It hadn’t taken long for Serendipity to get over her shock at Maevis’s departing words. She was certain that, even if Maevis had read the letter correctly, the information had to be incorrect, or else someone was playing a prank on her. She was quite certain that St. Nicholas was not trying to recruit her services. If there was such a person as Santa Claus in the first place, and she had stopped believing in him the year her father had passed away, there was little doubt in her mind that murderers could be on the Nice List, and why would St. Nicholas look to recruit a doll maker who wasn’t even on his list of those who deserved a gift?

Serendipity had been extremely busy since the day the letter had arrived, not because of its existence, but because of the conversation she had carried out with Maevis that afternoon. The money was almost gone, which meant there would soon be no place for the dolls. She needed to finish them. At the rate she was going, it would be another two decades before they were all complete. That simply wouldn’t do. She had made a solemn vow to her father on the day of his remembrance ceremony that she would not rest until all of the dolls were finished and in the hands of waiting children. It was a promise she intended to keep, even if she fell over stone dead trying.

And some days she felt that might be the case. On this particular day, the wind was blowing rather sharply, rain pelting the side and roof of the cottage, and she labored away having gone without sleep for several days and having only eaten an apple or bite of bread crust from time to time. She was working at a pace that even she had never thought herself capable of, and every once in a while, she felt the sudden urge to simply drop to the floor or crash her head into the table, but she had to fight the temptation. There was so much to do.

She was working furiously to sew a dress, this one for Hester Pineyfrock in a dark shade of green, Pozzletot watching and chirping his disapproval at her pace from time to time when a knock at the door caught her attention. In fact, by the time the knocking finally registered, she realized it was not the first knock. She had grown quite accustom to Maevis knocking and then letting herself in so that she no longer seemed to notice the knock. This was different, however. It wasn’t Maevis’s gentle rapping to announce her presence; rather this was a knock with a purpose, and Serendipity couldn’t help but feel both startled and alarmed at its existence.

Putting the dress aside, she wiped the back of her hand against her forehead and stepped around the table toward the door cautiously. She knew the door wasn’t locked--it never was--and she felt foolish for not always keeping it secure. As she drew closer, the knocking increased, and finally she found her voice just enough to manage a quiet, “Who’s there?”

Without hesitation, the answer came in the form of a question. “Ms. Fizzlestitch? Are you home?”

The voice was that of a man--and Serendipity froze in her footsteps. She had not seen or spoken to a man in eight years, not since Deputy Shillingpepper had finished his second interview with her and left her as Maevis’s ward. She wished there was some way she could simply hide or convince this stranger of a lack of her existence, but she had already called out to him once. Her only options were to reply, or to lock the door and demand he go away. Despite living as a hermit for so long, she still had a bit of her mother’s strict, proper upbringing in her, and she couldn’t bring herself to simply throw the lock and back away. For all she knew, this man was a fiend who would burst the door down or break in through one of the windows. “Who is it?” she finally repeated, hoping for a quick reply and dismissal.

“Cornelius Cane, at your service,” he replied in what seemed to be quite a chipper voice. “Did you receive my letter? I’ve come to collect you and take you to the North Pole straightaway.”

Serendipity caught her breath. The letter. So, it had been real. Or perhaps this was some prankster from the village come to embarrass her. Yes, of course, that had to be it. Of course, that didn’t explain how the letter was kept from turning to ash as it hovered in the fireplace, but she dismissed that thought from her mind. And to think she had almost fallen for it. In the sternest voice she could muster, she demanded, “I’m not interested. Please leave now.”

A squeaking sound from the table let her know that her friend disapproved of her behavior, but she would have to reason with Pozzletot later. This was a discussion to be had by adults—human adults.

Standing in the rain with only the cover of a very small overhang, Corey was beginning to lose the chipperness in his voice as he began to realize Serendipity was not going to be as easy a case as he had initially believed. He resisted the urge to bang his head into the rough-hewn timber that constituted a door and relied on his power of persuasion instead. “Ms. Fizzlestitch, if you would allow me to enter, I’m quite certain a quick discussion will change your mind. This is the opportunity of a lifetime!”

There was that phrase again, and Serendipity was beginning to loathe it. Who was she to deserve the opportunity of a lifetime when her family saw so little opportunity in the short spans of theirs? Her voice grew a little stronger this time as she called out, “No thank you! I’m not interested. You may go now.”