Hurry, hurry! Schrodinger urged, looking over his shoulder at Zoey and Lily. Hurry!

 

“Why are we hurrying?” Zoey asked breathlessly as they ran after him. Jack was even further ahead, galloping for all he was worth.

 

“It must be something important!” Lily told her, taking her hand so they could run together.

 

It is! Molly made candy canes!

 

Lily’s eyes widened and she increased her speed. “Real candy canes? Not the cookies?”

 

Real ones!

 

“I’ve never had homemade candy canes!” Zoey said, and they ran the rest of the way to the bookstore.

 

The entire air was scented with peppermint when they burst into the kitchen, and Molly turned around, a startled look on her face. “That was fast!” she said, then looked at their red faces and heaving chests. “Did you run all the way?”

 

They nodded, too winded to speak.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because… Schrodinger said…candy canes!” Lily said.

 

“They weren’t going anywhere,” Molly said, laughing. “They would have waited for you!”

 

“You made candy canes?” Zoey’s eyes were wide. “How did you do that?”

 

Molly can make anything, Schrodinger said. She’s a kitchen witch.

 

Zoey’s eyes got even wider. “A witch? REALLY?”

 

“A kitchen witch, yes,” Molly said. “It’s not really that big a deal.” She took the box from the island and held it out to them. “You each can have one.”

 

They weren’t the candy canes that Zoey was expecting, Schrodinger saw. Instead of the familiar red and white striped shepherd’s crook shapes, the sticks were plain white, thick and short. Lily and Zoey each took one, and Molly broke one in half for Jack and Schrodinger. After they enjoyed them (they were much lighter than Schrodinger had expected, almost meringue-like in texture), they went over to the wall that the advent calendar hung on.

 

“It’s your turn today,” Zoey told Lily. “I wonder what we’ll do today?”

 

Lily found the number 6 curling off the end of a ribbon in one of the corners. When she touched it, the painting crumbled and the snowflake came out. It shimmered and dropped a note into her hand.

 

“Are you up for a walk today?” she read out loud. “Ooh, I wonder where?”

 

In answer, the snowflake zipped out into the bookstore. They followed it up to the second floor, where it burst into a fall of sparkles over an older gentleman who was dozing in one of the easy chairs.

 

Father Christopher? Schrodinger went up to him and touched him gently. Are you awake?

 

“I am now,” the Catholic priest said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “Oh, good, you’re all here!” He smiled at them, and then held out his hand to Zoey. “Welcome to the Cove, Zoey. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

 

“Hi,” she said shyly, shaking his hand. “You were waiting for us?”

 

“Indeed! I have a very special task that I’m hoping the four of you can help me with.” He looked over them. “Do you have time to do that?”

 

They all nodded.

 

“Oh, bless you!” Father Christopher stood up, and led them downstairs. Molly met them at the bottom of the stairs with a tin that she pressed into the priest’s hands. “And bless you too, Molly. What would I do without you ordering tea for me?”

 

“You’d be drinking that horrible stuff you buy from the grocery store,” she said wryly. “The way you do when you forget to tell me that you’ve run out.”

 

He looked guilty, but his blue eyes twinkled. “Thank you, Molly.”

 

“You’re welcome.” Molly looked at the four of them. “Drew will pick you guys up later at the church, so don’t worry about coming back here.”

 

Schrodinger looked over at her, and she smiled. He knew that look. Molly had known exactly what they were going to do today.

 

Then again, does it really matter if she knows what’s going to happen each day? Isn’t part of the fun in the surprise? Jack said quietly to his friend. Just enjoy it, and stop worrying.

 

You’re a wise dog, Schrodinger said, as they went out the front door, following the priest.

 

Of course I am. I’m your friend, Jack said. Comes with the territory.

 

They walked over to the Church of St. Michael the Archangel, which was decorated simply, with holly and ivy wreaths on the doors, tied with red ribbons, and a single candle lit in the center of each one. The stained glass windows glowed with the lights from inside, and painted the snow with brilliant color.

 

“Welcome to the church I serve,” Father Christopher said, patting one of the doors fondly as he led them into the rectory where he lived. This was a small cottage off to the side of the main church, decorated in the same way. He opened the kitchen door and waved them inside to a large room, bigger than Schrodinger had expected. Molly would love this kitchen, he thought. The place was spotless: the cabinets gleamed, as did the appliances, and there was not one dish cluttering the large sink, although there was a tea mug in the drainboard. The kitchen was dominated by a huge table that looked as though it might have sliced from a single tree, and this table was covered with all sorts of bags, boxes and various wrapping implements.

 

“Do you know what December sixth is?” Father Christopher asked them. When they shook their heads, he continued, “It’s the feast of St. Nicholas. He’s said to be one of the precursors of Santa Claus.”

