Magic and Mistletoe

By Brittany Eden, AJ Skelly and Amber Kirkpatrick

With all the nostalgic charm that fairy tales and sugar plums bring, Quill & Flame presents a Nutcracker-themed anthology. Ranging from the fantastical to contemporary, and a liberal dash of whimsy and romance, Magic and Mistletoe is a beautiful collection of stories that focus on the magic of the holiday season.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Quill & Flame Publishing House
• Release date: Dec 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798868900358

Brittany Eden

A former Circus dweller, Brittany writes lyrical stories of heart transformation with a timeless, feminine voice.You can find Brittany drinking tea, reading, and chasing her three kids, usually at the same time. If that fails, you'll find her writing starcrossed romance with timeless endings or on Instagram as @brittanyedenauthor oversharing pictures of the scenery around her and her husband's home in Vancouver, Canada, and commenting passionately about C.S. Lewis, K-Dramas, Wonder Woman, Bournville chocolate, and Irish tea.Brittany's fascination with Wonderland may have given her the courage to exclusively use a sparkly Cinderella book bag while completing her First Class Honours degree in Greek & Roman Civilization and Political Science at the National University of Ireland, Maynooth. She's travelled to over twenty-five countries and has walked the Great Wall of China in Beijing, the Acropolis in Athens, Table Mountain in Cape Town, and Ipanema in Rio. And she truly once lived in a Circus.Find out more about her stories at brittanyeden.com and by subscribing to her newsletter From Eden To Eternity.

Book preview

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Magic & Mistletoe

A Quill & Flame Christmas Anthology

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Quill & Flame Publishing House

For the most magical time of the year.

Anytime you open a book.

Magic and Mistletoe

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Copyright ©2023 by Quill & Flame Publishing House

Published by Quill & Flame Publishing House, an imprint of Book Bash Media, LLC.

www.quillandflame.com

All rights reserved. 

No part of this publication may be reproduced, digitally, stored, or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used ficticiously. Any similarity to actual people, living or dead, organizations, business establishments, and/or events is purely coincidental.

NO AI TRAINING: Without any limitation on the author or Quill & Flame's exclusive copyright rights, any use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence is expressly prohibited.

Contents

Brittany Eden

1.The Storyteller

Hope Bolinger

2.Harlequin Doll

V. Romas Burton

3.Clocks, Cogs, and Christmas

Crystal D. Grant

4.A Nutcracker Come True

Ashley Schaller

5.Once Upon A Christmas Eve

Anna Augustine

6.Christmas Cheer: A Cloverfield Short Story

AJ Skelly

7.Kadence of Christmas

Moriah Chavis

8.The Last Dance

Amber Kirkpatrick

9.A Very Fen Christmas

Lacey Scott

10.Happily Ever After

Merry Christmas

Q&F Books

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The Storyteller

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Brittany Eden

‘T was the night before Christmas, and all torn about,

Were tossed pages of stories, and many without,

Neither lines of long prose, nor golden words true,

No prisms or swoon and without a sweet clue.

The writers fell cold in the cavernous void.

Without fair-hued visions who danced, overjoyed,

And gusts of doubt-winds swept, for the painful lack—

When sounded the door with a thud and a crack!

Their tales without setting or risk or a dance,

Left empty-lined pages for maybe a chance:

Away pranced the authors around the front door,

Turned open the knob—whitefall littered the floor…

The moon shone above a world full of snow,

Gave spotlit glow to one sparkling below,

So towered the tall figure, the authors blinked,

For behind the great one, a chariot winked.

With diamonds and glitter—all prisms and gold!

All knew this must be Storyteller of old.

More regal than Pegasus his creatures craned,

Fair necks of pearlescent restraint, unnamed.

"There are no words in your world or human tongue,

For angel letters by heavenly few have sung:

To the plains! To the parched lands! To the roadless!

So soar my steeds to save your stories, ne’er hopeless.

"As our ideas without purpose falter

You’re not the first lost dreamer, verseless psalter."

So outside the house disheartened writers drew,

Invited the Storyteller, whose heart they knew.

