A Visitor
It hadn’t taken long for Serendipity to get over her shock at Maevis’s departing words. She was certain that, even if Maevis had read the letter correctly, the information had to be incorrect, or else someone was playing a prank on her. She was quite certain that Saint Nicholas was not trying to recruit her services. If there was such a person as Santa Claus in the first place, and she had stopped believing in him the year her father had passed away, there was little doubt in her mind that murderers could be on the nice list, and why would Saint Nicholas look to recruit a doll maker who wasn’t even on his list of those who deserved a gift?
Serendipity had been extremely busy since the day the letter had arrived, not because of its existence, but because of the conversation she had carried out with Maevis that afternoon. The money was almost gone, which meant there would soon be no place for the dolls. She needed to finish them. At the rate she was going, it would be another two decades before they were all complete. That simply wouldn’t do. She had made a solemn vow to her father on the day of his remembrance ceremony that she would not rest until all of the dolls were finished and in the hands of waiting children. It was a promise she intended to keep, even if she fell over stone dead trying.
And some days she felt that might be the case. On this particular day, the wind was blowing rather sharply, rain pelting the side and roof of the cottage, and she labored away having gone without sleep for several days and having only eaten an apple or bite of bread crust from time to time. She was working at a pace that even she had never thought herself capable of, and every once in a while, she felt the sudden urge to simply drop to the floor or crash her head into the table, but she had to fight the temptation. There was so much to do.
She was working furiously to sew a dress, this one for Hester Pineyfrock in a dark shade of green, Pozzletot watching and chirping his disapproval at her pace from time to time when a knock at the door caught her attention. In fact, by the time the knocking finally registered, she realized it was not the first knock. She had grown quite accustom to Maevis knocking and then letting herself in that she no longer seemed to notice the knock. This was different, however. It wasn’t Maevis’s gentle rapping to announce her presence; rather this was a knock with a purpose, and Serendipity couldn’t help but feel both startled and alarmed at its existence.
Putting the dress aside, she wiped the back of her hand against her forehead and stepped around the table toward the door cautiously. She knew the door wasn’t locked--it never was--and she felt foolish for not always keeping it secure. As she drew closer, the knocking increased, and finally she found her voice just enough to manage a quiet, “Who’s there?”
Without hesitation, the answer came in the form of a question. “Ms. Fizzlestitch? Are you home?”
The voice was that of a man--and Serendipity froze in her footsteps. She had not seen or spoken to a man in eight years, not since Deputy Shillingpepper had finished his second interview with her and left her as Maevis’s ward. She wished there was some way she could simply hide or convince this stranger of a lack of her existence, but she had already called out to him once. Her only options were to reply, or to lock the door and demand he go away. Despite living as a hermit for so long, she still had a bit of her mother’s strict, proper upbringing in her, and she couldn’t bring herself to simply throw the lock and back away. For all she knew, this man was a fiend who would burst the door down or break in through one of the windows. “Who is it?” she finally repeated, hoping for a quick reply and dismissal.
“Cornelius Cane, at your service,” he replied in what seemed to be quite a chipper voice. “Did you receive my letter? I’ve come to collect you and take you to the North Pole straightaway.”
Serendipity caught her breath. The letter. So it had been real. Or perhaps this was some prankster from the village come to embarrass her. Yes, of course, that had to be it. Of course, that didn’t explain how the letter was kept from turning to ash as it hovered in the fireplace, but she dismissed that thought from her mind. And to think she had almost fallen for it. In the sternest voice she could muster, she demanded, “I’m not interested. Please leave now.”A squeaking sound from the table let her know that her friend disapproved of her behavior, but she would have to reason with Pozzletot later. This was a discussion to be had by adults. Human ones at that.
Standing in the rain with only the cover of a very small overhang, Corey was beginning to lose the chipperness in his voice as he began to realize Serendipity was not going to be as easy a case as he had initially believed. He resisted the urge to bang his head into the rough-hewed timber that constituted a door and relied on his power of persuasion instead. “Ms. Fizzlestitch, if you would allow me to enter, I’m quite certain a quick discussion will change your mind. This is the opportunity of a lifetime!”
There was that phrase again, and Serendipity was beginning to loathe it. Who was she to deserve the opportunity of a lifetime when her family saw so little opportunity in the short spans of theirs? Her voice grew a little stronger this time as she called out, “No thank you! I’m not interested. You may go now.”
Corey could hear in her voice that she was no one to be trifled with--not that day anyway. He had been in similar situations before, though never with someone in their youth such as Ms. Fizzlestitch. Generally speaking, the younger the crafter, the more capable he or she was of believing in magic. This was particularly true when it came to young ladies. Nevertheless, Serendipity was beginning to challenge him, and while he was up for the challenge, he was not up for the rain; snow was one thing--rain was something else entirely. “Very well, then,” he replied. “Might I trouble you for a drink of water then?” he called, hoping that he would make more progress with her if he could meet her face to face. Then, she could look into his dazzling green eyes and fall captive to his mesmerizing gaze as so many young ladies had before her.
