It dominated the center of the room—a miniature, scaled to carry children. The craftsmanship surpassed anything I'd seen, even in Ben's usual work. Every line flowed with organic grace, and the marks covered every surface in patterns that made my eyes want to follow them forever.
"This is for the children's ward." Ben touched the sleigh reverently. "For the kids who can't go home for Christmas. Like Marcus."
I thought about Ryan's letter for his friend and the careful words about dragon nightlights and glow-in-the-dark stars.
"The marks on this aren't the same as the navigation patterns," Ben continued, guiding my hand to a spiral near the dash. The wood was warm. "These are healing marks. They capture intention—like how dance captures emotion. When I carve them, I pour everything I believe about that child's strength into the wood."
He showed me a gentle curve. "This one's for easing pain. See how it flows? Same shape a mother's hand makes when soothing a hurt." His finger moved to an intricate pattern nearby. "And this one's for hope. It's the hardest to carve—has to contain courage, comfort, and the promise that tomorrow might be better. Johan wrote that it takes the most out of us to create but gives the most back when it works."
I thought about Marcus, eight years old and spending Christmas in a hospital bed.
"Does this help you understand?" Ben asked. "Why I didn't tell you earlier? It's not only a family secret—it's a responsibility. The Blitzen line has been doing this for five generations. Bringing comfort to children who need it, even when they don't know where it comes from."
"You were afraid I'd think you were crazy."
"I was afraid you'd leave. Claire called tonight. You have an audition waiting in New York. I know you haven't decided yet, and I didn't want—" He exhaled. "I needed you to understand what you'd be choosing. What this valley asks of the people who stay."
I stepped closer, eliminating the distance between us. "Ben, two weeks ago, I got off that train broken. My career was over, my grandmother was gone, and I didn't know how to be anyone except a performer who'd failed his last audition."
He reached for me, but I held up a hand.
"Let me finish. I came here to hide. Instead, I ended up directing a play I love, finding magic I never believed in, and falling for a man who carves hope into wood for sick children." My voice steadied. "I told Claire I wouldn't decide anything until after Christmas Eve. Until I've kept my promises—to Marcus, Ryan, and you."
Ben closed the distance between us, cupping my face in his hands. "After Christmas Eve. That's when I need your answer too. Not because I'm impatient—because that's when you'll have done the hardest thing. You'll have played Santa for a dying boy and his little brother. You'll know exactly what this valley asks of the people who belong here."
"And if I can't do it?"
"Then you'll know that too. For what it's worth, I watched you with those kids at rehearsal. You already know how to do this, Alex. You've been doing it your whole life. You just forgot that you weren't performing—you were teaching."
I kissed him then—not the soft, careful kisses we'd shared before, but something more profound. His mouth parted under mine, and he made a low sound that vibrated through my chest. One of his hands slid into my hair while the other pressed flatagainst my lower back, pulling me flush against him. When I broke away to breathe, he chased my mouth and caught it again.
The sleigh bells on the wall chimed in perfect harmony, though neither of us had touched them. We broke apart, laughing.
"The magic approves," Ben murmured against my lips.
"The magic has good taste."
Later, sitting on the worn rug in front of the hidden room's small stove, I asked the question that had been building since the journal.
"Have you ever met him? The real one?"
Something like longing flickered in Ben's expression. "That honor belonged only to Johan. The rest of us catch glimpses sometimes. Tracks in fresh snow that shouldn't be there. Bells on windless nights."
He opened a drawer and pulled out something wrapped in faded red fabric. "One Christmas Eve when I was ten, I found this in the workshop." He unwrapped it carefully—a perfect pine cone dusted with what looked like silver frost. "The doors were locked, but there were pine needles scattered across my workbench, and this."
"It doesn't melt?"
"Twenty-six years and counting." Ben rewrapped it with the same care he showed his tools. "Dad said his grandfather once saw a red sleigh far overhead during a blizzard. It paused above their house, and one of the reindeer—maybe even Blitzen himself—looked down and nodded."
The pine cone disappeared back into its drawer.
"But actual face-to-face meetings?" Ben sighed. "Those aren't meant for us. We're caretakers of the magic, not its source. Some nights, especially around Christmas, I sit here carving and wonder if we'll ever..." He shook his head. "It sounds childish."
"No." I caught his hand. "It doesn't. You maintain his magic all year round. Your family has done it for generations. Of course, you wonder."
"It's not about wanting recognition." Ben squeezed my fingers. "But sometimes, watching the children touch these marks and seeing how the magic helps them heal—I wish I could thank him. Tell him we're still keeping our end of the promise Johan made."
Through the window, snow fell in patterns too perfect to be natural. In three days, I'd stand on stage as Santa Claus while Charlie delivered the speech that had made Mrs. Brubaker cry. In three days, I'd visit Marcus in the hospital with Ryan's letter in my pocket and hope marks carved into wood. In three days, I'd have to decide what I was going to tell Claire about that audition.
