Page 7 of The Christmas Book Flood

FOUR

A NDERS FLEXED HIS FINGERS TO shake out the stiffness from too many hours with his pen in hand, looking up from the page to the clock on the wall and frowning.

It was thirty minutes past when Tatiana had said she’d be back up from the warehouse and the shipping department, and it wasn’t like her to be late.

His gaze drifted out the door into the outer office, where he’d set up a small desk for Elea—one he’d intended to give to his nephew for Christmas last year, but which Dalmar had nixed when he’d mentioned it to him.

A veritable thundercloud had descended upon his brother’s face too, as he’d said, You’ll not encourage the boy to spend any more time indoors at a desk.

He’ll be taking over the boat when he grows up. End of story.

Though Anders had felt sympathy for ten-year-old Garri, who took after Anders more than his family would like, he hadn’t dared cross Dalmar on the matter.

There was no point. Had he given the desk, it just would have ended up tossed out anyway.

So he’d kept it, thinking maybe his brother would eventually relent.

Perhaps he could argue that it would be useful for Garri’s schoolwork.

The battle had yet to be won, so Anders had hauled it in here yesterday and situated it across from Helga’s desk.

It was good to see some child putting it to use, anyway.

Elea had been busy at it all day, working first on her homework from school and then on some drawing.

She’d been so quiet that he’d forgotten she was there for much of the day, other than when Helga directed a question her way and he’d jolted to hear a young voice answer.

Now, he stretched, stood, and wandered to the doorway to give his neck and back a break from hunching over his own desk. He exchanged a smile with Helga and then sent it in Elea’s direction and said, “Are you looking forward to Giljagaur coming tonight?”

She sent him a look that was part amusement, part disbelief. “You too? I thought only Aunt Tatta was so stuck on the idea of the Yule Lads still.”

Tatiana had confessed to both him and Helga in whispers over the coffeepot this morning the conversation she and Elea had had the night before.

So he could grin and point over his shoulder to the felt figures of the trolls he’d set up in his windowsill.

They were one of the few decorations he brought to his office each year, solely because looking over and seeing them made up for the lack of sunlight coming through that window. “Giljagaur was always my favorite.”

Elea stood from her desk and shifted to where she could see the line of silly trolls. “Because he’s the tallest?”

“Because he’s shy. So shy he wears disguises when he travels.

” Anders moved quickly to the windowsill to grab the felt doll and held it out for Elea as he leaned in the doorway again.

“I have to say, I’ve considered it myself, now and then.

Perhaps if I paste on a big white beard, my brothers won’t recognize me and heckle me. What do you think?”

Elea giggled and ran her fingers through the wooly beard. “But he’s responsible for feeding Jolakotturinn too—I wouldn’t want to have to come close to that mean old Christmas Cat.”

Anders made a show of considering. “I admit I was wary of the creature when I was a child, given my fear of becoming a snack. But now that I’m grown, he doesn’t seem quite so intimidating. I have a cat of my own now, in fact. And she’s only ever taken the tiniest nibbles of me.”

At her desk, Helga grinned. A look of approval, one he seldom earned from the woman outside of business reasons.

The girl laughed again. “What’s your cat’s name?”

“Enja. She’s a beautiful orange tabby. Who has never once threatened to eat naughty children if Giljagaur forgets to feed her.

” He winked and reached for one of the framed watercolors he kept on his desk, holding it out for inspection as well.

He’d done this one of Enja when she was a mischievous kitten, sitting on the top of his highest bookshelf at home.

Elea set the doll down and reached for the picture, eyes wide as she crooned the universal approval of kittens. “She’s so cute! Did you paint this?”

“I did.” Another something his family had always called ridiculous—all those hours spent with sketching pencils and watercolor paints instead of tackle and nets.

Thank the Lord for his grandmother, or he never would have had the art supplies to learn with.

She’d been the sole member of his family to encourage his pursuit of the arts, and he missed her every day.

“I wish I was that good.” Elea traced her gaze over each line of the painting.

Anders glanced to the desk with the many drawn-on papers on the top. “You have quite a lot of talent—every bit as much as I did at your age. If you spend time doing it, you will get better and better and soon be putting me to shame.”

