Goblins and Snowflakes

  Goblins and Snowflakes

  A Steampunk Christmas Fairy Tale

  The Elves and the Shoemaker Re-telling

  Melanie Karsak

  MelanieKarsak.com

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  Goblins and Snowflakes: A Steampunk Christmas Fairy Tale

  Steampunk Fairy Tales

  Clockpunk Press, 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without permission from the author. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed are fictional. Any resemblances to the living or dead are purely coincidental.

  This work contains lines from Christina Rossetti’s “The Goblin Market.”

  Published by Clockpunk Press

  Editing by Becky Stephens Editing

  Proofreading by Siren Editing

  Cover art by Ravven

  Novel Description

  Never bargain with goblin men.

  Scarlette Rossetti thought her stay at Strawberry Hill Castle during the Christmas holiday would pass 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.

  Table of Contents

  Goblins and Snowflakes

  Novel Description

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Oh Little Town of Twickenham

  Chapter 2: Strawberry Hill

  Chapter 3: Archibald Boatswain III

  Chapter 4: Hagstones

  Chapter 5: Creatures a’Stirring

  Chapter 6: Of Clockwork Gnomes, Wind-Up Ducks, and Red Capes

  Chapter 7: What to my Wondering Eyes Should Appear?

  Chapter 8: Come Buy

  Chapter 9: It Doesn’t Look Like Anything to Me

  Chapter 10: The Goblin Market

  Chapter 11: Happy Christmas to All

  Thank You

  About the Author

  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’ 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.

  Clutching my basket, I hurried down the street. Pristine white snowflakes fell onto my red cloak. I blew into my hands, the cold nipping at my fingertips through my gloves. Everywhere I looked, Twickenham was bedecked for the holidays. Garlands of evergreen branches tied with red ribbons decorated the lampposts. Inside the church, someone was playing Silent Night on the piano.

  Pushing past the church, I turned down a narrow alley, making my way to a small door that led into an equally cramped flat. I knocked on the door.

  Inside, I heard children's chatter and clanging dishes. A few moments later, a slim woman with pale blonde hair came to the door. Her day-old braid had nearly come undone, loose strands of her hair hanging everywhere. I’d noticed Annabeth Buckingham and her children at church one morning. It only took a little asking around to discover that she’d recently been widowed. Apparently, while she did some work as a seamstress, she’d fallen on hard times. After learning her sad tale, I’d made a point of making her acquaintance.

  “Oh, Miss Rossetti,” she said in surprise, pausing to smooth down her apron. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting you today.”

  “I only wanted to bring you this,” I said, handing her the basket.

  “What’s this?”

  “Just some things from the bakery.”

  “Miss Rossetti,” Annabeth’s youngest daughter, Pansy, squealed when she saw me. Rushing to the door, she wrapped her arms around my legs.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Rossetti. Pansy, please let Miss Rossetti go.”

  “Yes, let me go so I can hug you better,” I said then knelt, giving the girl a proper squeeze. “And how are you today?” I asked the girl. She was a pretty thing, just like her mother, with pale yellow hair.

  “Angry.”

  “Why?”

  “Henry and Jacob have been teasing me all morning.”

  “Have they? And what are they saying?”

  “That Father Christmas isn’t real, and that he won’t come here.”

  The child’s words touched my heart. Her brothers, far older than the little girl, no doubt understood the family’s financial situation better than their younger sister. No doubt, they were trying to save her from disappointment.

  “Last year Father Christmas brought me an orange and a new sweater,” she said then frowned. “They’re liars.”

  “Pansy,” Annabeth said with a soft laugh. “That’s enough. I am sure Miss Rossetti doesn’t want to hear about your arguments. Would you like to come in, Miss Rossetti? Some tea, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you. I need to be off. But before I go, I need Pansy’s help. She must promise me something.”

  “What is it?” the girl asked brightly.

  “You must sample the gingerbread. The baker told me they have the best baked goods in Twickenham, but I’m not so sure. You try it and tell me what you thought when we next meet.”

  “Gingerbread!” the girl exclaimed.

  Upon hearing her sister’s proclamation, her brothers galloped toward the front of the house. Though they tried to hide discreetly, I saw the two boys peering at me.

  “Yes, gingerbread. You must have a big piece to get a proper taste. Can you do that for me?”

  “Of course, Miss Rossetti,” Pansy gushed.

  I smiled at her mother.