And flew and flew, so the fable-tellers grew,

In passion and voice and heart-words and fonts, blew—

Their stories filled pages that snowy Christmas night

Together aiming, hoping, dreaming of light.

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Harlequin Doll

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Hope Bolinger

You’ve never heard of me? Good. I like to stay in the background.

Black and white checkered squares litter my dress as light pokes through the wrapping paper. A girl in a tutu dress crumples the rest of the paper in her fists and frowns at me.

I wasn’t what she wanted for Christmas.

Some creepy uncle in the corner, one with sideburns and a salt and pepper mustache—bushy enough to make a Modern Major General blush—gestures at me. Fire lights his eyes.

It’s a harlequin doll, Clara.

The girl, with ringlet blonde curls, cocks her head. A what, Godfather Drosslemeyer?

Whoops, my mistake, godfather.

He is creepy enough to be an uncle, though. The whole time he made me, I could detect onion breath. Not exactly the kind of person I’d want to hang around children.

Is she a child?

Best I can without drawing attention to myself, my mechanical eyes rove to Clara. Her pink cheeks, still pudgy from the time before puberty, hints at twelve, maybe thirteen.

Yes, a harlequin doll. The creepy godfather yanks my attention back to him. If you spin the key in her back, she’ll dance around for you. Won’t that be fun?

Ah yes, the thing that forms sores in my back—how could I forget?

Creepy godfather, here, decided that he didn’t want me to move on my own. So, he wedged a mechanical key into my spine. That way I can pirouette for this little girl until she bores of me.

Do twelve-year-olds play with dolls, anyway?

No matter…something Godfather Drosselmeyer didn’t account for…dolls don’t need a key to move.

All it takes?

A little resentment, a little revenge, and a little distraction. I just need all eyes off me, and I can army crawl my way out of this room.

I’ve seen plenty of dolls do it before in Godfather—Uncle Drosslemeyer’s toy shop. When he leaves, they scamper all over the place. He blames children for the missing playthings.

Says they invade his office and take them, although they deny it every time.

Far off in the distance, a whiff of cinnamon and sugar capture my senses. Yes, dolls do have such senses. And maybe I’m mistaken, but something sweet and fruity hints in the notes of flavor. Sugar plums?

Before I can investigate further, rough hands clasp the key in my back. The godfather winds me twice, three times, four…

Great, he wants me to dance for forever, doesn’t he?

When he releases, I arc my arm, and my neck cranes to the ceiling. Made of wood, my legs swing in blocky, clumsy movements. The godfather cackles.

Isn’t she so silly? Harlequin dolls are known for that. Making people laugh.

Wrong…he didn’t get all of it right.

Yes, I know my roots well. In an Italian improv art form known as Commedia, Harlequins do strike up some guffaws from an audience. But we do something else, too. We play the trickster.

And let’s just say, I know a certain rat I’d love to throw into the mix.

Dizziness overtakes me as I twirl and twirl and flop over. I hate how he’s built me. I wish I could sail across a stage like a swan or fairy. He has built me to droop and flap on purpose. At long last, the chimes coming from who knows where in my body, cease. I crumple to the floor.

Again? the Godfather asks.

Oh please, no. I can’t stand for humiliation once more. No more circus music, no more lolling and flailing.

Although I can’t spy Clara’s expression, I can hear the sour note in her voice.

No, thank you. Let’s open something else, please?

She has rejected me.

Very well. I swallow the pang in my chest. That leaves me invisible, and I like those prospects.

I hear the crinkle of wrapping paper, and a gasp from Clara. Oh, he’s beautiful. Is it a—?

Nutcracker.

She has chosen a Nutcracker over me.

With what little movement I can muster without detection, I crane my neck up. In the glow of Christmas tree lights, she has lost sight of me. I inch away, bit by bit, until I’ve left the glow of the living room.

And when I hear a shriek from Clara, when someone else in the room breaks the Nutcracker, I use the noise to cover my footsteps into the next room, one shrouded in darkness. I behold the hole in the wall. I know the network very well. There was a hole in the toy shop, too.

