of family that would leave out a nanny.
Santa nudges me in the ribs. “See that? I think that’s one of the twins. You’ll have to magic that one back to her room before I can go down the chimney.”
I squint at the screen and peer at the dark figure on the floor, but all I can see is a vaguely human shape, perfectly still.