  “Here, take the basket to the kitchen,” Annabeth told her daughter.

  “Thank you, Miss Rossetti,” the girl called as she disappeared into the back of the house. Two sets of heavy footsteps followed the little girl.

  “Very kind of you, miss. You really didn’t have to,” Annabeth told me.

  “I wanted to. I’ll be by again before the holidays. Is there anything in particular I can bring?”

  She smiled meekly. “Just yourself. God bless you, miss.”

  “And you and yours,” I said with a smile. Giving her a light wave, I turned and headed back toward the bustling village center.

  As I walked, I weighed my coins once more. A plum pudding, some new coats for the children, and a cloak for Annabeth…I should have enough, though I wished I could do far more.

  The wind whipped, stirring up the snowflakes, freezing the tip of my nose in an instant. I passed the church once more. This time, the organist was rehearsing The Twelve Days of Christmas. I found myself humming the song as I headed back across town. Soon, I was standing outside my favorite spot in the village, The Two Sisters Doll Shop and Toy Emporium.

  I paused to gaze through the frost-covered window at the shop display. The window was alive with fanciful delights. Toy drums, dolls, wooden ducks, tops, and all manner of toys were on exhibition. The shop was full of people. The sisters had their hands full.

  The bell above the door rang when I entered.

  The owners, Lizzie and Laura—the twin sisters for whom the shop was named—were hard at work. Even at their advanced age, the sisters looked identical. They both had silver hair, which they kept pulled back in neat buns. The only difference between them was that Laura wore spectacles whereas Lizzie did not.

  Lizzie was at the counter wrapping up a doll to place in a pretty box while her customer, a stout woman in a green cape trimmed with fur, waited almost patiently. Laura, who was the maker of the two, was at a workbench just behind the counter. She was focused on a doll with a mop of raven-colored tresses, trying to fasten a red bonnet covered in holy sprigs onto the reluctant toy.

  “Good morning, Lizzie. Good morning, Laura,” I called as I brushed snowflakes off my cloak.

  The shoppers, who were picking through tops, toy horses, chessboards, teddy bears, and row upon row of dolls, barely cast me a second glance. It seemed the pre-holiday fervor left them decidedly focused on their tasks.

  “Scarlette, dear. Do you have a little time for us? Laura could use some help,” Lizzie said.

  “Of course,” I said. I removed my cape and hung it on a peg. Slipping behind the counter, I went to see what Laura was working on.

  “Good morning, Miss Laura,” I said, taking a seat at the bench across from her.

  “Good morning, Scarlette,” she said, casting a quick glance at me over her spectacles. “This raven-haired lass is so fiddly. She’s stubborn from her stuffing to her porcelain face,
and Lady Rochester’s maid will be here by noon to pick her up,” she said, sighing once more as she fussed with the little bonnet.

  “It’s so busy in the shop,” I said.

  Laura nodded. “I was awake almost all night working on orders. Will you attend to the buttons on those girls’ dresses?” she asked, pointing with her chin at the row of three pretty dolls whose clothes were in a state of disrepair. “I had to set them aside to get this done. And when you’re done with that, I have some other work for you, if you have the time.”

  “Of course,” I replied.

  Despite her chipper mood, I noticed that poor, sweet Laura was squinting hard, and her wrinkled face looked even more sallow than usual. This was a great time of year for the sisters to make money, or so they told me, but the toll it took on them—working night and day—was evident. At their age, it was too much. Pulling off my gloves, I got to work.

  I’d discovered the doll-making sisters on my first visit into town. Enchanted by their creations, I’d purchased a doll. The second day, I returned just because they were so delightful to talk to. But I’d become a pseudo-apprentice quite by accident when, one morning while the shop was busy, I’d repaired the crank on a broken jack-in-the-box. As it turned out, my hands—born from a sculptor father and a painter mother—were quite good with all things small and mechanical. In fact, both sisters agreed that I could make a fine doll maker. I’d even fixed Lord Sutherland’s clockwork carousel, an expensive toy he’d bought for his children when he was abroad. It had taken me the entire afternoon to rework the cogs and gears then realign the pretty carousel animals, but I’d done it. In the process, I won the sisters’ eternal gratitude. With nothing better to do in Twickenham, and Uncle Horace busy with his writing, studies, or working on his little castle, I’d found life in town.

  “Busy, busy, busy,” Laura said. “So many orders to finish. I fear we won’t be done by Christmas.”