Chapter Text
It didn’t snow in Hartland. It rained. It froze. It rained again. That was just the way things were, and the people had learned to accept it. Even the oldest resident couldn’t recall a day when it may have snowed.
Rumors had grown over the decades. Some claimed their humble town was cursed, leading back to some gypsy or witch or devil ritual — any foreign practice, really, so long as it wasn’t Christian. The realists narrowed it down to a vague, unproven science. They were isolated from most of civilization, nestled between rolling hills littered with towering trees, colorful meadows, and twining rivers. “Naturally,” the hills prevented winter winds from cooling the rain enough to freeze into snow, despite the fact that it still grew cold enough to freeze their rivers solid. The popular opinion was that their town was blessed by Mother Nature. The farms were always bountiful, flowers blossomed with little effort, and no house or yard was without persistent foliage slithering up posts, along fences, and branching across exterior walls.
Whichever the reason, it didn’t matter to Alastor. No, the matter of reality didn’t quite bother him, not when there were so many more pressing matters to focus his time and effort on. Such as the batch of gingerbread cookies he was pulling from the oven.
With an oven mitt two stitches away from deterioration, Alastor carefully lifted the baking sheet from the middle rack. He eyed the edges of the cookies with a critical gaze, testing them with a delicate touch of an exposed finger.
With a contented hum, Alastor settled the baking sheet on the cooling rack before grabbing the next one off the storage rack and placing it in the oven. With a chipper turn on his heel, Alastor made his way across the kitchen with two broad steps to the opposite counter where a cooled batch of gingerbread cookies awaited.
The small kitchen was filled with the rich aroma of ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla. There was an undercurrent of toasted nuts from the batches of pecan and almond-infused cookies sitting in sealed boxes off to the side.
Alastor hummed out an original tune as he spun the icing bag in his hand. He leaned forward and carefully piped icing onto the man-shaped cookies. He decorated cookies with skirts, with pants, with short legs and long, along with one cookie specially shaped like someone in a wheelchair.
With the most recent batch iced and ready, Alastor checked his watch for the time — then double-checked the clock on the wall. For good reason, too. It seemed his watch was running slow again. Alastor made a mental note to change the battery before taking the batch out to the small dining section beyond the swinging door.
The little café corner was a humble eatery with only a few tables and a small counter. The attached display case was old — which was an understatement. The wood base was chipped and stained from a flood years prior. The decorative linoleum siding had yellowed with age, having endured too many decades of exposure to light and who-knows-what-else. The rounded glass casing in the front was cracked in the corner, a blemish that new customers loved to point out whenever they noticed. Despite all its faults, however, it still worked and that was good enough for Alastor.
Sliding the back panel aside, he placed the freshly-made cookies on display, saving a handful for personal use.
“Alastor! Are you almost done?”
Alastor straightened and leaned over the counter to peer over the other side. Standing there, gazing up at him with one large, expressive eye, was Niffty. She stood on the tips of her toes, perhaps to make herself more noticeable, or perhaps to get a look at what remained on the tray in Alastor’s hand.
Pointedly, Alastor lifted the tray even higher. “Nearly done, my dear,” he said with a smile. “Just a couple left to make. How is the storefront coming along?”
“Almost done! Come see.” Niffty was scurrying along without waiting to see if he’d follow. Not that she needed to. Alastor was already stepping around the display case.
As he moved away from the kitchen, the smell of baked cookies and brewed coffee blended with the scent of aged pages with a hint of dust. Lining along tall bookcases were string lights that blinked and twinkled, not always in rhythm. He knew without looking that there were several festive elves and gnomes watching him as he passed their shelves. One table display had a Santa Claus figurine holding a long parchment of paper with the words “Naughty and Nice” written at the top, surrounded by piles of holiday-related fiction books for all ages. Another table had a figurine of the Snow Miser, too broken now to lift his hat like he used to but still managed to play his song if someone found the button hidden amidst the collection of holiday-themed novelties.
In the front of the store, a boombox was sitting on the cassette display, playing Christmas songs from a cassette that was almost as old as the store itself. On one side of the front counter was a miniature Christmas tree, decorated to the brim with ornaments that were too large for its size. On the other side sat an electric menorah with multicolored bulbs where traditionally oil would be.
Alastor gave the front of the store a cursory glance. He easily noticed Husk standing on a stool, reaching high up to tie plastic mistletoe — which lost its berries years ago — over the romance section. Mimsy could be seen down the aisle, swaying her hips to the music as she placed an Elf on the Shelf in a promiscuous pose. His mother, however, who was supposed to be running the front desk, was absent.
