How to make a seven-year-old understand, when Tatiana wasn’t sure she did herself? She couldn’t know what Ari felt, not really. She’d never lived through those losses in the same way. She didn’t have to battle that black cloud every day. All she knew was that her sister loved this little girl wholly, and that everything she did was for her good. “Because she knows how the Yule Lads failed you last year, Elea.” She spoke softly to counteract her niece’s shout. “She knows that a little girl as wonderful as you should have gotten treat upon treat in her shoes. And she wanted to make sure that this year, things were different.”
Elea was a clever girl. Yes, she knew that it was her parents who gave the gifts—but that didn’t mean she didn’t still want them. The stories, the treats, the laughter—the assurance that she was loved. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her dress, her nostrils flaring.
Tatiana leaned closer, until their arms were touching. “You know that Stekkjastaur is the eldest of the thirteen brothers, don’t you? He’s been traveling for days already, to get here in time. If you listen, you can hear the creaking of his old knees.” She paused, making a show of listening. When a creak sounded from above, even Elea grinned. Of course they both knew itwas the neighbor in the flat above them. But that wasn’t the point. “When your mother and I were growing up on the farm, we would make certain the sheep were all safe in the barn on the eleventh of December. Because that sneaky Stekkjastaur would steal the very milk from the mother ewes if we let him. That’s why we always set out a glass of milk for him—so he wouldn’t bother the sheep.”
Elea shook her head, but a bit of light had reentered her eyes. “You don’t have any sheep in Reykjavik.”
“All the more reason to set out the milk. Think how thirsty he must be after his long travels!” Tatiana winked. “I always liked Stekkjastaur. He’s kind and clever, you know. Though stubborn too. ‘Like two little girls I know,’ my father used to say.”
Elea’s smile faded again. “Mypabbi’s leg is hurting him so much. I could have helped. I wouldn’t have been trouble—I’d havehelped.”
“They know that.” Another stroke over her silky hair. “That’s exactly why they asked if you could visit me instead. They know you’d spend your entire Christmas helpingthem. When what they wanted was to giveyousomething.” She rested her cheek against Elea’s head. “I know I’m not your mamma orpabbi, Elea. But I loveyou so much. And I am so, so glad you’re here with me. I was upset about not getting to go home for Christmas this year. But now? I think it’ll be the best holiday I’ve had in ages.”
Elea heaved another monstrous sigh. But then she pushed off the couch, bent to pick up the two shoes, and strode to the window with determined steps to set them both on the sill.
It was victory enough for this evening.
Tired from the trip and the emotions, Elea didn’t ask to stay up late. In fact, it was before her usual bedtime that she started her preparations and cuddled into the nest of blankets Tatiana had made for her—just like the beds their grandmother had made for her and Ari whenever they spent the night at their grandparents’ house as children. They prayed together, and Tatiana pressed a kiss to Elea’s forehead before padding back out of her bedroom, pulling the door shut all but a few inches.
Her gaze tracked to her typewriter, but despite the itching in her fingers to press them to the keys, she wasn’t about to create such a clatter before her niece had a chance to fall asleep. So instead, she sat at her desk butopened the drawer that held the pages already written and pulled out the last several chapters.
She had no idea if it was any good. But then, she hadn’t known if her previous attempts were worthwhile either. It had taken a saga-worthy amount of courage to put the manuscript in the post for the Story Society eighteen months ago, submitted under a pseudonym. She’d been sick to her stomach when she’d seen first Anders and then her uncle reading it, neither having a clue she was the author.
They still didn’t know, even though they’d offered a contract. Even though they’d gone through the editorial process, all by post. Even though the first copies had come into the warehouse three weeks ago, and she’d had to pretend like her heart wasn’t racing like a runaway sleigh. She’d chosen a masculine pen name—because while women were finally beginning to break into the publishing world in Iceland, it seemed the only books being published by them were all about women defying the patriarchal expectations put upon them.
