Believe

Copyright © 2011 LIZ BOTTS

ISBN 978-1-936852-74-1

Cover Art Designed by Elaina Lee

Edited by Kim Bowman

To my husband.

 

“You have to go, sweetheart.”

I ease the pillow off my head just long enough to glare intensely at my mother before burying my head back underneath.

“No.”

My mom sighs. I hear her pacing the room, her long skirts rustling as she walks. We've been going in verbal circles for hours and nothing has changed. She keeps insisting that I have to go and I keep refusing.

The mattress on my bed creaks as my mother eases her plump posterior down next to me. She runs a soothing hand across my back.

“I understand how scared you must be,” she begins, trying a different tactic.

“No, you don't!” I cry, shoving off the pillow and shrugging off her hand. “Dad picked you. You never had to go convince some guy that he wanted to marry you.”

My mom laughs her soft, tinkling, musical laugh that sounds like a thousand little silver bells ringing on the boughs of a Christmas tree. “You don't have to convince him to marry you either,” she insists.

“That's not what it sounded like to me.”

“Don't be silly, Virginia,” my mom says. “You are already betrothed to the young man. Your only job is to help him believe.”

I gape at her. She just doesn't get it. I say the words harshly inside my head, punctuating each one with an exclamation point.

“Maybe you should go see your father.”

“Yeah, like that's gonna help,” I snipe, crossing my arms as I stare up at the ceiling.

“He's concerned about you too,” she insists.

I snort. “Good one, Ma. But seriously, when has Dad ever been concerned about any of us.”

“Virginia, what a horrible thing to say.” I don't have to look at Mom to hear the quiver in her voice and know her eyes brim with tears. I don't want to make her cry. I just want her to see my point of view and get it through her head that I'm not going no matter what anyone says.

Pushing myself up on my elbows, I sigh. “Fine, I'll go talk to Dad if it will make you happy.”

“I'll let him know,” Mom says, brightening visibly as she stands. After straightening her long red skirt, she tucks some of her white-blonde hair back into her bun. My mother is the picture of prim Victoriana. Too bad we live in the twenty-first century.

As soon as she's gone, I let myself fall back onto my pillow. We had been running in circles ever since Elwyn had barged in at dinner to read the stupid decree. I only heard the first sentence, though, because after he read my name and the words ‘betrothed to' I had gotten a strange buzzing in my ears. Somehow I had ended up back in my bedroom where I've been since. Several of my sisters have crept in to see how I'm doing, but I refuse to talk to them as they were so obviously relieved that it was me and not them going through this crap.

And now I have to talk to my father. I might be the only person on the planet who doesn't want face time with him, but I have a really good reason. Or more like a thousand good reasons. Shoving myself off the bed, I stand before my mirror to give myself a good assessment. Maybe if I look good, I'll feel good. My jeans and my sweater look nice enough, I guess. I run a brush through my long white-blonde hair. Presentable in less than sixty seconds.

I slip out of my room on the second floor and head down the hall toward the workshop. It's November, which means Dad will be there, well in his office, all the time until December rolls around. As I near the corridor that breaks off from our house proper, the noise from the workshop nearly overwhelms me in the whir of machines, the chatter of small voices, and the chorus of carols.

A hush falls over the workshop as I enter and walk through toward Dad's office. My skin crawls as hundreds of eyes follow my progress. Will I ever get used to feeling like a sideshow freak among the people here?

“Just give her five minutes.”

I don't even need to press my ear to the door to hear Mom's pleas. My heart sinks into my stomach. What kid wants to have their mom plead with their dad to give them attention? Doesn't make for a great parent-child relationship, if you know what I mean.

Dad's secretary, a diminutive little woman with a swath of silver hair pulled into a bun similar to Mom's, smiles at me kindly over the rim of her bifocal glasses. “Your father will be ready for you momentarily,” she says.

I nod without really responding directly to her. Instead, I fix my eyes on the pictures on the office wall of Dad with various celebrities. He is undoubtedly more famous than all of them, and his star will never really wane, and yet…so few people really believe that he exists. Myth and legend are funny like that.