Alastor slowly spun in place to try and spy her within the maze of bookcases. Before he could get so much as a glimpse, Niffty said, “What do you think?” He gave up on his momentary search to look down at the young girl as she stretched her short arms out wide as if to present the new holiday decor to him.
The decorations were as used as the secondhand books that lined their shelves. They had been recycled year after year, and most of them occupied the same spaces they had the years before. Regardless, Alastor smiled down at Niffty and made a point to look around the store again. “It looks radiant, my dear.”
Niffty beamed at the praise. “I did the windows,” she said, pointing behind her to the giant windows that made up the majority of their storefront. For a brief moment, he took in the fake frost sprayed along the edge of the glass and the framing string lights — idly wondering if Niffty had clambered up Husk to reach so high — before his gaze went beyond the glass.
It was evening now, looking later than it was since Winter was so adamant about snuffing out as much of the sun as possible. Despite the overcast clouds blocking any light from the moon above, the town was far from dull. Along with the traditional street lights, the roads were illuminated by the excess of additional shimmering lights and decorative banners that Hartland always spared the funds to keep maintained for the holiday season.
Under the artificial lights, Alastor could see groups of people passing by on the sidewalk. There were couples leaning close to one another to keep warm and families hurrying along to the warmth of their cars. Many could be seen carrying shopping bags, making it obvious that they were in the midst of their holiday shopping.
And yet, barely anyone gave their little store a second glance. And the ones that did wouldn’t be popping in for the books.
Vintage Verses was a secondhand bookstore, offering culture to a town that otherwise had none. It was located on the main street in the heart of town, where everyone had to pass it by every day. But despite its location and the building’s roots back to the town’s founding, people had lost interest over the years. At least, the people lost interest in the bookstore aspect of it.
In the back of Vintage Verses was Alastor’s café. It was a quaint little dining experience that offered baked goods, fresh coffee, and a rotating menu that adjusted itself to Alastor’s preference. While people didn’t linger in the bookstore, several flocked to his café, almost buying out his baked stock on a daily basis.
It was great, having such a profitable business, but it was just an extension of the bookstore. Without book sales, the café had no purpose.
“What do you think?” Niffty asked again, pulling Alastor from his musings.
He must have been lost in his thoughts for a good minute if she felt she needed to prompt a response from him. “Sorry,” Alastor said, gesturing to the display. “I got lost in the beauty of it. What a fine display of ingenuity! I’m especially fond of the little snowman you made with the frost.” It was a shame the snowman looked more like a roach.
“It was my first time making one.”
Yes, that was apparent. “Your hard work should be rewarded,” Alastor said. He plucked from his tray a short-legged cookie with a skirt, with the icing done just so to imitate the part in her hair that covered one eye.
She jumped in place eagerly and snatched the cookie once it was within reach. It sounded as if she was trying to thank him, or shout out in exuberance, it was hard to tell. The cookie was in her mouth at the same time she tried speaking. It was gone in seconds.
“That’s so good,” she cried after a long moan. “Can I have another one?”
“Lucky for you, I’ve made two.” Since her cookie was so small, it was only fair for her to have a second one.
“It looks just like me,” she observed.
“Had you taken the time to look, you would have noticed that last cookie looked like you as well.”
Mimzy was suddenly at his side next. “Don’t be stingy, Alastor. Give a girl a cookie.”
“I could never deny you, darling,” said Alastor as he plucked the robust cookie from his tray and handed it over.
“Oh, I love the spinster dress,” Mimsy praised. “Lovely touch!” Then she licked her tongue across the top of the cookie, smearing icing along the way.
Behind him, Alastor heard a grumble. “Decorations are done.”
Grateful for a distraction for the horrendous display that was Mimzy’s eating habits, Alastor spun around. “Ah, Husker! Kind of you to stay after and help out.”
Husk was a tall fellow, with weathered skin and salt and pepper hair. He was younger than he looked, but years of hard labor, heavy drinking, and a constant “fuck the world” expression would age anyone. He glowered dully at Alastor as one hand reached for his interior vest pocket, likely to grab the not-so-secretive flask hiding inside. “Like I had much of a choice. You scheduled me for this.”
“And you get a reward for it,” Alastor commented, presenting his tray of cookies.
That was enough for Husk to momentarily abandon his poor habit, his hand frozen partway in the neckline of his vest. “The first gingerbread men of the season?”