 

You mean like an ancestor? Schrodinger asked.

 

“Not exactly.” Father Christopher motioned them over to the table and indicated they should take their coats off. Once they were all seated around the large table, he said, “St. Nicholas was a bishop in a town called Myra, in what is now Turkey. He was a very kindly man, and he always made sure to take care of the poor, which is what Jesus told us to do, after all. One of the most famous stories about him involved a poor nobleman who lived in his parish with his three beautiful daughters.

 

“Now, in those days, you needed to have a dowry to get married. This nobleman was so poor that although his daughters were very beautiful, they couldn’t get married, because they had nothing to bring to the marriages.”

 

“Oh, how sad,” Zoey said, and Lily nodded. “What did St. Nicholas do?”

 

“He was walking through the woods near their home, and he saw them hanging up their stockings by the fire to dry one night,” Father Christopher told them. “So after the entire family had gone to sleep, he climbed up to the top of their roof and dropped three small bags of gold coins down. One in each stocking.”

 

“So they could get married!” Lily said. “What a good man!”

 

“Indeed.” Father Christopher smiled. “Now, in honor of his good deeds, we celebrate the Feast of St. Nicholas, and in many of the Scandinavian countries, this is when children look for gifts from St. Nicholas. It’s said he goes around with his help, Black Peet, who carries a sack. St. Nicholas rides a white horse in some countries, and arrives in a boat in others.”

 

I would like to see that, Schrodinger said. Arriving on a boat! Like the Daughter of Stars!

 

“Yes, that would be something to see, wouldn’t it?” Father Christopher said. “Maybe next year, we can get one of the captains to help us, and have St. Nicholas arrive in the harbor.”

 

You should ask Pavel! He would do it! Schrodinger said, bouncing a little in his seat. Captain Pavel Chekhov sailed a ship through the Roads called the Heart’s Desire, and he was as dashing a pirate as Schrodinger could have imagined.

 

“I’ll bet he would.” Father Christopher laughed.

 

“So what is all this, Father?” Lily asked, waving her hand at the piles on the table. “Is this what you want us to help with?”

 

“Yes.” Father Christopher looked at all of them. “Today is the Feast of St. Nicholas, after all, and I’m hoping you’ll help St. Nicholas and I with his deliveries. This,” and he indicated the full table, “all needs to be wrapped and put into baskets, which will be delivered tonight to the poor in the parish.”

 

Oh, how wonderful, Jack said, wagging his tail. Thank you for letting us help!

 

“No, thank you,” Father Christopher said. “I would have been up all night doing this myself, and that would put St. Nicholas behind in his deliveries.”

 

Zoey looked skeptical. “St. Nicholas? You can’t really mean that the saint himself is coming to deliver these.”

 

Father Christopher’s blue eyes sparkled. “Are you sure, Zoey?”

 

“But isn’t his feast day the day of his death?” she persisted. “So if he’s dead, how can he come back here and deliver gifts?”

 

“That’s part of the magic,” Father Christopher said. “Don’t you believe in magic?”

 

“Magic shouldn’t work like that,” she said stubbornly. “It doesn’t make sense.”

 

But it does, Schrodinger told her. Magic is powered by belief, or so the Librarian taught me. The more you believe, the more powerful the magic you can produce. If you have hundreds of millions of believers…you could do anything. Even bring the dead back to life.

 

“Or raise a saint,” Father Christopher said. “He’s right, Zoey. If you believe, there’s no limit to what you can do. Magically, or otherwise.” He chuckled softly. “Trust me, I know how hard it can be to accept that, especially if you aren’t born into it.” He nodded at Lily, Schrodinger and Jack. “They’ve grown up with magic – it’s a part of their life, and always has been. But you and I, coming from places that don’t have as much magic, have a bit of a harder time – they’ve seen things we can’t explain, and man is a creature who needs explanations. Sometimes, that explanation is magic. It gets easier the longer you live here.”

 

“You weren’t born in a CrossRoads town, Father Christopher?” Lily asked.

 

“No, child, I was born in a little town in the California mountains.” As he talked, Father Christopher started them sorting the piles on the table into groups. Schrodinger realized that the baskets would have something for everyone: toys, food, clothing, even a small bag of money. It wasn’t a lot, but it would make someone’s Christmas a lot brighter.

 

Wait. Then how come you can hear me? Jack asked him, confused. I thought only people who grew up in the Cove could hear me!

 

“The longer you live in a CrossRoads town, the more the magic changes you,” Father Christopher said. “Eventually, Zoey will be able to hear you too. The more you believe, the faster it comes.” He chuckled again. “It also helps to be young. The young always adapt faster than us old folks.”

