Corey

The snow was coming down hard, the flakes small and sharp, more like ice droplets than the fluffy white puffs one usually thought of when considering this particular type of precipitation. But after a century or so of living in the Village, Cornelius Cane had grown immune to the cold and the various forms of solid water the clouds heaved down upon them. 

As he crunched along the well-decorated cobblestone street that led to his home, his mind only vaguely noticed the impeccably hung twinkling white lights that decorated each of the cottages, shop fronts, and various other buildings, their iridescence broken up only by the velvet bows and greenery interspersed every few feet. Here, Christmas decorations were not seasonal; they were part of everyday life, and while he did occasionally stop to marvel at their splendor, particularly when they had recently been changed out, after a while, like the snow, the decor became part of the background, an inconsequential part of his existence.

Corey wasn’t particularly tall at five foot three, though he towered over every other male in his family. He had dark black hair that he carefully sculpted into a wavy point atop his head each morning using a special gel his father had created ages ago, the secret ingredient only known to him and now his son. He had a handsome face which he always kept clean shaven, with piercing green eyes which his mother likened to an evergreen. His smile, when he chose to wear such an adornment, was often broad and warm, but it always seemed to read as forced to those who were particularly discerning, and that’s because often times it was. Though Corey was extremely talented when it came to recruiting--he’d never failed, not once--he was keenly aware that the job had grown a bit tiresome, and while he couldn’t fathom any other line of work, he often wondered if it was all worth it.

Nevertheless, as he pushed open the door to his cottage, he couldn't help but reflect on the conversation he had just had with his boss, the head of operations around here, and he was certain this most recent recruit was going to be precisely what was necessary to fill the gaps left by the recent demise of Mrs. Maple D. Meriwether, Doll Maker Extraordinaire. 

Corey brushed a few lingering snowflakes from the shoulders of his red velvet topcoat before removing it and hanging it on a hook next to the door. The rest of his suit was also red velvet, with the exception, of course, of his starched white shirt. Even his tie was mostly red with thin white stripes. He always dressed in a similar three-piece suit in red and white, green and white, or the occasional mixture of the three. It paid to look professional and in keeping with the family name and spirit of the season, no matter how mundane his current occupation may have become. His parents, both retired, still lived in the Village, and he wouldn’t dream of either of them seeing him look anything but dressed to impress.

The fireplace blazed, providing enough light for him to ignite the lamps in his quaint living space. His cabin consisted of a great room with a massive fireplace adorned with a mantle sporting the carved heads of two reindeer with full antlers in a rich mahogany wood. A swinging door kept the cooking quarters separated, and a steep staircase led to three sleeping chambers; his own room was the largest, of course, with a smaller room for guests, which were rare, and then a room for his valet, Mr. Waddlebug, who was likely in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. All of the rooms were decorated in a rustic fashion, as were most of the dwellings in the village. And of course there were reminders of Christmas everywhere one looked. From the reindeer on the mantel to the mistletoe hung above the doorway to the kitchen, to the angels that sat upon the window sills near the ceiling, little touches were everywhere, and while Corey certainly didn’t decorate this way himself, he didn’t even notice it anymore unless the team of elves responsible for changing out such decor came by and left something new, in which case after a day or two the unfamiliar item would begin to blend in with the rest becoming little more than the visual equivalent of background noise.

“Mr. Waddlebug?” Corey shouted as he straightened a stack of books on the end table next to his chair. “Are you present?”

There was a clattering from the kitchen which confirmed Corey’s idea that Mr. Waddlebug must be preparing their supper, and he sat down in the cushioned chair, stretching his back as he did so. After a short moment, the kitchen door swung open, and an older man no more than three feet tall with a long white beard and pointed ears emerged, his red tunic and green tights covered with a long white apron dusted with what appeared to be flour.

Corey eyed him suspiciously for only a moment before shaking his head dismissively and idly picking up a snow globe from the table, turning it over in his hands, unleashing a blizzard upon the members of the tiny white church encased inside.

“Oh, hello, sir,” Waddlebug greeted him, his voice a higher pitch than one would have suspected considering the length of his beard. “I didn’t hear you come in. I was just tossing together a shepherd’s pie for supper. How was your meeting?” He paused a few feet in front of the kitchen door, as if he knew he would need to run back in momentarily so as not to ruin the meal.

“It went quite well,” Corey confirmed, losing interest in the globe and setting it aside. “I believe Nick is on board with our selection. Now, I just need to head down and collect her.”

“That’s assuring, considering you already sent the letter,” Mr. Waddlebug said, glancing over his shoulder toward the kitchen with a sniff of his bulbous nose.

Corey chuckled to himself quietly. “I’ve never been wrong,” he reminded his friend. “Never once in over two hundred and seventy appointments…”

“Yes, I know,” Mr. Waddlebug interrupted, “but did you explain to St. Nicholas about her… situation?”

“Of course not,” Corey said, adjusting himself in his chair. “There was no need to. He already knows everything. He is aware of the… incident. He understands what transpired, why it transpired, and that has nothing--and I mean nothing--to do with her ability to make a high-quality product that thousands of little girls all around the world will love and enjoy.”

Mr. Waddlebug stared at his master intently for a few moments, his dark eyes narrowing in deep thought. After a bit, smells from the kitchen brought him out of concentration, and he shrugged his shoulders before turning back to his important work on the other side of the door, shouting over his shoulder as he went, “Well, I suppose you know better than I do, sir. Supper shall be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

Corey watched as the door swung back and forth a few times after the little man had disappeared beyond it, a few terse words shouted and muffled by its closure and the bang of metal on metal as short legs blustered about the small space. He picked up a candy cane from the dish off of the table, one that was always well stocked, and began to twirl the striped candy between his thumb and first finger, contemplating Mr. Waddlebug’s question. Of course, St. Nicholas was aware of what had transpired at Marwolaeth Hall. He knew everything--from the smallest indiscretion to the most unselfish act of kindness. And if Serendipity’s error had not been enough to remove her permanently--or even momentarily--from the Nice List, why would it prevent her from moving to the Village and using her talents to their very fullest? No, he was certain Mr. Waddlebug’s concern was nothing more than a trifle based on fear and misunderstanding. Ms. Fizzlestitch would be a fine addition to the team of human toy makers that oversaw the worker elves, of that Corey was certain. And once she arrived in the Village next week, everyone would see that there was absolutely nothing to be afraid of.