“Made special just for you,” Alastor said with a proud grin. He then plucked the cookie he made for Husk and handed it over.
“They look just like us,” Niffty said, holding up her second cookie. It was already missing an arm.
Husk frowned down at his cookie and showed it to Alastor. “Why does mine look like a cat?”
Alastor assumed he was referring to the cat-like whiskers Alastor had used to decorate its face. “I find it’s a remarkable resemblance! Have you seen the poor state of those untamed bushes on your face?” Alastor asked with a wicked smirk. Outdated as the fashion was, Husk’s sideburns might be socially acceptable if they were actually maintained, but Husk left his bristled and coarse. “We have a mirror in the bathroom, you know, if you’d like to take a look at yourself. But so you’re not surprised by what you see, I feel I need to let you know that you have the appearance of a feral street cat.”
Husk kept his withering glare fixed on Alastor as he pointedly bit the head off his cookie. He walked away, grumbling, “Asshole.”
Alastor chuckled as he watched Husk hungrily eat his cookie on his route back towards the kitchen to man the counter.
“Is that Alastor’s voice I hear?” came a familiar, chipper voice from behind him. Alastor spun just in time to see Rosie appear from around a bookcase. There were a couple of books in her arms and a broad grin on her cheery face. “I’d recognize that laugh anywhere!”
“Ah, Rosie,” Alastor said with a grin of his own. “And to what do we owe the pleasure of the mayor herself visiting our humble shop?”
Rosie lifted up the books in her arms. “Doing some Christmas shopping! And catching up with friends, of course.” At that, she looked to her side as Alastor’s own mother rounded the corner next.
“Rosie was just telling me about the quirky fellow who’s going to be building up that old homestead,” Amélie informed. She rolled her way forward, moving expertly in the crowded space, bypassing shelves and close-knit tables with barely an inch to spare for her wheelchair.
“He’s an awkward man, but good-natured,” Rosie said, following patiently behind Amélie. “He has a lot of plans to help better Hartland.”
Alastor lips formed a hard line. “I hardly see how fixing the homestead will help,” he commented dryly. “It’s fine the way it is. It’s a timestamp of when the town was new.”
“It’s an old building long abandoned in the woods,” Rosie argued with an amused shake of her head. “No one even visits it anymore. It would do some good to get the place touched up.” Alastor opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off. “Change is good, darling! Yes, classic touches are nice — I love that your bookstore has so much of the original design — but ‘new’ brings in money.
“Making that outdated homestead into a modern home means it can be rented out. There’s even talk of making it into a tourist spot.”
Alastor lifted a brow. “And why exactly would anyone want to visit here?”
“There’s plenty Hartland has to offer,” Rosie argued, though she didn’t elaborate. “But we’ve come up with a great development plan to turn those woods into a nature park.”
“I think it’s a great idea,” said Amélie. She made her way to the front counter where Rosie helped her set up a display from the books that Amélie had piled in her lap. “People are going out into the woods all the time. If it can be made into an official park, it can provide safe trails and draw in people from the city.”
“And with the homestead updated,” butted in Rosie, “it can be rented to anyone wanting to spend a weekend out in nature! Now, enough of that. Do I spy the annual gingerbread delights?” She finished propping up the last book — something to do with penguin grooms — and stepped up beside Alastor to eye the tray in his hands. “I look forward to these every year!”
“By all means,” Alastor said, picking up the gingerbread man designed like himself and handing it over. “You may have one from the first batch, on the house.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” She eagerly accepted the cookie. “Such a handsome little guy,” she commented before savagely eating half of it in a single bite. She loudly moaned around the cookie, bringing a delicate hand up to her rosy lips.
“Right?” said Niffty. “It’s so good!” Following Rosie’s lead, she shoved the rest of her own cookie into her mouth.
Alastor made his way over to Amélie and handed her the last cookie on the sheet. “I saved the best for last,” he said.
Amélie gratefully accepted the cookie designed like a woman in a wheelchair. “Thank you, sweetie. I was wondering how long you’d make me wait before having one. Do you have any idea how hard it is to smell you baking them and not having a single bite?” She gave an exaggerated pout. “You used to let me lick the spoon.”
“Back when I made them at home, yes,” he said, reciprocating her exaggerated gesture with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “Perhaps if you didn’t insist on dolling this place up every winter, you could have joined me in the kitchen and gotten a taste.”