Serendipity was puzzled. She had not expected him to give up so quickly, nor had she expected him to make any requests of her. She did have a pump in the corner--though she only had one drinking glass, which she used for herself, the rest all used for holding paint or paint brushes. She would hate to deny him a drink, however, a glass of water being the simplest form of hospitatlity she could think of. She hesitated though, not wanting to let a stranger into her home, particularly since she knew he would have so many questions--about the dark, the dolls, the mess. Eventually, however, her mother’s words regarding manners won out, and she stepped to the door, her hand shaking as she fumbled with a doorknob she had not manipulated in more years than she cared to count.
The door opened slowly, and Corey stood posed with his most inviting, kindest forced grin plastered on his face, pouring empathy into his eyes as if it were as liquid as tears. However, he was not prepared for the sight that caught his gaze as Ms. Fizzlestitch finally stood before him. She was squinting against the light, little that there was in the downpour, her hand sheltering her eyes. He noticed immediately how deathly pale her skin was, how her nearly white hair looked as if it had not been combed or brushed for years. Paint stained both hands, her elbows, and even parts of her face, as well as her simple frock. And her eyes, when she did open them, were the lightest blue he had ever seen. Momentarily, he thought he had come face to face with a spectre or apparition. He was caught so off guard, for once, he was rendered momentarily speechless. As she said nothing, only stepped to the side so that he could enter, he found himself wanting for words, and eventually was able to stutter out, “Th-thank you, Ms. Fizzlestitch,” as he forced his feet to cross the threshold.
Inside, he could plainly see the reason for her lack of coloration and her resistance to the light. It was nearly pitch black except for the flickers of a dying fire. The curtains were thick and drawn tightly, and as she shut the door behind him, he couldn’t help but feel as one might upon finding oneself in the bottom of a grave while still alive. The room was a disaster from what he could tell in the dimness, with paint and doll parts litering a table near the fire, a few chairs here and there, and discarded materials skittered across the floor. The remnants of dirty dishes covered the table and parts of the floor as well, and he noticed immediately the presence of several mice, mostly on the floor but one fat one on the table next to the dolls. His stomach began to churn, and he realized it was not simply because of the fact that someone could actually live this way, but it was quite obvious that Ms. Fizzlestitch had not bathed--nor perhaps emptied her chamberpot--in quite some time. Cornelius Cane felt very certain that he was about to be sick all over Ms. Fizzlestitch’s living quarters, and he couldn’t help but wonder for how many years the remnants of such an occurrence might remain untouched.
“Here you are,” Serendipity was saying. He turned to see she was offering him some water in a small tin cup, which also didn’t look to be particularly clean. He had not even heard her using the pump and wondered if she had simply chosen the less paint filled of the cups on the table for him to utilize. Nevertheless, he had a job to do, which meant he must be charming, so he took the offered beverage, raised the cup to his lips, and took a sip, once again fighting off the urge to vomit at the thought of what he might be consuming.
As quickly as possible, he handed the cup back to her, and choked out a quick, “Thank you.” He knew he needed to gather his senses about him if he was to continue. Taking a deep breath, he stepped towards the table, examining her work. What he saw was quite impressive. Though the dolls littering the work area were in different stages of completion, each was so well done, he couldn’t help but be temporarily distracted from his repulsion. “Amazing…” he said quietly, aware that Serendipity had stepped over and was now standing at his elbow, her arms crossed. “You are extremely talented, Ms. Fizzlestitch.”
“You asked for water, and you have had some. Now you must go,” Serendipity said very matter-of-factly, wishing he were not invading her personal space.
Corey ignored her, stepping around the table and picking up the head she had been working on earlier that day. “Look at this detail,” he said, turning it over in his hands. Serendipity’s hands instinctively flew up, wanting to protect her interest. She hesitated, reached again, dropped her hands. Corey tossed the head up into the air, caught it and sat it back down on the table, unaware of the trepidation he was bringing upon his hostess. He picked up one of her other dolls, this one nearly complete. “The coloring all goes so well together.” He flipped Maggie Wentworth over in his hands and then carelessly lay her back down as Serendipity reached for her to straighten her dress. He fumbled through a stack of fabric, shook some jars of paint and inspected her brushes before returning his attention to the artist whose hands were following in his wake, straightening what he had set askew and returning items to their rightful position, a look of horror plastered on her face. All the while, Pozzletot scurried from one safe haven to another as he was unable to tell in which direction Corey might toss something next, and when it seemed the visitor was done throwing her treasures about, Serendipity scooped her friend up and sat him carefully on her shoulder.
“I had heard about the magic you create here,” Corey stated, turning toward the fireplace, hoping to catch a glimpse of the letter he had sent but unable to locate it. He turned his attention back to Serendipity who still stood on the other side of the table from him. “Now that I’ve seen it with my own eyes, I can’t help but believe we’ve made the right choice. You will be a fine addition to our team, Ms. Fizzlestitch.” He extended his hand in a welcoming gesture, hoping she would grasp it and agree to accompany him back to the North Pole with no more discussion.