Her laugh was incredulous and flattered both. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, I do. Come. Look.” He turned back into his office and sat in his chair, opening the bottom drawer of his desk, where he’d stashed his eight-year-old illustrations for the same saga he was working on now—he’d brought them in as inspiration, thinking it would be fun to recreate them.

He and Valdi were even debating including a few of his early sketches, side by side with his current artwork, in the back to show the children who’d read his book that they could chase their dreams.

Helga and Elea had both followed him in, shared curiosity on their faces that made him wonder if even his assistant was more interested in his personal work than he’d even dared to assume.

He cleared his throat. As always, it was easier to focus on the simple curiosity of a child than the complicated judgments of an adult.

He directed his gaze to Elea. “I did this when I was older than you.” He held out the drawing of Gunnar, most famous of all the Icelandic heroes of lore.

“You see? You have a much better sense of anatomy and proportions than I did at your age.”

She took the drawing, her grin going wider. “This is really yours?”

“Mm-hmm. Here’s the version of the same scene I’m doing now.

” Another drawer pulled open, another sketch pulled out—this time the one he’d been working on during his lunch break yesterday.

A bit more sophisticated than his childish version, to be sure, but clearly the same idea.

The sketch was nearly done—he’d take it home with him tonight and start the painting.

She laughed in delight, which sparked a flame of warmth in his chest. This was why he ignored the prodding of his family.

Defied generations of tradition. This was why he worked through every insecurity and doubt—to see that joy on a child’s face and know he had put it there.

To stir young hearts to embrace the bravery and courage of mythical heroes in their everyday lives.

To help them realize that with faith and determination, they could do anything.

“Hey, Anders, Helga.” One of the newest editors, Stig, leaned into the open doorway. “Boss wants us all in the common room for a minute.” The young man sent a wink toward Elea, who’d turned to look at him. “He said you’re welcome to come too, princess.”

Helga immediately turned to follow Stig out.

Elea set the drawing onto Anders’s desk as he stood again from his chair, both of them following the others down the corridor, toward the bookcase-lined common area.

Anders looked around the moment they entered, searching for Tatiana, but he didn’t see her familiar golden curls anywhere.

Clearly Elea tried and failed in the same quest. No doubt failing to find either her aunt or grand-uncle was what inspired her to tuck her hand into his.

He gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze and led her to a cozy corner of the room that Helga had staked out.

All the seating was already taken by his colleagues.

They’d just turned back to face the room at large when Valdi and Tatiana both entered, each pulling a wheeled cart behind them. He wondered at first if this was some sort of Christmas gift exchange... but then he realized that all the objects in the carts were envelopes.

Familiar envelopes. All the same size and shape. All bearing the logo of the Book Bulletin on them.

His wasn’t the only jaw that dropped. Were those all... orders? New ones?

Valdi turned to face his employees with a look of determination edged in panic.

“Well, my friends. It seems we’ve done too good a job of advertising the Book Bulletin.

” He waved a hand at the overflowing mail carts.

“These all arrived today. And we’ve promised Christmas delivery for any orders coming in through tomorrow.

Who knows how many more we’ll get then?”

Anders’s gaze shifted from the cart to Tatiana. Her hair was a bit frazzled, and shadows had crept in under her eyes since he’d last seen her that morning.

“We’d thought that Tatiana in addition to the usual mail room staff would be able to handle the orders... but we clearly underestimated the success of the Bulletin. We’ve been flooded, as you can see.”

“A book flood,” Stig said, a grin pulling at his lips. “My kind of inundation.”

Tatiana smiled too, despite the tired hand she’d lifted to shove away the hair that had broken free of its pins. “A Christmas book flood, even.”

“A jolabokaflod ,” Valdi echoed, voice contemplative.

A sparkle lit his eyes. “I like it. Next year, we’ll call it that from the start.

But to the point.” He faced the crowd again.

“We need volunteers downstairs. I know some of you are under tight deadlines already, and if that’s the case, come speak to me about pushing things back by a week.

But anyone who has the time, we could use your help. ”