Finally the heavy oak door swings open and Mom sweeps out in a rustle of long skirts. She nods to me in what I suppose she thinks is an encouraging fashion. I take a deep breath, swallow hard, and square my shoulders as I walk into Dad's office.

Before the door has even closed behind me, I say, “The decree is archaic and I refuse to participate in it.”

Dad studies me silently for what feels like an eternity. Finally he takes off his glasses, rubs the bridge of his nose, and sighs. He stands and walks slowly over to gaze out his window at the thickly falling snow.

“Virginia.” He sighs again.

“Father,” I mimic.

He turns sharply and fixes me in his intense blue stare. Most people meet his eyes and find only jolliness there, but I find frostiness laced with something I can never identify. My knees shake like they always do when I come face to face with my father, but I clench my teeth together and stand up a little straighter.

Then suddenly Dad's shoulders slump. He drops my gaze and sinks back into his desk chair. He looks old and…defeated. Pulling at the short, white beard on his chin, he returns his gaze to me, but thoughtfully this time.

“Sit,” he commands. I sit, not so much because I want to but because Dad still rules his domain. We sit in silence for what seems like forever, simply regarding one another warily. Finally he says, “You know the story of how your great-great-grandfather became the first true Santa Claus.”

I nod, waiting. He continues, “So, you realize the significance of your mother and I having eight daughters and no sons.”

“What do you want me to say?” I ask. “That little fact of life certainly isn't my fault. I didn't ask to be your first born daughter.”

The frown on my father's face deepens. “This issue is non-negotiable,” he says. “At the first new moon, Elwyn will escort you to the mortal world and settle you in while you wait to meet your betrothed.”

My jaw drops in utter shock of the lack of discussion. At the same time my mind whirrs with dozens of snide comebacks. Not that any of them will help my case, but still, I can't help but snap, “What am I a werewolf now? Why do I need to wait for the new moon? And in case you haven't noticed, I am a mortal.”

Dad smiles condescendingly. “You have much to learn before we let you go out among the regular mortals of the world. That is why they have recommended that we wait until the new moon to send you.”

“And who are they exactly?” I ask, frustrated and confused.

Another indulgent, condescending smile. “The elf elders, of course,” Dad replies.

My head is beginning to hurt from all of the random information being bandied about. Elf elders? And why did they get to decide my future?

“I want to talk to them,” I demand with as much imperiousness as I can muster.

Dad laughs. He actually laughs at me! “That's quite impossible, little Virginia. We are ruled by their directives, but we do not even deign to imagine that they would grant us an audience.”

“Huh?” Yep, that's it. That's all I manage to get out. I sound like a ridiculous child instead of a young woman poised to make her own way in the world. And why had he called me by my pet name? Only people I really love can get away with that. My hands ball into fists.

“You'll begin your lessons tomorrow,” Dad says, the hard edge in his voice leaving no room for discussion. He puts his glasses on, turning his attention back to the paperwork in front of him.

I know I'm dismissed, and I leave quickly so he won't see the tears in my eyes. The eyes of the elves follow me as I hurry through the workshop. When I get into the empty hallway, I sink down against the wall and let the tears fall.

“It won't be that bad.”

I gasp in surprise at the high-pitched voice suddenly by my side. A small elf is standing beside me, hopping from foot to foot, her green velvet skirt jingling as she dances. She pushes a soft handkerchief into my hand, which I accept reluctantly.

“It won't be that bad,” she repeats, peering at me with what seemed to be genuine concern.

To stall for time, I wipe my eyes. All my life, my entire eighteen years, I have carefully avoided contact with the elves. Not an easy task when you live with hundreds of them running around, but somehow I've managed it. And now an elf girl is drying my tears.

“What would you know about it?” I ask, hardening my voice. Her face falls instantly, and I immediately regret my harsh tone. I sigh. “I'm sorry. I guess…I guess I'm just sort of stressed. No one seems to understand what this is like, you know, getting told I have to go convince some guy he has to marry me.”

