Page 1 of The Christmas Book Flood

ONE

REYKJAVIK, ICELAND

T HE RINGING OF THE PHONE quite possibly kept Tatiana Eliasdottir from getting sacked.

Its shrill cry brought her jumping to her feet, and a startled look at the clock on the wall showed her that had the phone not pulled her from the sentence half written on the paper in the typewriter, she would no doubt have been late to her job.

Frantic, she dashed for the telephone, silently thanking the Lord for whoever thought to call her so ridiculously early in the morning.

Snatching the receiver from the cradle, she said, “Hello?” in a voice that probably sounded as breathless as she felt.

She stretched the cord as far as it would go so she could reach the red jacket that matched her skirt.

She’d draped it over a kitchen chair when she emerged from her bedroom an hour ago and made a mad dash for the typewriter, hoping to get down the idea she’d had before it flew away like a migratory bird.

“Oh good, you haven’t left yet. I was afraid I’d missed you.”

Tatiana’s lips curled up at the voice on the line.

She ought to have known, she supposed. Her sister was the only one who ever called first thing in the morning—something she’d only just been able to start doing six months ago, when phone lines were finally run to their rural hometown.

“Ari! How are you feeling? How’s Gunnar recuperating? ”

Even across the miles, Ari’s exhaustion came through loud and clear in her sigh. “That’s why I’m calling. Gunnar reopened his wound yesterday, working.”

With a wince, Tatiana cradled the phone between her head and shoulder so she could slide an arm into her jacket sleeve.

Her brother-in-law had been on a fishing trawler that had been the unfortunate recipient of a German torpedo intended to attack an Allied shipping convoy.

They’d been mistaken as part of it. The sailors had all survived, praise God—but several had been injured, including Gunnar.

The doctor had ordered him to stay off his injured leg two weeks ago, but of course, this was Gunnar.

He didn’t understand the principle of rest . “How bad?”

“Bad enough that he’s actually staying off his feet now.” Ari’s voice sounded strained. “And to make matters worse, the doctor ordered bed rest for me too.”

Though she’d been reaching with an extended foot for her black pumps, Tatiana stopped at that, her hand tightening around the receiver.

“Are you all right? The baby?” Her sister wasn’t due to deliver until early January.

And the last time the doctor had ordered bed rest, Ari had lost the child anyway, just a few weeks before she was supposed to give birth.

It couldn’t happen again. It couldn’t . Not now, so close to Christmas.

Not now, when Ari had just finally, finally emerged from the fog of pain and grief of that late miscarriage two years ago, and the earlier ones three and four and five years ago.

Please, God. Please, spare my sister another loss. Please, keep the babe and her healthy.

“I don’t know.” The crack in Ari’s voice said far more than the words. “We’re just... it’s a hard time. And Elea—that’s why I’m calling. With neither of us able to get up, it’s going to be a miserable Christmas here for her. I’d hoped I might convince you to take a guest through the holidays.”

“Truly?” A bubble of joy slipped past the concern keeping her throat in a death grip. Her seven-year-old niece was, quite possibly, her favorite person in the world. “You know I’d be delighted! But you really want to be separated at Christmas?”

“Of course I don’t want to.” Tears clogged her sister’s voice. “But I think it would be best for her. You know how sensitive she is to everyone else’s pain. She’s as miserable as we are, and that’s just not fair to her. She deserves a real celebration for once.”

Tatiana finally slipped her feet into her shoes and glanced at the clock again.

Two minutes until she had to be out the door.

But the urgency didn’t keep the sting of tears from her eyes.

“You’ve done the best you could, Ari,” she whispered into the phone.

The series of miscarriages had wreaked havoc on her sister’s soul.

It was hard to think about Yule Lads and gifts and even the miracle of Jesus coming to earth as a babe when your heart was broken over the loss of your own babies.

But she’d always tried to bring joy to her one living child.

She deserved credit for that. “Elea doesn’t begrudge anything. ”

“I know. That’s why I so wanted this year to be different for her. And I know if she’s with her favorite aunt, she’ll have a festive holiday for once.”

