Chapter One:

Scott Calvin, also known in his most recent years as Santa Clause, sat in his office with his Head Elf; Bernard. There was something on the ancient-looking man’s mind, and after almost twelve years of life in the North Pole he finally seemed to have developed a sort of kinship with the elf. A kinship that Scott finally felt comfortable enough with to discuss the subject of Bernard’s age. Curtis was over nine hundred, yet he still bore the body of a child, after all, and Bernard appeared to be in his early twenties in physicality.

Upon the broaching of this subject, however, Bernard suddenly became very interested in his curly-toed shoes, and – for once – at a loss for words. Scott folded his pudgy arms and arched an eyebrow at the elf from over a gold rimmed spectacle. He told the boy that he’d not meant to strike a nerve, as it were, but in fact was simply seeking an answer to a question that had plagued him for ages. He then proceeded to apologize for his prying and offered Bernard a cup of cocoa in penitence.

"No, it’s alright." Said Bernard, smiling and gently refusing the cocoa. "Every Santa asks it at some point."

"Well look, Bernard, if you don’t want to talk about it you don’t have to." said Scott.

"It’s not a big deal." Bernard muttered, shrugging. "All the Head Elves have been grown-ups. Has to do with being able to take charge when Santas – uh…you – isn’t around."

Scott nodded, accepting this answer and together the friends left his office bound for the workshop. There was only fifty more days until Christmas, after all. Unbeknownst to Scott "Santa Clause" Calvin, however, there was more to what Bernard had said than he was willing to reveal.

No one talked about Bernard’s age, nor anything about the Head Elf save for the way he’d been wearing his stress, for months. It was indeed not until the following year, only a few weeks after Halloween and the beginning of the Holiday Rush that talk of the Head Elf and his ways was raised. He’d been taking frequent trips out on one of the jet packs, and not returning for the entire of the night. Santa himself was the only one in the North Pole who knew what the curly-haired boy was up to, and he would answer no questions about it.

Diana – a dark haired, dark eyed elf in the Wrapping Department – thought that Bernard was (for whatever reason) learning French. Chloe – an uppity she-elf in the Miniatures Department – had a slightly more plausible situation, however. She was certain that her boss was on errand for Santa himself; checking up on Charlie. Marcus – one of the engineers – often stated that the Number One Elf was looking for a replacement for himself, that he wanted to live a "normal human life." None of them were correct.

Off he flew every night, using a bit of his own Christmas Magic to keep hidden from technology, into the crowded cities. What did he do, but watch the teenagers. The Christmas decorations were already up, yet Thanksgiving had not yet come, and everyone seemed to be obsessing with the holiday. That was how he liked his humans; oblivious and inattentive. They would not notice the lanky, dark haired boy dressed in all velvet. They would not bat an eyelash at his large, pointed ears, as they were carefully hidden under his thick, raven curls. The tips of these unusual appendages, always sticking out of the unkempt mop on his head, were concealed effortlessly under an emerald colored hat.

To the non-believers he was just another shopper.

One particularly cold night, on his monthly visit to New York, Bernard found himself cold and in dire need of a cup of Judy’s cocoa. Of course, Judy wasn’t there to make him cocoa, so he did the next best thing. He went to Starbucks. This, of course was not a spur of the moment decision. He would have held out for Judy’s cocoa back at the North Pole except for one very inconvenient detail.

He was freezing.

His hands, though well preserved in warmer than warm gloves, were starting to get numb from the cold, and he was certain he had no feeling left in his nose. This certainty lead to the inevitable and illogical thought of; "What if my nose fell off?"

Stepping through the doorway to the warm and somewhat trendy coffee house, he found himself at the tail end of a very long line. Intent on getting his hot chocolate before he returned home, he got in line. It was at this moment that he found himself privy to a very…interesting conversation between a young woman and her cellular phone.

"I’m in a Starbucks…across the street from a Gap." She snapped, irritably. His sharp elf’s ears picked up the other end of the conversation. A young, masculine voice sighed audibly and stated:

"Cassandra, this is New York City. Be a bit more specific."

The girl on the phone glared at no one in particular and went on to say that she had "no idea in hell" as to her whereabouts, and that only she’d found her way into a Starbucks. The voice on the other end of the phone grew aggravated and told her that she was going to have to do better than that if she wanted a ride home. Finally, agitated and next in line, she pressed the END button, effectively hanging up on the boy, and ordered a half French vanilla, half hazelnut with two creams and four Sweet ‘N’ Low.