She laughs a tinny, sparkly, musical little laugh. “You won't have to do as much as you think you will.”

I sniffle and peer at her cautiously. “What do you know about this?”

“Plenty. Your betrothed is quite a handsome young man, too. You'll be quite pleased when you meet him.”

“But how do you know that?”

She glances up and down the deserted hallway nervously. “I shouldn't have come.” She twists the hem of her shirt in her hands as her eyes dart around. ”This isn't a good place to talk. I could get into a massive amount of trouble.”

Doing something I never in all my eighteen years imagined doing, I grab her hand and whisk her down the hall to my bedroom, where I shut and lock the door. Scooping her up, I unceremoniously plop her on the bed.

“You know about my life, and I need to know what you know. Now, what's your name?” I sit down at my desk several feet away from her. Even if I'm suddenly going to get chummy with an elf, I know better than to get to close.

“Ebrillwen,” she says with a tiny smile. “I want to help you, but if your father finds out I'm here…” She trails off with a tremor in her voice.

My father. “I understand,” I assure her. “No one will find out you're helping me. I promise.”

Ebrillwen tucks a strand of silvery hair behind her ear.

“The young man to whom you are betrothed is quite handsome,” she says again. When I roll my eyes in frustration, her tiny features get cross. Quickly I rearrange my face to what I hope is an open and interested look. Finally she continues, “His parents placed him with human fosters when he was an infant.”

"Wait, is he immortal too?" I interrupt her. The thought is intriguing.

Ebrillwen frowns. "You aren't immortal."

Another eye roll follows, which of course means I have to think of some way to deflect my obvious rudeness. To distract the small elf I pick up my snow globe, the one that can track my father's progress around the world, and shake it. The tiny flakes of snow swirl around, revealing my father still sitting at his desk. Ebrillwen is indeed distracted.

"I know I'm not immortal like you are," I say, hoping a flattering tone will continue to distract her enough so she won't get mad and leave. One never knows what an elf will do. "But I'll live plenty long. Now what can you tell me about his parents?"

Ebrillwen shakes herself out of the snow globe's magical trance and looks at me thoughtfully. She smoothes tiny hands over her velvet skirt and picks at imaginary lint. Elves are nothing if not immaculately groomed.

"All I really know about them is from when you were just a baby," she says. "They came here for the betrothal ceremony, sans son, of course."

Irritation gnaws at my stomach. When is she going to get around to telling me what she knows?

"So…who are they?" I ask through clenched teeth. I momentarily let my guard down and scoot my desk chair closer to her. Ebrillwen looks up at me sharply. I wince as the ice in her eyes cuts into the flesh of my arm. Paralyzed with sudden fear, I can't do anything except stare at the small raised area where blood is starting to appear.

When Ebrillwen relaxes her gaze and moves her eyes to a different part of the room, I take advantage of the moment to scramble backward to safety. When she looks at me again, I see the regret and sorrow in her eyes. Elves are quite good-natured for the most part, but all have the dangerous eyes. Get too close and the ice will get you one way or another.

I've never had that problem before. The elves have always just plain creeped me out. So I've kept my distance. Until now of course. Annoyance flairs again. I need this little elf to tell me what she knows. And now. I don't have much time to plan my next step. Everyone here is against me.

Ebrillwen sighs. She certainly does that a lot. "Are you hurt terribly?" When I shake my head, she continues, "His father is Jack Frost, better known as The King of Winter, and his mother is the Ice Queen. All of us elves were afraid when they came. We have heard such terrible stories about the things The King of Winter has done to elves who have gotten in his way. He gave us the curse of the icy eyes, you know."

I tremble. The King and the Ice Queen terrify me too. They are more on the terrible side of myths and legends. No one in this day and age believes in them either. Science has ruled them nearly obsolete and it angers them. Ordinary humans don't seem to realize that their winters are getting harder and crueler. Or if they do, they blame it on things like global warming. I've heard stories about The King of Winter burying huge cities in so much snow so quickly that cars get stranded on highways, their weary passengers stumbling blindly through the storm looking for refuge. Some make it. Some don't.