“It’s better than everyone else.” Sam shook his head. “The other villagers who are dressing up their girls like some kind of meal? It’s disgusting.”
I huffed out a breath. “I know. It’s gross. How many maidens does a thousand-year-old elf need, anyway?”
“Maybe heeatsthem.” Sam raised his thick eyebrows and curved his fingers in creepy claws. “Maybe he drains them of their young blood so he can stay youthful forever.”
I smacked Sam on the arm again, surprised at the strong muscle bulging there beneath his shirt. When hadthathappened?
“Alright, alright. I’ll see you tomorrow, Elle.” Sam sauntered towards the door, then grabbed a large ball of dough. He stuffed it in his mouth, said “fank you!” and bolted out into the cool morning.
“Sam!” I laughed.
Horse hooves clomped outside, and wind rattled the windows, but I was warm with the heat from the oven, flour in my hair. Happy. Content. I placed Sam’s bluebell in a small glass of water by the sink.
After today, the Elf King would be gone, and we could finally set up for Christmas. It was almost time for my favorite thing: holiday baking. I’d make sugar cookies glazed with lemon, intricate gingerbread houses, and crisp apple cinnamon pies. I allowed my thoughts to drift to the falling snow and brown paper packages, the smell of pumpkin pie and pine.
Tonight was my father’s favorite tradition of the season. Mine, too. Mother, Daisy, and I would head out to the Moon Forest, just beside Cranberry Creek, and cut down our very own Christmas tree. We’d stay up until late in the night, placing our old homemade ornaments on the tree. Decorating it with odd baubles we’d found, and finally lighting a few candles on the ends of the branches. Then we would cozy up in the crocheted blankets from Grandmother and sit by our wood stove, sipping on the first batch of fresh apple cider.
I set up my workspace for the next batch of cinnamon rolls when a rasping cough sounded from out back. We didn’t get a lot of visitors at the back door, besides Sam, but people knew they could always stop by for a spare pastry or two to fill an empty belly. I brushed the flour from my hands onto the front of my apron and opened the door.
It was a small boy. He looked down and hunched his shoulders, his head covered in a hood, small wispy blond hairs sticking out the sides.
“Yes, little one?” I kneeled at eye level with the child. “Can I help you?”
The boy coughed again, this time sounding a bit forced. “Some water, if you please.”
“Of course.” I smiled. He was so thin, and obviously trying his best to sound sick. “And how about some milk and a couple of pastries, too?”
He coughed again, still not meeting my eyes, but a smile tugged at his mouth. “No, just some water, if you please.”
“That won’t do, young sir.” I frowned as if in worry. “See, I just finished this last batch of cinnamon rolls, and I’m afraid I’ve made too many.”
I pulled the pans from the oven and the comforting smell of fresh cinnamon and yeast wrapped around the kitchen like a warm embrace. The blond boy sighed. No one could resist.
“So, really, you’ll be doing me a favor.” I grabbed the child and lifted him up onto the warm wooden countertop. His cough disappeared miraculously as he beamed down at the hot cinnamon rolls.
“Let’s give them time to cool.” I frosted the tops of the cooling rolls with the cream cheese icing as the boy licked his lips. “What’s your name?”
I hadn’t seen this boy around the village, and my mother made sure we found out who the strays were in case they were alone.
“Wyatt.” He kept his hood up and his eyes on his dirty, bare feet.
“Well, Wyatt, I pray this will bring you some hope.” I placed a warm cinnamon roll into his small hand as my heart warmed. Without a word, Wyatt smashed it into his mouth like a savage little beast. “It’s alright. It’s alright. Take your time.”
Then, quite unexpectedly, tears ran rivers down the child’s filthy cheeks. People said my pastries were good enough to make a grown man cry, but these tears? This little boy hadn’t lived long, but his pain was real. Palpable. My heart warmed as I felt a connection with him. Like a tether that connected his heart to mine. I understood pain like that. Pain that ripped through youto leave only a husk of the person you used to be. Pain that you couldn’t escape, no matter how badly you wished to.
“It’s alright, Wyatt. You’re going to be fine.” I pressed a clean cloth onto his cheeks to dry his tears and held him to me for a few long minutes as he trembled into my chest as if he hadn’t cried in years. I pulled the dirty blond hair from his eyes and wiped at his soot-stained cheeks. “It’s alright, Wyatt. I have you.”
He sniffed, shuddering, then his gold eyes met mine. Bright gold eyes like molten fire.
Sharp and cutting.
Flames.
I gasped and stepped back. The tenuous connection between us wavered like a string of spun sugar.
Wyatt’s face crumpled. He growled and pushed me as he hopped off of the table’s edge. He snatched up a cinnamon roll and tossed it to the ground. Before I could even protest, he smashed the glass bottle of buttermilk and ran from the kitchen like a dirty little thief into the streets outside.
I couldn’t be sure, but I swore I glimpsed two thin elf ears poking up through his stringy blond hair as he ran out into the glowing dawn.
