“And cake,” I correct. “Because even sick people need dessert.”
She considers this, then nods. “True.”
Armed with our care package, we step outside and turn to the entrance to the flats above the café. I press the intercom, and after a second, her tired voice crackles through the speaker.
“Hello?”
Before I can say a word, Lucy stretches up on her toes and shouts, “IVY! WE BROUGHT YOU SOUP!”
There’s a pause over the intercom, and for a second, I think Ivy might refuse. Then, with a crackly sigh, she says, “Come up.”
I exchange a look with Lucy, who grins in victory, before we push through the door and head up the stairs. When Ivy opens her flat door, she looks—well, pretty much like Lucy’s drawing.
Dark rings under her eyes. A flushed, pinkish nose that rivals the one on the card. Her hair is tied in what I assume was a bun at some point but is now just a lopsided mess. She’s wrapped in a huge hoodie, which seems out of place on this warm evening.
She catches me looking and straightens up. “I’m fine,” she says before I can get a word in. “No fever, no cough, just a bit of a stuffy nose. I barely even feel ill anymore.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, unimpressed.
“Promise,” she insists, sniffling slightly before giving Lucy a tired smile. “Thanks for the soup, Lu. That was very sweet of you.”
Lucy holds up the card proudly. “I made this too!”
Ivy takes it, eyes widening slightly as she takes in the artistic rendering of herself. She chuckles, voice still a little hoarse. “Wow, this is very… accurate.”
Lucy nods eagerly. “Your nose is really red.”
Ivy snorts, then winces like she regrets it. “Yeah, well. It’s been through a lot.” She folds the card carefully, but something about the way she shifts in the doorway feels… off.
She hasn’t moved to let us in.
I glance past her shoulder. The flat isn’t a mess or anything that I can see. Maybe I made a mistake bringing Lucy.
I open my mouth to suggest we leave when Lucy suddenly gasps and points past Ivy.
“Look at all the Santas!”
13
Chicken Soup for the Army of Gnomes
Ivy
Igroan, rubbing mytemple.
Lucy is practically vibrating with excitement; her eyes locked on my coffee table as if it holds the greatest treasure she’s ever seen. Theo, meanwhile, looks utterly lost.
“Santas?” he repeats, eyebrows raised.
I sigh, stepping aside. “They’re not Santas.”
That’s all the invitation Lucy needs. She dashes past me, straight to the coffee table, and crouches down, her hands hovering just above the collection of carefully arranged figures.
“They look like Santas,” she announces, inspecting them closely.
“They’re not,” I correct, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear before shutting the door behind them. “They’re gnomes.”
Theo takes in the scene—the coffee table covered in fully painted figures, each one detailed with pointed hats in either deep red or dark blue, all decorated with intricate Nordic white patterns. Their round noses are pink, peeking out from beneath their hats, and their faces are nothing but fluffy white beards dusted with a subtle shimmer. No eyes. No cheeks. Just an army of faceless, festive little creatures.