Serendipity looked at his hand as if she had no idea why he had held it out in her general direction. She adjusted Pozzletot on her shoulder. “Thank you for complimenting my work, Mr….”
“Cane, Cornelius Cane. But, please, call me Corey. All of my friends do,” he smiled, his hand still waiting for hers.
“Mr. Cane,” Serendipity continued, “but I assure you I am not right for your team. And while I appreciate your consideration, I have neither the desire nor the ability to join you in the North Pole. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have much work to do.”
“But that’s the beauty of joining us,” Corey prodded, finally withdrawing his hand, glancing at it as if he were the one with some sort of unsightly stain before resting it on his hip. “There will be hundreds of elves assigned to your shop, Ms. Fizzlestitch. You’ll be in charge of supervising each of them so every doll is crafted just as you would have designed it yourself, but you won’t be left to labor so intensively all alone. Surely you can see the value in that? With our system, you’ll be able to make thousands and thousands of dolls each year.”
Serendipity was not listening. In fact, she had tuned him out from the moment he had began to speak. She would let nothing this strangely dressed man claiming to be from the North Pole said persuade her from changing the course she had embarked on so many years ago. Pozzletot squiremed, as if to say she should consider the offer, and she promptly sat him down on the table. He ran towards Corey, apparently seeking a better seat in which to listen, and Serendipity crossed her arms tightly across her chest, feeling both frustration at the visitor and betrayal by her friend. “Mr. Cane, I assure you, there is nothing you can say that will persuade me to leave my home and accompany you--anywhere. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she repeated, “I have much work to do.”
Corey took a deep breath. He seemed to be getting nowhere with this one. Even his charming smile and sparkling eyes had little effect on her. He might have to try another tactic. Afterall, he had never failed--though it had occasionally taken more than one trip--and he was determined that Serendipity Fizzlestitch would not be his first upset. Besides, she truly would make a remarkable asset to the team. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” he lamented, shaking his head, both hands on his hips now, his red velvet jacket pushed back behind him. “Perhaps you would consider coming north with me for a tour of the facility? Then, if you don’t like it, I’ll bring you home straightaway.”
Serendipity raised one eyebrow, curiosity beginning to get the best of her. She wondered precisely how they would get to the North Pole. Then, realizing what she was thinking, she shook her head, jarring the concept from her mind. She was not going to the North Pole, and she had very little faith that this man was from there or was going there either. “Mr. Cane,” she repeated, this time stepping towards the door. “Thank you so very much for the offer, but again, I am not interested. I am quite happy with my life here in Dunsford.”
Corey dropped his hands to her work table, bending offer with a sigh, and Serendipity felt remorseful for a moment, not wanting to disappoint him, or anyone else. However, she was not convinced that this wasn’t some sort of prank, and her resolve to stay put did not waiver. She turned to the door, pulling it open, and then returned her attention to Mr. Cane who was now standing upright with his hands deep inside of his pockets, his head still downcast.
“Well, if you change your mind, please drop us a letter. Simply write North Pole on the envelope and toss it in the fireplace,” he explained as he began to walk briskly to the door. He paused for a second as he passed her by and bowed his head, as if he were tipping a hat, but since he did not wear one atop his spiky hair, the gesture seemed rather odd, and Serendipity wrinkled her forehead again in curiosity, as she nodded her understanding and watched Cornelius Cane glide swiftly out the door. She closed it behind him, glad to be blocking what little sunlight was poking through the clouds and didn’t realize she hadn’t uttered a proper goodbye until he was gone. For a moment, she wondered what form of transportation one might use in transferring to and from the North Pole, and perhaps in answer to her question, she swore she heard the jingle of bells briefly before her world returned to what it had been before the oddly dressed man had entered.
Shrugging her shoulders, Serendipity threw the lock on the door and made her way back to the work station. “Strange fellow,” she muttered in the direction where she had last spied Pozzletot, but her friend was not there. Believing he must have taken refuge in one of this hallows, she surveyed her workspace, made a few more corrections to the disarray Cornelius Cane had caused, and then began working on Maggie Wentworth once again, thoughts of Cornelis and the North Pole pushed out of her mind almost as quickly as he had appeared and disappeared from her life.
Once Corey realized Serendipity would not be easily persuaded to join him, he made a rash decision, choosing to employee the only idea he could think of to ensure she must change her mind and eventually accompany him to the North Pole, at least briefly. He was surprised at first that he was able to carry out his plan without being caught, but once he was free from her lair, he knew she would likely not follow him outside into the rain, not quickly enough anyway, even to retrieve one of her most prized possessions, if she even noticed in time that it was missing. As he guided his shiny silver sleigh, pulled by two of Santa’s finest, at light speed back towards the North Pole, he kept one hand inside of his coat pocket, assuring his passenger would stay safe and warm until he made it to the North Pole. Then, he would let Ms. Fizzlestitch know he had a “stowaway” and the only way she could possibly retrieve her little friend was to pay a visit to the Village. Once he got her there, he was quite certain she would never leave.
No comments:
Post a Comment