She put her hand on her chest, aghast. “Alastor! How could you say that? The decorations are important. Look how pretty it is in here!”
He chuckled deep in his throat. “It does look pretty.”
“Just pretty?”
“It looks beautiful, Ma.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said, puffing out her chest. She lifted up her cookie. “Now to celebrate.” Her reaction was far more subtle than the others, which was no surprise. She had endured all his trial phases until he got the recipe right, offering her own suggestions along the way. The recipe was just as much hers as it was his. She saved her big reactions for new recipes that wowed her. Anything that didn’t elicit a “Sweet Mother!” from her didn’t make it on the menu.
Rosie made her way back towards the counter where her pile of books waited. Alastor left his mother to savor the cookie and went to ring her up.
“When will you be starting your book drive?” she asked.
It was no surprise that Rosie had been voted mayor, and why she continued to hold office for so many terms. She was a charismatic woman who was happy to support every business within her town limits. She spoke with the people as individuals and was always ready to lend an ear.
She frequented Vintage Verses, buying books for any and every occasion. She was also one of their major contributors for the book drive.
Alastor gave her a broad grin as he rang up her books. “Next week! Posters will be going up soon.”
“Be sure to drop a pile of them off at my office,” she encouraged. “I’ll start handing them out.”
“You’re such a doll.”
“Don’t I know it?”
Once he handed over her receipt, Alastor checked his watch, tutting when he noticed that the minute hand was stuck on the six. It tick-tick-ticked but couldn’t quite make it to the seven. “You’ll have to excuse me, Rosie, dear. I need to check on the cookies before they burn.”
“Oh, you hurry along! We can’t let those go to waste!” She waved him off with a hand. “And I’ll be sure the town’s socials let everyone know your gingerbread delights are officially back on the menu.”
As Alastor hurried his way around the counter towards the kitchen, his mother reached out and gingerly grabbed his forearm. He paused, letting her drift her hand down until it was grasping his and giving a loving squeeze. He squeezed her hand in return, only moving again when she let go.
Alastor passed Niffty along the way. She was wiping clean a plastic snowman whose white sheen had yellowed long ago. She looked up from her vigorous scrubbing as he approached, smiling cheerily.
“Once you’re done up here,” Alastor started without breaking his stride, “I could use a hand cleaning up the kitchen.”
Her one exposed eye shone with excitement. “Okay, Alastor!”
Thankfully, Alastor’s internal clock was more reliable than his wristwatch. There were still minutes to spare for the baking batch; just enough for him to start moving the dishes to soak in the sink and pull out the stepstool for Niffty.
It was a little after closing when Alastor finished baking the last sheet. By that time, the entire stock in the display case had been bought out. Surprising to no one at all, Mimzy had made her leave the moment she received a text from whoever her newest suitor was. Husk had also tried to sneak out once the espresso machine was cleaned. That was technically the end of his shift, so Alastor wouldn’t have thought anything of it — really, he was just happy whenever the guy managed to work a whole shift. But Alastor later found out that his crafty mother managed to guilt-trip him into salting the sidewalk and parking lot. Good for him, though, because Alastor paid him overtime with a special order of almond-inserted gingerbread cookies to take home with him. Since his mother and Niffty were stuck waiting until Alastor had finished with his baking, he opted to appease them by letting them each lick a whisk.
As Alastor locked the store, he could hear his mother and Niffty behind him.
“It’s cold,” said Niffty.
“I know, sweetie. Come along. Let’s get you home.”
Both of the ladies carried with them their own box of cookies, with Amélie’s carefully nestled in her lap as Alastor pushed her from behind. “Watch out for black ice,” Amélie warned as she offered a hand out to Niffty.
“I will—” Niffty was cut off when her tiny foot slipped on a slab of ice hidden in the shadow of the building. She barely managed to catch herself, more focused on the box she was juggling between her hands. “Aha,” she declared, lifting the undropped box in victory.
Alastor chuckled in his throat, but it was cut off when his own heel slipped on some ice. Lucky for him, it was a small slide and no one noticed. Or so that’s what he had thought until his mother shot him a sly smile over her shoulder. He chose to ignore her.
They were partway to their beat-up van when his mother excitedly slapped her hand against the armrest of her chair. “Alastor, stop!”
He immediately complied, looking at her quizzically. “What is it?”
She was looking up — high up. Alastor followed her gaze to notice that the clouds had begun to break away, revealing a sliver of sky. One star shone bright amidst the black canvas above, glimmering brilliantly between the dark clouds.
