Melanie Karsak
Goblins and Snowflakes
Never bargain with goblin men.
Scarlette Rossetti thought her stay at Strawberry Hill Castle during the Christmas holiday would pass by uneventfully. She couldn’t have been more wrong. Enticed by the delights of the nearby village of Twickenham, Scarlette’s life would change in unimaginable ways.
She never expected to be drawn magnetically to The Two Sisters Doll Shop and Toy Emporium.
Scarlette didn’t guess that tinkering clockwork gnomes could have supernatural consequences.
And she didn’t know that one should never, ever, bargain with goblin men.
But during the Christmas season, magic is always brewing.
Charles Dickens meets Supernatural in this magical retelling of The Elves and The Shoemaker. Dive into New York Times bestselling author Melanie Karsak's award-winning fairy tale world set in gaslamp England.
Chapter 1: Oh Little Town of Twickenham
“Plum pudding, get your Christmas plum pudding,” Thomas, the baker’s son, called. Standing just outside the shop, the boy was wearing a tattered top hat trimmed with holly sprigs and red and green ribbons. I cast a glance at the bakery window. The holiday puddings, drying in holly-bedecked cloth bags, hung from hooks. Below them, row after row of bread baked to golden brown filled baskets. Biscuits and other holiday sweets, including a gingerbread house constructed in a likeness of the village chapel, also decorated the window. The sweet scents of anise, cinnamon, and gingerbread effervesced from the bakery. My stomach growled hungrily.
“Miss Rossetti,” the boy called, removing his top hat and bowing with a dramatic flourish. “Has Earl Walpole ordered his plum pudding? There’s no better than ours to be had in all of Twickenham.”
At Uncle Horace’s stately home, Strawberry Hill, the cook had already started preparing the holiday sweets. My uncle had a fabulous holiday gathering planned. Artists, scholars, writers, and tinkers—some of the best minds in the land—were coming, including my father, a renowned artist. He would return from abroad any day now, and I couldn’t wait to see him.
While Strawberry Hill’s kitchen was a flurry of preparation for my uncle’s grand event, I was a bundle of nervous excitement. Uncle Horace had been a wonderful host, but I was ready to return to London and get back to my normal life. While I’d spent much of my time devouring every book in Earl Walpole’s library, I’d also managed to make the acquaintance of many of Twickenham’s residents, including Thomas, the baker’s son.
Thomas was a sweet lad who was a few years my junior, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old. I could tell by the unsteady lilt in his voice and his red cheeks that he’d taken a shine to me. Given his age, he wasn’t a suitable match, but I liked the boy. He was kind, honest, and a hard-worker.
“I’m not sure,” I called back in reply. My answer was something of a lie. I hadn’t actually seen a plum pudding in the making, but I had no doubt one had been prepared. In fact, I didn’t think there was a holiday dish that hadn’t been prepared in anticipation of the upcoming gathering. I crossed the snow-covered street to meet Thomas. “But I am sure that I won’t survive the morning without some gingerbread,” I said, eyeing the loaves in the window. The white icing on top of the nut-brown loaves shimmered temptingly.
“Well, that’s something we must remedy. A single loaf or two?” he asked, grinning cheekily at me.
“One, but I’ll also take a loaf of pumpernickel and a bag of biscuits.”
“Oh! You are hungry.”
I chuckled. “It isn’t all for me! It’s the sharing season, of course.”
“Anything you say, Miss Rossetti,” Thomas said with a laugh then motioned for me to follow him inside.
I stepped into the bakery. At once, I was delighted by the scent of freshly baked sourdough bread. The air was so tangy with the sharp scent of the bread that I could practically taste the crunchy brown crust and soft, white center. Under the doughy perfume, I also caught the smells of holiday spices, sugar, orange, and lemon.
Thomas dashed quickly behind the counter and got to work bagging up my order.
“Good morrow, Miss Rossetti,” Thomas’s father called. “Send our well wishes to Earl Walpole.”
“Of course, sir,” I said with a smile.
The other patrons in the store gave me a sidelong glance. I suppose a proper girl who was a temporary ward to the earl should be sitting quietly by a fire at Strawberry Hill embroidering or some other nonsense. But what was the fun of that? Uncle Horace spent his days reading, writing letters, and doing research. I loved his studious, if not eccentric, ways. But unlike Uncle Horace, who seemed to crave quiet, I loved people. I missed London. I missed talking, the bustle, the noise. Why sit around in a castle all day long—despite its being filled with an unlimited number of curiosities—when the village of Twickenham was only a brisk walk away? So, while uncle Horace studied, I made the acquaintance of the villagers.
I handed Thomas my basket so he could pack my order inside then pulled some coins from my reticule. I set the coins on the counter.
Thomas handed the basket back to me. “Now, don’t eat it all at once.”
I chuckled.
“Oh, and…and something special for you,” he said shyly, handing me a shortbread biscuit made in the shape of a dove. It was wrapped in parchment paper. “Made them myself this morning.” His cheeks reddened as he passed the sweet to me.
I took the biscuit from him. The scents of vanilla and almond wafted from it.
“Thank you, Thomas,” I said then took a bite. The sweet tastes of butter, sugar, vanilla, and almond melted on my tongue. “Perfection.”
Thomas grinned. “I’m glad you like it. And you’re welcome to come again tomorrow if you’d like another. And the day after. And the day after that.”
I giggled, surprising even myself at the girlish sound I made.
“Thomas, back to work. I’m sure Miss Rossetti is busy,” the baker called to his son. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the boy was sweet on me.
Thomas smiled at me. “See you tomorrow, Miss Rossetti.”
“See you tomorrow,” I said with a smile. I stuffed the rest of the biscuit into my mouth, pulled up the hood on my red cape, and headed out once more. The brisk winter air whirled around me, pulling away the heat and the sourdough, gingerbread, and anise perfume that had scented my wraps and hair. I exhaled, making a puff of steam, then headed across the village square. Light snow started to fall. It blanketed the streets of the little village of Twickenham. The crowd at the center of town was bustling. A small Christmas market had been erected. People were buying spiced wine, roasted almonds, baked goods, and small Christmas gifts. Everywhere I looked, people rushed past with packages. It was almost Christmas. Everyone was preparing for the big day.
Weighing the coins in my bag with my hand, I considered how much I’d accumulated. Uncle Horace’s perpetually distracted state did have some benefits. He was far too busy writing books and completing the final additions on his fabulous little castle, Strawberry Hill, to pay attention to every little thing his “red-cheeked, never idle, and far-too-clever” visitor brought to his attention. At some point, Uncle Horace found it convenient to let me wander into the village to spend money on whatever frivolities I found. He was always impressed with the dolls I purchased. The irony was, no matter how sharp Uncle Horace’s eyes were, he couldn’t differentiate one doll from another. So, for the last forty days, I’d shown him the same doll when he asked to see what I’d purchased. At this rate, my coin purse would be full by the time my father arrived to take me back to London.