Not that Tatiana disagreed with their stances, per se... but those weren’t the stories she wanted to write. Her mind was filled always with tales of adventure and mystery, a dash of romance thrown in. Not quite sagas,like the ones Anders so masterfully retold for children. But not dissimilar in some of the themes.
She’d known she couldn’t submit her work under her own name. Not to the Story Society, because of the bias—either positive or negative—that came of being the publisher’s niece. But not to any other publisher either, because they would take one look at the feminine ending of her name and put her into a pre-determined slot of expectations. So the story she’d written and rewritten and edited and now could, amazingly, hold in her hands was under the name of Tandri Ebbisson—both more distant family names.
She’d asked for only ten copies to be provided to her, because she knew she’d never be able to explain away a whole case of them. One was now on her shelf, alphabetized in the rest of her fiction collection. The others she had stashed away under her bed, intending to give them as gifts. It wouldn’t look odd—shealwaysgave books as gifts to her family and friends, especially in the last several years, when nothing else was readily available.
Though she’d debated confessing her authorship to Ari, she hadn’t yet. Wasn’t sure she ever would, honestly.Every time she considered it, her stomach went tight and sour.
What if everyone hated the book? Or what if this next one underway even now in her typewriter was as horrible as she feared it would be? She was enjoying the writing of it and thought it was as good as her debut... but she couldn’t be certain. Anders had, after all, pointed out plot holes and mistakes in her first book that she’d completely missed. Thereby proving yet again how brilliant he was.
She’d found herself gazing at him far too often in the last year, wondering how that mind of his did all it did. Wondering how he could hide such deep thoughts under a perfectly calm, even bashful exterior. Wondering at the fact that she felt as though she were getting to know him so much through the notes he sent to her postbox with thoughts on her story, becoming truly friends and not just colleagues... yet he had no idea thatshewas the Tandri with whom he’d struck up such a rapport. More than once she’d considered tellinghim, too. But she didn’t dare.
Once she’d reread her chapters, a quick check at the bedroom door told her Elea was sound asleep, so she settled back at the typewriter, knowing her niece couldsleep through anything once she was out. She wrote for an hour, until her own exhaustion said she’d better stop.
She drank the glass of milk they’d set out for Stekkjastaur, slipped some of the coveted chocolate she’d found into the two shoes in the windowsill... and paused for a long moment to look out into the shadow-deep night. Green and pink streaked the sky near the horizon that stretched out over the harbor, stalling her as effectively as a hand reached out to hers.
Another reason she didn’t mind the long nights this time of year. How could she, when they provided such an endless canvas for some of the Lord’s most beautiful paintings? She watched the aurora dance for many long minutes, until the chill seeping through the pane of glass chased her away.
But even the cold, even the memory of her niece’s tears couldn’t erase the peace the colors had painted on her soul. The Lord was master of them all, their lives another of his canvases. And in this season designed to remind them of the greatest expression of his love, she would pray his light danced over every part of them. And trust it would be exactly what he intended.
THREE
12 DECEMBER 1944
Tatiana checked her watch and dashed back over to the warehouse space for another box ofSagas for Children. She was running behind for the day already, through no fault of her own. The orders she’d been filling had more books in them than the ones she’d done thus far, which meant more time was required to fill each one.
A good problem. But still a problem. She and the regular mail room workers had done their best to organize everything, but they were all running about today with mounting panic. Her own redoubled asshe stopped in front of the spot suspiciously empty of boxes. “No. Where are the newest sagas?” She directed the question to the nearest mail room worker.
Bjarni shook his head. “Out. I sent Jon to the warehouse for more, and of Tandri’s too. Ran out of both half an hour ago.”
Tatiana’s scalp prickled. Hers? Her book had enough orders that they’d run out of the supply here too? She’d seen the pile of boxes that had been delivered a week ago, she knew how many were in each one. That they’d needed more of Anders’s titles was no surprise, but he was a known quantity. She—or her pen name, anyway—were not.
“Post is here,” someone shouted from the front of the room.