Tatiana smiled at the “favorite aunt” business.

She was Elea’s only aunt, given that she and Ari had no other siblings and Gunnar had only two younger brothers, neither of whom had married yet.

“You know I’ll gladly keep her. Perhaps she can even come with me to the office, and then to Uncle Valdi’s for Christmas itself—she’s always been so fascinated by the publishing company. ”

This marked the first Christmas since Tatiana moved to Reykjavik five years ago that she wouldn’t go home for the holiday.

She just couldn’t get away, not this year.

Not with the success of the Book Bulletin.

It had been a heavy realization at first, but she’d cheered herself with the thought of spending more time with Valdi and his family.

Having Elea here would make it even better.

“Thank you, Tatta. I feel so much better, knowing she’ll have a cheerful holiday.”

Another glance at the clock told her she needed to be out the door in five seconds.

Hurriedly, she asked about how Elea would get to the city and promised to be home to meet the neighbor who’d be driving her on Monday afternoon.

With a quick assurance that she’d call over the weekend to verify everything, Tatiana hung up the phone, grabbed her coat and hat and handbag, and dashed out the door with only one longing look at the half-finished sentence in her typewriter.

Stars twinkled overhead as she dashed out into the street, tugging her coat on as she went.

Sunrise was still hours away, and they’d have less than four hours of daylight before night overtook them again.

All of which she’d spend inside the proud brick facade that housed Sogufelagith—the Story Society.

She probably wouldn’t even get more than a fleeting glimpse of the sun through the window in her uncle’s office, truth be told.

Her own desk was in a windowless section outside his door, and the warehouse space in the basement where she’d likely be spending most of her time had nothing but electric lights.

But to get to work at one of Iceland’s premier publishing houses, directly under her uncle, the publisher—it was worth the sacrifice of seeing any daylight this time of year. And really, she made up for it in the summer months, when day stretched on and on and nighttime was the one in short supply.

Uncle Valdi was a stickler for punctuality though, and had warned her from the start that she’d get no favoritism just because she was his brother’s daughter.

She’d seen him dismiss other people for late arrivals and didn’t intend to be added to the list. So she ran the whole way to Fakafen, ignoring the snow that worked its way into her shoes when she misstepped and landed in a pile of it.

When she turned the corner onto the street that housed the publisher, the allure of a warm interior was enough to make her pick up her pace still more. “Hold the door, please!” she called out to whoever was entering before her.

The man paused and turned her way, giving her a glimpse of his face instead of just his fedora and wool coat in the light that spilled out of the open door.

A face that, lately, had begun to make her chest go warm.

She tried to act nonchalant whenever circumstances put her in the same place as the star of the Story Society, but to herself she could admit it was nothing but an act.

When her uncle had offered her the position as his assistant, Anders Johannsson had been one of the reasons for her quick acceptance.

It wasn’t the handsome face that now offered her a bashful smile, though that certainly didn’t hurt—she hadn’t known, then, how handsome he was.

It wasn’t the scads of books his editorial eye had helped bring to publication in his seven years at the company—though her uncle had bragged about his best editor on multiple occasions.

It was his sagas that had intrigued her at the start, rewritten specifically for children and illustrated by his own hand.

She’d always loved the old Icelandic tales of Nordic heroes of old, but the way he brought them to life was nothing short of brilliant.

She’d purchased every single one he’d done thus far for Elea and already had his new release bought and wrapped for this year’s gift.

She’d been quite certain she’d stumble and stutter the first time she met him.

.. but was strangely comforted by the fact that the brilliant writer and illustrator was an absolute dunce in social situations.

Hence how they’d gone years working together, and yet she hadn’t begun to feel as though she knew him at all until these last few months.

The irony being he didn’t know she was the one he’d been getting to know through letters. Thoughts she’d better stow away again now, lest she give herself away.

He paused in the doorway but couldn’t seem to decide whether he should shut the door while he waited for her to dash the last few steps, thereby keeping the heat within the building, or hold it open for her.

He half closed and then reopened it twice before she reached him, his cheeks flushing in that way they always did.