"You shouldn’t drink that stuff you know." said the girl behind the counter. "The artificial sweetener I mean. It’s wicked bad for you."

"You’re a vegetarian, aren’t you." stated the girl with the cellular phone.

"…Yes…" said the helpful girl.

"A health-conscious young lady?"

This promised to be quite the scene.

"Sure."

"Look, I like my poison sweet and diluted in caffeine. If I wanted to eat healthy I’d be getting a soy lattè like everyone else in this bloody coffee house." Snapped the cellular phone girl. Bernard tried very hard not to laugh. The statement itself was not what made him want to laugh, but in fact the way her voice got steadily more accented the more aggravated she got. By the end of her sentence her voice had transitioned completely into a young British woman’s.

A good looking man in his mid-to-late-twenties rushed foreword, obviously the manager, and desperately tried to avoid a scene. He paid for the British girl’s coffee, which she seemed to no longer want, and shook his head at the uppity girl behind the counter. Bernard ordered his cocoa quickly, hoping that he would not be lectured about sweets as opposed to health food, but the vegetarian seemed to have lost her will to attempt her nutritional advice on the elf.

He looked around the coffee shop, trying to find a table at which he might enjoy his hot drink in peace, but was hard-pressed to find such a thing. Sighing he noted his friend from the line and approached her table slowly. He wasn’t sure if it was the best time to disturb her, but she was the only one with a free seat, and seemed to be taking little notice of her surroundings.

She was bent over a worn notebook scribbling something in its pages. Her hair was pulled into a tight plait at the base of her neck, however some pieces that had obviously been bangs long ago, escaped from her part and hung in her eyes. She had a pair of silver-rimmed glasses on the bridge of her nose, which had not been there when she’d been in line. They were reading glasses, it seemed.

"Uh, excuse me." he said, clearing his throat. Pale eyes of and indiscernible color met his and he suddenly felt as if he’d trod on the tail of a lion. She arched an eyebrow at him and pulled something from her ear. A headphone; blasting what had to be the darkest, most heartbreakingly morbid song he’d ever heard.

"Yeah?" she asked, then, straitening her posture, she added: "Yes?"

"Do you mind if I sit here?"

She smiled, surprising him with the warmth in the gesture, and nodded.

"Take a seat." She said, pushing one of her shorter pieces of hair out of her face. She looked, for a moment, like she wished to engage him in conversation, but instead her face became unreadable again and she returned to her work. Bernard did not attempt to converse with the girl, but instead studied the comings and goings of Starbucks patrons. Every so often he detected the incessant clicking of her ball-point pen on the table, as she paused in thought.

Finally Bernard’s eyes found the clock on the far end of the coffee house wall, and he felt his jaw drop. It would take him the better part of the night to get back to the North Pole. He doubted he’d be home before the elves noticed he was gone, and that worried him. What if they asked him where he went? What if Scott had told someone? No – he reasoned. Scott would never do that. Scott understood what it was like to want to belong. He had a son he hardly ever got to see! Yes, Scott understood Bernard’s feelings on the matter. Scott would not say anything.

So caught up in these thoughts was the Number One Elf, that he neglected to note where his cocoa was in reference to Cassandra’s notebook. One clumsy swing of the arm knocked the liquid onto the paper, soaking it and smearing the ink.

"Oh-my-god!" exclaimed Cassandra, leaping from her chair. She scooped up the notebook and quickly began blotting at it with a paper napkin. This, however, only made the problem worse, not better.

"Oh no! I’m so sorry!" said Bernard, flushing a deep shade of crimson. The pale eyed girl was not listening, but instead looking at the spoiled coupler with a trembling lower lip. She dropped the useless article onto the table and ran out of the restaurant, her breath being drawn in a shallow and choked sort of way. Bernard had made her cry.

That had been four hours ago. He was back in the North Pole, now. He’d flown home not long after his interlude with that strange, sad-eyed girl, and he felt rather bad about making her cry. He had thought her overemotional at first, but that had been before he’d struggled through some of the less-smeared bits and pieces of her notebook. She’d been a writer. That explained her tears. She spent her time writing in the thin, black notebook, and he’d ruined it.