“It’s the evening star,” she declared. She then bowed her head and clasped her hands together in front of her chest.
“What are you doing?” asked Niffty.
“It’s the evening star, sweetie,” she repeated. “When you see the evening star and nothing else, you’re supposed to make a wish.”
Niffty cooed. “Oh, okay!” Mimicking Amélie, she also clasped her hands. Before she bowed her head, though, she noticed Alastor cross his arms. “You’re not going to make a wish?”
He scoffed. “Of course not. There’s no point in such frivolous things. No star will change your life; only you can.”
“Honestly, Alastor, you should open your heart more,” Amélie lightly chastised, unmoving in her prayer position.
Alastor rolled his eyes but remained silent so the girls could finish their ridiculous ritual. Once they were done, Alastor resumed pushing his mother towards the car. “And what magical remedy did you wish for?”
Amélie scoffed. “As if I’d tell you,” she teased. “The wish won’t come true if I do anyway.”
As if Alastor actually cared. Drawing his lips into a thin line, he said, “Whatever you say, mother dearest.”
Amélie leaned close to Niffty and the girls whispered something conspiratorily. Alastor strained his ears to try and listen, but the only thing he caught was their devilish, whispered laughter.
“It’s awfully bold of you ladies, scheming behind my back like that.”
“Technically, it’s in front of you, son of mine.”
Alastor growled in annoyance. “Keep it up and I’ll leave you both here to find rides for yourselves.”
“And leave poor Niffty here to fend for herself?” Amélie asked, bringing Niffty in close. “What would the papers say? ‘Local man leaves poor orphan child on the side of the road’?” And Niffty, damn the child, immediately played the part of pathetic, pitiable creature, looking up at him with a tearful eye and a quivering bottom lip.
“Don’t think that will work on me. And she’s not even an orphan — now hurry up and get in the van,” he barked, pulling Amélie up on the passenger side. Amélie chuckled but didn’t say anything as she lifted herself out of the chair. Alastor kept a close eye on her, tightening his grip on the wheelchair to keep it steady as she used it to support herself up and into the car.
Once she was settled with both feet in the car, Alastor bent down to collapse the wheelchair. Which was a mistake since he suddenly felt his scarf tighten around his throat. He looked up through the hinge of his curly bangs to see his mother tugging it tight.
“You should button your coat,” she commented, using that tight tone only mothers could acquire whenever they needed to lecture their children. “You’ll catch a cold otherwise.” Her fingers drifted down the wool scarf — scrutinizing every stitch along the black and red stripes. She had knitted it for him years ago, even managing to stitch his name into it with emerald thread. She looked it over every year “to fix any snags,” or so she often said. He believed she was looking for an excuse to make him a new one. She’s made near everyone in town their own scarves and hadn’t had much reason lately to pick up her favorite hobby.
“I’m fine, Ma,” he said, fighting back a sigh. She had good intentions, but sometimes she could be smothering. It was just part of her nature, but a child grew out of such necessities and a man in his early thirties didn’t need her fussing over him.
He lightly slapped her hands away, which caused her to give him a weak glare in return. “Button up,” she repeated.
Alastor purposefully did the opposite as he reached into the back of the van and grabbed the extra blanket. “Cover up,” he rebutted as he draped the blanket over her lap. She shot him a withering glare and he smiled broadly in return. There was a beat of silence between them as they stared down one another.
Amélie was the first one to give in, sighing lightly as she tucked the blanket around her legs. Alastor then complied and buttoned closed his pea coat.
With that battle won, Alastor grabbed the wheelchair and stored it in the trunk. From inside the van, he could hear Amélie and Niffty laughing — at his expense, no doubt. He shook his head as he slammed the trunk closed.
A light reflecting off the rear window caught his notice. Narrowing his eyes, he realized it was the evening star reflecting off the surface, still shining through the break in the clouds. He turned, looking up to the sky. It was as if it was ridiculing him, shining so brightly up there as if it didn’t have a care in the world.
Of course it didn’t. Stars didn’t need to deal with the hardships of life. The crushing weight of debt, the dwindling hours when trying to get everything done, the wear and tear of everyday life and the expenses it took to keep it maintained if just a little bit longer.
Alastor glared up at the star, its very existence a mockery on his life. It was absurd, wishing on a star. Wishes did nothing. Only hard work ever accomplished anything, and even that wasn’t a guarantee.
He turned away from it with a growl under his breath. “Fuck you.”