Very well, then. My knuckles crack. Either from the creaks of the wooden joints, or from some determination deep within. Since I wasn’t enough fun for you, Clara, let me see if I can introduce you to someone else who is.

A smirk cuts up my cheek.

She’s going to simply love meeting the Rat King.

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Clocks, Cogs, and Christmas

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V. Romas Burton

The house was cold and drafty. Not at all like what Cordelia pictured when she'd heard stories of Uncle Meyer’s mansion. Based on the whimsical and enchanting gifts he'd brought her, Fitz, and their cousins each Christmas, Cordelia thought her uncle would live in a more cheery, magical place. Not a stone-cold mansion in the middle of nowhere.

Tightening her grip on her carpetbag, Cordelia refused to take off her wool cloak and hat. As if keeping them on—and holding on to her bag—would stop time. If she didn't move, if she didn't breathe, her life wouldn't change. She wouldn't have to live at her uncle's home. She wouldn't have to adjust to a new normal, and she wouldn't have to accept that her parents were gone.

Gone.

A word so final, so finite. There was nothing more or less. Just gone.

With a quivering lip, Cordelia grasped the wooden handle of her bag until she thought her

fingers would break.

It was Christmas Eve, and they had just come from their church’s service. It had taken all the strength Cordelia had not to burst into tears when Reverend Thomas talked about remembering those who wouldn’t be with them this Christmas.

This would be her first of many Christmases without Mother and Father, and she didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to think about being alone.

We'll be okay, right, Cordy? Fitz asked, glancing at her with round green eyes.

Cordelia slid her gaze to her younger brother. Though he was three years her junior, he was practically the same height as she. Barely eleven years old, and Fitz looked more like her twin than younger brother. Though he didn’t always act as mature as he looked. There was a time when he freely played pranks on everyone in the family. Her, Uncle Meyer, Mother and Father—

Her thoughts stopped.

The day they found out Mother and Father had perished in a fire while they were away at school was the day Cordelia watched the sparkle of mischief leave Fitz’s eyes.

Swallowing the pain lodged in her throat, Cordelia gave a stiff nod and mustered up a grin.

Of course, Fitz. As long as we’re together. But just because we get to snoop around Uncle Meyer’s house doesn’t mean you can call me Cordy. She gave his shoulder a playful nudge, evoking a tiny grin from the pale-faced boy.

Ah, you’ve finally arrived, a soothing baritone voice called from the main stairwell.

Cordelia and Fitz simultaneously spun toward the grandiose marble stairs leading to the second story of the mansion. Uncle Meyer usually attended Christmas Eve service with them. But after their other uncles and aunts transformed into rabid animals trying to take their parents’ fortune, Uncle Meyer worked long hours, somehow keeping the creatures away.

Cordelia wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, but the whole mansion seemed to perk up at the entrance of its owner.

With lifted brows, Cordelia noticed the candles glowed brighter, the carpet smelled less musty, and the windows were clean of any smudges she had previously seen.

My sweet niece and nephew, Uncle Meyer said as he descended the stairs. With outstretched arms, he enveloped them both in a hug, kissing the tops of their heads.

Cordelia wasn’t usually stiff toward an embrace, but since her parents’ funeral a fortnight ago, she had shoved away anyone who tried to console her.

But the familiarity of Uncle Meyer’s sweet spearmint scent had her dropping her carpet bag and burrowing into his soft vest. Before she could stop them, tears rolled down her cheeks, absorbing into the plush, purple velvet.

Uncle Meyer held them tighter as Fitz’s soft sobs joined her own.

I was beginning to worry when neither one of you had cried, he said, calmly. It’s not wise to keep your emotions so bottled up. You never know when they’ll spring out of you.

At that, a popping sound came behind them, and Cordelia and Fitz spun around. The room had brightened even further to reveal a long rectangular table filled with their favorite sweets and candies.

A small sparkle of joy glinted in Fitz’s green eyes for just a moment as he wiped his cheeks and nose on his sleeve.