"Is there anything you can do to fix it?" he asked. Santa arched an eyebrow at the notebook and carefully laid it out before him.

"Sure thing." said Scott, smiling.

He pulled a small pouch of crimson velvet with golden embroidery carefully sewn into the fabric from his coat pocket. Opening it, he produced a pinch of golden dust with which he sprinkled upon the notebook. It glowed a moment before the stains and smears disappeared. The worn edges and tears and curls shrank and became no more, leaving it better than new. Indeed it was better than new for it had a collection of pure emotion, told in an eloquent and beautiful way.

"YES! Thank you, Santa!" exclaimed Bernard, excitedly.

"Just out of curiosity, what are you doing with Cassandra’s notebook?" asked Scott.

Bernard froze where he sat and blinked nervously at his boss.

"H-How—?" stuttered the elf. That was when he realized it was Santa Claus he spoke to, after all. "Never mind."

"Oh, Bernard?" added Santa, chuckling slightly. "Don’t you want to know where she lives?" The Number One Elf blushed and nodded, wishing he was able to become invisible. "And why don’t you take Prancer instead of a jet-pack. He’ll stay hidden while you do whatever it is you’re going to do." Again, Bernard blushed, and nodded his thanks. Scott Calvin smiled and bid his friend goodbye, knowing full well what it was the elf wanted to do with the newly repaired notebook.

~ * ~

"Okay, if you tell anyone what you’re about to bear witness to, I’ll see to it personally that you and Chett fly side by side this year." Said Bernard, eyes narrowed. Prancer, remembering what it had been like to fly with the young reindeer, nodded his head and made a croaking sound of compliance.

Bernard sighed and adjusted his hat. Prancer trotted off to a slightly more wooded area of the Monroe residence, and began rubbing his antlers upon one of the smaller saplings. The Number One Elf felt his palms start to sweat and looked down at the black notebook. He suddenly realized that he had no idea what he was going to say to the young lady. Tossing his courage in the back of his head, he settled for the simple gift-giving spirit, and placed the carefully wrapped notebook into her mailbox. Then he rang the doorbell and disappeared in a puff of silver glitter.

The pale eyed girl stumbled outside, wrapped tightly in a robe with her hair falling in wild waves down her back. It was auburn. She looked around quickly, surprised at not finding someone on her doorstep, before her sharp eyes noted the glittering ribbon hanging from her mailbox.

"What the—?" she muttered, peering at the gold and red package. "Aint it a bit early for Christmas?" She unwrapped the package in a cynical, unthinking sort of way, then gasped in either surprise or horror or both. She opened the familiar notebook, reading over the pages she herself had filled. She paled visibly and looked around. By that time, Bernard and Prancer were already on their way back to the North Pole.

"And that’s how it happened." said Cassandra, who had just told the entire story of the loosing and finding of her beloved notebook to her younger sister. Francesca – two years the 20 year old’s junior – flopped onto the enormous featherbed and flipped through the book. Cassandra had just stepped behind a screen that might have been used in old Broadway dressing rooms, and could not read her sister’s face as she had become so used to doing.

"Wow." commented Francesca, reading over the more recent stories. "So, do you think you’ve got a secret admirer?"

"No, Frankie." said Cassandra’s voice.

"Well then, how do you explain the book?"

"Don’t know; don’t care. It’s back and unscathed. That’s all that matters."

Francesca picked up a discarded skirt and held it up. It was made of crush velvet and fell to Cassandra’s ankles. Francesca – being a full two inches taller than her sister – could not wear the skirt, but she still loved it.

"Can I borrow this?" she asked.

"No." said Cassandra, poking her head from behind the screen. "I was looking for that, give it." Begrudgingly, Francesca handed her sister the coveted skirt, and more shuffling sounds were heard. "How do I look?" asked the eldest Monroe sister, stepping out from behind the screen.

"Stunning. Who’s the unlucky boy of this week?" asked Francesca.

"Brian…or was it Ryan. I can’t remember which. I’ll just call him ‘Hun’ the whole night."

"You can’t do that!" exclaimed Frankie.

"Why not? The Ladies’ Man did it."

"He called every girl ‘sweet thing’!"

Cassandra paused, and pressed a finger to her chin, as if in thought.

"You’re right. Should I call him sweet thing then?" she asked.

"Oh lord here we go." muttered the younger Monroe sister.


End of Chapter One.

Chapter 2
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