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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 thickrectangle. 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.”