 

Schrodinger watched Zoey out of the corner of his eye as they worked with the priest. She was thinking, he could tell: there was a faint frown wrinkle on her forehead, and every so often, she would look up at Father Christopher, as if sizing him up or looking for changes. He wondered what bothered her more: that the priest accepted the magic, or that she didn’t.

 

The table had looked piled high, but in a surprisingly short amount of time, they had packaged everything up and placed them in the large baskets that Father Christopher had supplied. Where did all this come from? Schrodinger asked him.

 

“Donations,” Father Christopher said. “This town is wonderful when it comes to making sure that their fellows are taken care of. I couldn’t ask for a more charitable parish.”

 

“That’s the way it should be,” Lily said firmly. “Mom and Dad say that the responsibility of those who have more is to help those that don’t have enough.”

 

“Your parents are very smart,” Father Christopher said. “And right.”

 

Zoey nodded. “I thought that this town would be cold and unfriendly when we first moved here,” she admitted. “But everyone’s been so nice. I…didn’t expect that.” She looked at the priest. “Is that part of the magic too?”

 

He smiled down at her. “Not the kind of magic you’re thinking of,” he said. “You just happened to choose a very good town to move into.” Then Father Christopher clapped his hands together. “Now, the important part! Who wants pizza?”

 

After dinner (which Schrodinger was surprised to find Father Christopher cooked for them, and the pizza dough was even better than Molly’s), Drew showed up to collect them. Before they left, Father Christopher handed each of them a wooden shoe, painted with reindeer and snowflakes.

 

“These are what the children in the Netherlands put out for the Feast of St. Nicholas,” he told them. “Put a couple of carrots in there for St. Nicholas’ horse, and put it on your hearth. Tomorrow morning, if you believe, perhaps there will be something for you too.”

 

<><>

“Do you think that’s enough carrots?” Zoey asked her parents anxiously later that night. “I don’t want the horse to be hungry.”

 

Peter Allard smiled at his young daughter and ruffled her hair. “I think it’s perfect,” he told her. “Now, where did Father Christopher say to put it?”

 

“The hearth!” Zoey picked the shoe up and went running into the living room. “Come and see, Dad!”

 

Donna watched her husband, wondering what Zoey would do if the carrots were still there when she woke up. Which they will be, she thought resignedly. I don’t want to lie to her.

 

Once again, a scene rose in her mind’s eye, a scene that got replayed far too often during the holiday season. She was six, it was Christmas Eve, and something had woken her from a sound sleep. Something had moved downstairs, and she’d known, in the way small children always knew, that it was Santa Claus downstairs. So she’d crept down the staircase as quietly as she could, hoping against hope to catch him in the act.

 

And then, crouching on the top stair, she heard it.

 

“I wish they didn’t grow up so fast,” her mother had said sadly. “It’s no fun when they don’t believe in Santa anymore, and this is probably the last year Donna will.”

 

With those words, Donna had realized the entire thing was a myth. A lie. And she’d never believed in magic again.

 

Until she’d come to the Cove, that is. And she was still on the fence about how much of the weirdness of the Cove was actually magic. She was betting science could explain most of it away.

 

“Good night, Mom!” Zoey came running back in and kissed her cheek. “Sleep well!”

 

“You too, munchkin,” she said fondly. “You too.”

 

But Donna couldn’t sleep, she found. So she got up from the bed, careful not to wake Peter up, and went into the living room. She turned on the Christmas tree lights, and sat down in one of the armchairs they’d found in a barn sale on the way up from Pennsylvania.

 

In the dim colored light, the living room was a mass of shadows and suggestions. However, Zoey’s painted wooden shoe, filled with a handful of baby carrots, was situated in a pool of colored light. Still full of carrots, she noted. Just like she’d thought.

 

It was snowing lightly outside, a quiet shush-shush of flakes against the windows, and the sounds were oddly soothing. Donna put her head back and closed her eyes. Maybe if I just rest here for a few minutes, I can get sleepy enough to go back to bed, she thought.

 

Not five minutes later, or so she thought, something moved in the living room, jolting her awake. She opened her eyes, wondering who had gotten in. Her gaze fell on the shoe, still sitting in its pool of colored light. But the carrots were gone: in their place was a long, narrowly wrapped package and a thick red and white swirled peppermint stick. Donna blinked, and then looked around.

 

A shadow moved across the room, and she looked at the window in the corner. A man looked back at her, his blue eyes kindly and his long white beard blowing gently in the night. A tall red bishop’s miter collected snowflakes atop his head, and he nodded once to her. Then he vanished.

 

Donna sat there for a long time, wondering just what she’d seen.

Originally published at The words of Valerie Griswold-Ford. You can comment here or there.

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