Corey could hear in her voice that she was no one to be trifled with--not that day anyway. He had been in similar situations before, though never with someone in their youth such as Ms. Fizzlestitch. Generally speaking, the younger the crafter, the more capable he or she was of believing in magic. This was particularly true when it came to young ladies. Nevertheless, Serendipity was beginning to challenge him, and while he was up for the challenge, he was not up for the rain; snow was one thing--rain was something else entirely. “Very well, then,” he replied. “Might I trouble you for a drink of water then?” he called, hoping that he would make more progress with her if he could meet her face to face. Then, she could look into his dazzling green eyes and fall captive to his mesmerizing gaze as so many young ladies had before her.

Serendipity was puzzled. She had not expected him to give up so quickly, nor had she expected him to make any requests of her. She did have a pump in the corner--though she only had one drinking glass, which she used for herself, the rest all used for holding paint or paintbrushes. She would hate to deny him a drink, however, a glass of water being the simplest form of hospitality she could think of. She hesitated though, not wanting to let a stranger into her home, particularly since she knew he would have so many questions--about the dark, the dolls, the mess. Eventually, however, her mother’s words regarding manners won out, and she stepped to the door, her hand shaking as she fumbled with a doorknob she had not manipulated in more years than she cared to count.

The door opened slowly, and Corey stood posed with his most inviting, kindest forced grin plastered on his face, pouring empathy into his eyes as if it were as liquid as tears. However, he was not prepared for the sight that caught his gaze as Ms. Fizzlestitch finally stood before him. She was squinting against the light, little that there was in the downpour, her hand sheltering her eyes. He noticed immediately how deathly pale her skin was, how her nearly white hair looked as if it had not been combed or brushed for years. Paint stained both hands, her elbows, and even parts of her face, as well as her simple frock. And her eyes, when she did open them, were the lightest blue he had ever seen. Momentarily, he thought he had come face to face with a specter or apparition. He was caught so off guard, for once, he was rendered momentarily speechless. As she said nothing, only stepped to the side so that he could enter, he found himself wanting for words, and eventually was able to stutter out, “Th-thank you, Ms. Fizzlestitch,” as he forced his feet to cross the threshold.

Inside, he could plainly see the reason for her lack of coloration and her resistance to the light. It was nearly pitch-black inside except for the flickers of a dying fire. The curtains were thick and drawn tightly, and as she shut the door behind him, he couldn’t help but feel as one might upon finding oneself in the bottom of a grave while still alive. The room was a disaster from what he could tell in the dimness, with paint and doll parts littering a table near the fire, a few chairs here and there, and discarded materials skittered across the floor. The remnants of dirty dishes covered the table and parts of the floor as well, and he noticed immediately the presence of several mice, mostly on the floor but one fat one on the table next to the dolls. His stomach began to churn, and he realized it was not simply because of the fact that someone could actually live this way, but it was quite obvious that Ms. Fizzlestitch had not bathed--nor perhaps emptied her chamber pot--in quite some time. Cornelius Cane felt very certain that he was about to be sick all over Ms. Fizzlestitch’s living quarters, and he couldn’t help but wonder for how many years the remnants of such an occurrence might remain untouched.

“Here you are,” Serendipity was saying. He turned to see she was offering him some water in a small tin cup, which also didn’t look to be particularly clean. He had not even heard her using the pump and wondered if she had simply chosen the less paint filled of the cups on the table for him to utilize. Nevertheless, he had a job to do, which meant he must be charming, so he took the offered beverage, raised the cup to his lips, and took a sip, once again fighting off the urge to vomit at the thought of what he might be consuming.

As quickly as possible, he handed the cup back to her, and choked out a quick, “Thank you.” He knew he needed to gather his sense about him if he was to continue. Taking a deep breath, he stepped toward the table, examining her work. What he saw was quite impressive. Though the dolls littering the work area were in different stages of completion, each was so well done, he couldn’t help but be temporarily distracted from his repulsion. “Amazing…” he said quietly, aware that Serendipity had stepped over and was now standing at his elbow, her arms crossed. “You are extremely talented, Ms. Fizzlestitch.”

“You asked for water, and you have had some. Now you must go,” Serendipity said very matter-of-factly, wishing he were not invading her personal space.

Corey ignored her, stepping around the table and picking up the head she had been working on earlier that day. “Look at this detail,” he said, turning it over in his hands. Serendipity’s hands instinctively flew up, wanting to protect her interest. She hesitated, reached again, and dropped her hands. Corey tossed the head up into the air, caught it and sat it back down on the table, unaware of the trepidation he was bringing upon his hostess. He picked up one of her other dolls, this one nearly complete. “The coloring all goes so well together.” He flipped Maggie Wentworth over in his hands and then carelessly lay her back down as Serendipity reached for her to straighten her dress. He fumbled through a stack of fabric, shook some jars of paint and inspected her brushes before returning his attention to the artist whose hands were following in his wake, straightening what he had set askew and returning items to their rightful position, a look of horror plastered on her face. All the while, Pozzletot scurried from one safe haven to another as he was unable to tell in which direction Corey might toss something next, and when it seemed the visitor was done tossing her treasures about, Serendipity scooped her friend up and sat him carefully on her shoulder.

“I had heard about the magic you create here,” Corey stated, turning toward the fireplace, hoping to catch a glimpse of the letter he had sent, but he was unable to locate it. He turned his attention back to Serendipity who still stood on the other side of the table from him. “Now that I’ve seen it with my own eyes, I can’t help but believe we’ve made the right choice. You will be a fine addition to our team, Ms. Fizzlestitch.” He extended his hand in a welcoming gesture, hoping she would grasp it and agree to accompany him back to the North Pole with no more discussion.