Mother sat in stunned silence as I gathered my things. I numbly placed a few dresses, my hairbrush, and an extra pair of shoes in my father’s old trunk. Mother had met father as he was traveling the continent, selling his baked goods. All of his worldly possessions had been packed in this large trunk. I now filled the trunk with all of mine. There were surprisingly few.
A tear trailed its way down my cheek.
Daisy yanked on my father’s trousers and I pulled her up on my lap. I’d need to change from this horrid disguise. It hadn’t done any good, anyway.
I’d led the Elf King right to me. I’d fed him, shown him love and compassion, and this was my repayment? He would steal me away from my mother and sister, never to see them again.
I stared into the soft blue-green eyes of my little sister. They were nothing like the cold, unfeeling gold of the king. Tears pricked my eyes, and I glanced away. I would miss everything. I would miss the first time Daisy lost a tooth. When she went to school. I wouldn’t be there to braid her hair, or ather first bleeding. I would be nothing more than a strange, faded memory. For the Elf King to require this—an unwilling craftsman—it was too much to bear.
Had others been taken unwillingly? I’d never once given it a thought. The idea settled like lead into my heart, sealing it up, hardening it toward the elves further, toward the king in particular. I hated him for ripping my family apart. After the loss of my father, hadn’t we been torn up enough?
I wrapped my things in the crocheted blanket Grandmother made for me on my twelfth Christmas, then placed them neatly in my trunk.
“Don’t forget your magic spoon.” Daisy pressed my long wooden spoon into my hand as I sat on the edge of my bed. It was the well-worn utensil I used every morning for my baking. With a spike of sorrow, I noticed a little heart carved into the handle. It wasn’t carved well. The lines were wobbly, and it was more scratched than carved, but it was the most beautiful heart I’d ever seen.
“So you remember how much we lub you,” Daisy said.
I gathered her into my arms and buried my face in her neck, tears and emotion pouring out of me like cream from a pitcher. Mother joined us moments later, and we wept. We held on, needing to feel each other until we no longer could.
“I have something else for you, Noelle.” Mother wiped an errant tear and produced a small leather-bound notebook from the fold of her apron. “I was going to give this to you on your eighteenth Christmas, but it seems I must give it to you a bit early this year. Your father was working on it before he passed and…well he never got to finish it.”
My throat constricted, and I swallowed, retrieving the precious book from my mother’s outstretched hand. I lovingly ran my fingers down the beautiful brown leather embossed with holly leaves and berries in gold filigree.
“It’s a cookbook containing all of your father’s favorite recipes. He wrote this for you by candlelight at night, when he could be sure you were fast asleep. He tried to be as careful as he could. You know how he loved to keep your Christmas gifts a surprise.” Mother smiled, the dimple in her cheek deepening. “There are some blank pages in the back for you to fill with your own recipes. Write your own story, Noelle, and live it well.”
“He drew these?” I flipped through the pages, reveling in the intricate drawings, all labeled as if this were a scientific journal, not a cookbook.
Mother smiled. “Every word and illustration, down to the love in every errant ink blot. Though I think his work-hardened hands were more suited for rolling dough and carrying sacks of flour than for fine drawings.”
Tears burned the sides of my eyes, and I blinked them back. “I don’t care how it looks. I will cherish the two of these above anything else in the world.”
I hugged the magic spoon and recipe book to my chest. My two most prized possessions. I wanted to see what treasures lay inside the cookbook, delight in every word, but I shut it closed with a sigh. One recipe a day. That’s what I would allow myself. One moment of longing. One memory of my father. My family. I brought out the bluebell Sam had handed me this morning, the last bluebell of the season, and pressed it between the first two pages of the book.
I packed my two treasures in a small leather satchel and slung it across my shoulder. Even among the strangeness of the elves, I would never be without these two gems.
“Noelle, dear.” Mother wiped at my cheeks. “I want you to know that we will think of you every day. Of your gift for baking, of your sweetness, and goodness. But as soon as you leave and go with the Elf King, I want you to forget us.”
“Forget you? I could never!” I started.
“Yes, honey.” Pink flushed Mother’s full cheeks. “You’ll need to forget us if you are to truly thrive with the elves. I have your sister, Daisy. She will be loved and cared for. We will be alright. But you? You are strong and capable. You have a gift. But I’m afraid that both of us have been very angry for a very long time. We’ve blamed the elves for the death of your father.”
“Because they just stood there and watched him die! They didn’t even try to help!” I exclaimed.
Mother shook her head, sorrow in the creases of her eyes. “The elves are just as varied a race as we humans. We cannot blame all elves for the poor choices of one individual.”
I wrinkled my nose, my heart kicking up as the hate churned my heart into stone.
Mother continued. “We’ve let this hate fester for far too long. Ravensong is your home now. You will need to soften your heart. Make peace with the elves. I know that some of them will become your most trusted friends.”
I jutted out my chin. “I will never trust an elf.”
“The Elf King is taking my daughter from me.” Mother’s voice cracked as she hung her head. Then she took my hands in hers. “Don’t let him take away who you are…” Mother put her hand on my heart. “…in here.”
“It will never be my home.” I pouted. “They don’t even celebrate Christmas.”
“Then you will have to bring Christmas to them.” Mother brushed back the wild strands of brown curls from my face. “Bring them Christmas. Teach them what ‘Good will toward men’ looks like. Remind them of joy.”
“How can I remind them of joy when I’ll never feel it again?” My voice cracked, and I fell into my mother’s arms as fresh tears fell from my eyes.
