The home Nicholas had accidentally bypassed in his deliveries was on the second floor of a derelict apartment building that looked as if it wouldn’t pass the most relaxed building code. The foundation sank at one corner, causing large cracks to stair-step up the brick walls. Balcony railings hung loose from their moorings or were missing altogether. Windows were cracked or completely shattered, trash littered the walkways, and in one very dark corner of the building, a man tightened a makeshift tourniquet around his arm and reverently kissed the plastic chalice of a hypodermic needle.

Andor followed Nicholas up the stairs to Claire Summerlad’s apartment. In his centuries among them, the elf had seen the rise and fall of men and their civilizations. He’d been amused and admiring to watch great minds figure out the world was round, how gravity worked, what made the light bulb shine and how to fly to the moon. He’d been equally horrified to watch the white mushroom cloud explode skyward. Men had surpassed the álfar. They had become god-like in their ability to destroy. Yet, for all their knowledge, their power and their creature comforts, they were sometimes reduced to this—running poison through their veins in a futile attempt to stave off an internal darkness.

“Leave him be, Andor. He’s far beyond any small comfort we can give him.”

The saint’s advice interrupted his reverie, and he was surprised to find himself back at the bottom step. “He can’t see us, Nicholas. What harm would it do?”

“None, but what good would it do? There’s someone waiting for us, one whose belief is so powerful, it gives her strength and hope. That poor soul gave those up long ago.”

Andor sighed. Nicholas was right. There were some too far gone for even his brand of magic to touch and ease. He jogged up the stairs on silent feet and followed Nicholas through the closed apartment door.

It was dark inside save for the single strand of twinkling lights wrapped around a tabletop artificial Christmas tree that looked as if it had been rescued from a dumpster. One small gift, wrapped in red paper, lay under its lopsided branches.

A faded couch and a lawn chair were pushed against one wall. Two egg crates, stacked one atop the other, supported an old TV. Garland made of construction paper loops hung above the window looking out onto the main walkway, and a child’s hand-drawn pictures of Santa and all his entourage were taped on the walls in various places. This was an impoverished household, but one where the spirit of the season was alive and well.

Nicholas motioned with his hand, and both he and Andor became visible once more. The elf raised an eyebrow. “You don’t often do that. Are you hoping she sees you?” He didn’t bother whispering. The magic suffusing the apartment kept their voices silent to all save each other.

The shuffle and crackle of Christmas paper was loud in the room as Nicholas dug in the small bag he brought. Three colorful boxes wrapped in gold and silver paper, with cascades of ribbons pouring down their sides, joined the lone present. They were accompanied by unwrapped gifts as well—a stack of books and a sketch pad with artist pencils.

The saint’s eyes twinkled. “You might want to glamour yourself, lad. She’s coming down the hall now.”

Andor had only seconds to overlay a glamour, that of one of Nicholas’s nisse. Even after all these years, it still unnerved him when those children lucky enough to “catch” Santa and his helper looked at his legs when they spoke to him in their high, breathless voices.

Claire Summerlad, age seven, was a skinny, graceless child made up of knobby knees and elbows. Her short, blonde hair stuck out at all angles, testament to the rigors of a restless sleeper. She approached the door slowly, as wary as any creature who senses a strangeness to its surroundings.

From his vantage point, Andor had a clear view of her face when she caught sight of Nicholas standing next to her decrepit little tree with its array of gifts beneath it. Gray eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, and her mouth formed a silent “O” of amazement.

“Hello, Claire. Merry Christmas.”

It never failed to send a tingle down Andor’s spine when a child uttered Nicholas’s name with such wonder. He felt it again when Claire spoke.

“Santa?”

Nicholas laughed, a great rolling thunder of mirth that made his beard shake and might have awakened the entire apartment complex if the magic didn’t work to keep it contained. He held out his arms.

The child ran to him, but skidded to a stop when she caught sight of Andor off to the side. It was his turn to gape. Claire wasn’t looking at his legs. Instead, her head tilted back, eyes looking far up to his much greater height so she could meet his gaze.

His indrawn breath echoed louder than Nicholas’s laughter. A Sunday’s Child. Claire was a Sunday’s Child, and one with enough of the Sight to see beyond his glamour. She walked closer until she was directly in front of him. Andor paused for a second, then crouched until he was eye-level with the girl.

Nicholas stood forgotten as, for uncounted moments, elf and human child stared at each other, enraptured. “What do you see?” he asked her softly.

A small hand rose, fluttered across his face. “Forever. I see Forever.” She smiled, revealing a missing front tooth.

How rare a thing to find a Sunday’s Child in this age of disbelief. Hundreds of years earlier, ljósálfar like himself would have hunted her, made her a changeling to live among them and guard against her betraying their presence with her deep Sight. Now they would take her just to assure themselves they hadn’t completely faded from the world.

“I like your ears,” she said. “They’re very pointy.” Claire grinned but didn’t try to touch him.

Andor returned her smile. “They’re my best feature.”

“Andor.”

The elf dragged his gaze from Claire to Nicholas.

“We have to leave.”

“Yes.”

Claire grabbed Andor’s hand, startling him with her sudden action. “Don’t go,” she pleaded. “You can eat breakfast with us. My mom is making pancakes, and you can help me open presents.”

It was difficult to free his hand from hers. He’d very much like to stay, but Nicholas was right. Their time among this world was fleeting, limited to a single season and a single night. Claire was luckier than most in that she saw Nicholas in all his Christmas glory. She was more unique than most in that she saw Andor in his true form.

He bowed before her, a courtly gesture usually reserved for Dagrun. “I’m sorry, Claire. We have to leave.”

His stomach knotted when her gray eyes glazed with tears, but she held them back with a loud sniff. “Okay,” she said in a wobbly voice. Her smile returned full force when she turned to Nicholas. “Thank you, Santa.”

“My pleasure, Claire.” Nicholas’s voice deepened, gained a rhythm that vibrated deep into Andor’s bones and made him a touch drowsy. “Now, I want you to go back to bed. The presents will still be here, and there’s a special one for your mother, too.”

Andor’s brows rose, as did the saint’s, when Claire managed to fight off the sleep spell long enough to address Andor once more.

“Come see me next year. I won’t forget you. You won’t forget me?”

The knot in his belly tightened. She would forget, or cease to believe. Time and age would see to it, even for a Sunday’s Child. The human adult changed belief systems, relegating the wonders of childhood sorcery to memories. Such knowledge never bothered him before. It did now.

“No, Claire. I won’t forget you.”

She nodded slowly, her eyelids drifting to half-mast over her eyes as the spell took effect. “Okay.” She yawned twice and tottered out of the room. Her sleepy voice drifted back to them from the hall. “Goodnight.”

The silence in the small living room held nothing of magic in it. Nicholas sighed, and there was an odd sympathy in his dark gaze. “You’re lucky. We rarely come across one like her these days.”

Andor closed his eyes. “I know, and I’m not sure if I should celebrate or grieve.”