Waiting
“Well?” Mr. Waddlebug asked, impatiently tapping his foot as he stared at the mail shoot. Corey stood beside him, quill pen still in hand, his expression much more subdued. “What is taking so long?
“She’ll respond,” Corey assured him, finally sticking the pen back in the magic ink he had used to write the correspondence to Ms. Fizzlestitch. The mailroom was really something else. This is where all of the letters to Santa--whether through regular post dispatch or the prefered, up the chimney, method came to be read, considered, and recommended for fulfillment or denial. It is also where Corey came to write his own letters whenever he needed to communicate with a potential recruit. Their was a smorgasbord of inks to choose from in every color, as well as every thickness of writing apparatus imaginable. The paper was thick, the envelopes regal, and Corey always felt important whenever he sent dispatch from this room--even when he was communicating with an odd-looking albinoish woman who may be his undoing.
“She’ll respond,” Corey assured him, finally sticking the pen back in the magic ink he had used to write the correspondence to Ms. Fizzlestitch. The mailroom was really something else. This is where all of the letters to Santa--whether through regular post dispatch or the prefered, up the chimney, method came to be read, considered, and recommended for fulfillment or denial. It is also where Corey came to write his own letters whenever he needed to communicate with a potential recruit. Their was a smorgasbord of inks to choose from in every color, as well as every thickness of writing apparatus imaginable. The paper was thick, the envelopes regal, and Corey always felt important whenever he sent dispatch from this room--even when he was communicating with an odd-looking albinoish woman who may be his undoing.
The moments continued to tick by and Corey took a seat near the magical mail shoot, its silver shimmering in the light of a thousand twinkling Christmas decorations. He didn’t even notice the enchantment of the setting anymore. It all seemed commonplace after all of the years he had spent here. As he propped his feet up on the corner of the polished oak desk and laced his fingers behind his head, Mr. Waddlebug sighed in frustration, stompin his pointy shoe. “Why are you in such a tizzy?” he asked, an air of nonchalance coating his voice. “What difference does it make to you whether or not Ms. Fizzlestitch decides to come and retrieve her furry friend?”
Mr. Waddlebug crossed his arms over his substantial belly. “Well, it’s quite simple, really. First of all, I’d like to know precisely what it is you intend to do to persuade Ms. Fizzlestitch to stay here once she arrives. After all, she’s already stated that she does not wish to come. I am, however, looking forward to meeting her and should hope that I have the opportunity to do so. It isn’t every day that one has the opportunity to interact with one who is so… unique…”
“Is that so?” Corey interrupted, noting the oddity of the man he had lived with for the last few decades.
“Furthermore,” Waddleug continued, as if his master had not even spoken, “I have grown quite fond of our little visitor--Mousy, as I have come to call him--and if Ms. Fizzlestitch declines to come and retrieve him, then I know he will be mine for all time.
Corey picked up a clean quill from off of the table and began to twirl it absently in his lithe fingers. “It’s a mouse, Mr. Waddlebug,” he reminded his companion. “Whatever would you want with a pet mouse?”
“Plenty,” the elf assured him. “And this one is quite special. I swear he is trying to speak to me.”
“Plenty,” the elf assured him. “And this one is quite special. I swear he is trying to speak to me.”
Laughing, Corey shook his head dismissively. “You sound almost as off-balance as the young lady we are waiting to hear from.”
Mr. Waddlebug’s stare intensified as if he were attempting to burn Corey with only his eyes. After a moment with no result, he gave up and asked instead, “And what of that? The obvious mental peculiarities of Ms. Fizzlestitch? I know she is of no danger, but won’t she be quite difficult to work with?”
“Pish posh,” Corey stated dismissively. “She will be just fine. She may require some cleaning up, some visits from our friendlier elves and fairies, but she’ll come around. Once she’s spent some time in the North Pole, she’ll likely forget altogether about her transgressions in her former life.”
“Forget?” Mr. Waddlbeug echoed, a strong tone of shock in his voice. You can’t be serious? You know as well as I do one does not simply forget the sort of crimes…”
“She did not commit a crime, Waddlebug,” Corey interjected. “It was an accident…”
“Nevertheless,” the elf continued, plucking absently at his long gray beard, “one doesn’t simply forget that one’s mother and two older sisters perished through one’s own careless hands.”
Corey sighed and sat the quill down on the writing desk. “The North Pole has a way of making all things new again,” he reminded his old friend. “Once Serendipity arrives, I’m quite certain she will stay. And when she has been here for a while, she will become a different person. They always do.”
“And if she does not wish to stay?” Mr. Waddlebug asked slowly and carefully, his look direct.
“Then I shall be inclined to call on certain individuals, perhaps one that owes me a favor, to ensure that Ms. Fizzlestitch decides to stay,” Corey explained in a voice as innocent as he could muster.
“Do you mean the Snow Queen?” Mr. Waddlebug asked, gasping.
Corey said nothing, simply returned his gaze to the fireplace. Though he seemed unworried by Ms. Fizzlestitch’s lack of immediate attention, it did bother him that she was taking so long. As to Mr. Waddlebug’s question, well, desperate times did call for whatever measure necessary to ensure a victory. And though Cornelius Cane wasn’t sure what losing felt like, as he had never done it before, he was fairly certain he wouldn’t like it. No, Ms. Fizzlestitch would need to be persuaded to stay at the North Pole, whatever the price for that relocation may be.
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