I know I can never replace your mother and father, Uncle Meyer explained with a dip of his head, his thick black beard shining in the candlelight. But know that I loved them both very much, and I love you two even more. He gestured to the table glittering with delicious confections. And when I’m sad, I like to eat sweets. A lot of sweets.

Cordelia couldn’t help but laugh as she wiped her cheeks with her mittens. With one last hug from Uncle Meyer, the three of them dove toward the mountain of treats awaiting them, temporarily forgetting their sorrow.

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The large grandfather clock on the side wall rang ten times. Cordelia jolted up from the plump chair she’d settled into. She, Fitz, and Uncle Meyer had enjoyed an exquisite feast of cakes, cookies, and candies. So much so that they had all passed out with crumbs and wrappers all over them.Cordelia rubbed her fingers together, feeling the sweet stickiness of the dozens of peppermint twists she had inhaled. She tried rubbing them against her thick, wool skirt, but that only left pieces of fuzz on her fingertips. Now, she was even more annoyed. Though she loved the striped candy sticks, she hated sticky hands. Standing, Cordelia decided to search for a washroom.

As she padded toward the grand staircase, her gaze landed on Fitz. Curled in his forest green chair like a cat, a look of peace covered his powdered sugar-coated cheeks. Cordelia hated how Fitz felt he had to man-up and be strong when their entire lives had been altered. She was happy that Uncle Meyer still saw them as children instead of an investment, unlike their other family members.

Shaking the thought from her head, Cordelia crept away from the table of treats and up the marbled stairs. She thought her brown boots would squeak against the beautifully shiny floors like they had at home, but they didn’t. Instead, they glided silently across each step, as if the house knew she wanted to stay quiet while she searched for a washroom—which really meant she had an opportunity to snoop around.

Once she ascended to the second floor, Cordelia started to turn left when the cherry red carpet runner beneath her feet jerked her back. With a gasp, Cordelia jumped off the carpet. She glanced around the silent hall but found nothing out of the ordinary.

Carefully, she placed one toe on the runner. Nothing. She set her whole foot down, then the other. Nothing again. Taking a breath, she started walking to the left when the runner tugged her away a second time. This time, Cordelia wasn’t so quick and landed on her knees. She frowned at the carpet. She wasn’t terribly worried, as strange things happened on occasion when Uncle Meyer was involved. Sometimes magical things. Still, her knees smarted.

Ow, she cried, glaring at the carpet. Okay, okay, I’ll go the other way.

With a huff, Cordelia stood and dusted off her skirt before heading in the opposite direction. When she met no resistance from the rug, she relaxed and kept walking down the hall.

As if knowing she’d arrived, the hallway brightened, revealing a series of intricately carved wooden doors. Cordelia’s jaw dropped as she took in the lifelike scenes carefully etched into the wood. A beautiful tree, filled with ripe pears and tiny birds, gleamed from the first one. As Cordelia ventured closer, the twittering of the birds filled her ears.

Cordelia grinned. She knew Uncle Meyer—as fun as he was—would have to have an even more fun house. There had always been something charmed about her uncle, and she was excited to see what came next.

Cordelia eyed the shining bronze knob on the door. Uncle Meyer was fast asleep downstairs. Surely, he wouldn’t mind if she just peeked. Licking her lips, Cordelia reached for the doorknob when it slid away from her hand.

She jerked back with a frown and tried again. Again, the doorknob dodged her grasp. Huffing, Cordelia fixed her auburn curls before turning her nose up at the door. She didn’t really care what was behind it, anyway.

There were several more doors, just as beautiful as the first: a grand double archway resembling two doves came next. And the third door depicted a platform where three beautiful women stood, each identical in their forms and dress, save for the cloths tied around their heads. One had a cloth over her eyes, the next over her ears, and the third over her mouth. At their feet were four birds, with tiny scrolls tied to their claws.

Cordelia frowned at the strange women and birds but continued on, not wanting to waste her time fighting with another rude doorknob. She expected to study the rest of the doors lining the hall, but a different, plain door on the left opened. Before she could protest, the