The Winter Freak Show (Book One of The Twisted Christmas Trilogy)

4

Toby woke up in a shadowy room. A canopy of furs and fabrics bowed low over his head then folded in at the corners of a wooden frame. He appeared to be inside some kind of tent. Engulfing him almost to the point of suffocation, a bundle of thick blankets made up a nest in which he had slept. His body was sweating under the mass of covers, but his exposed face felt chilly. Underneath, a spindly makeshift bed held him inches off the ground. A mahogany writing desk was perched at the foot of the bed. There was no floor to the shelter; its interior was carpeted with grass.

'Ah, you've made it,' commented a deep voice, sounding pleased. It was a strange, foreign accent to Toby, but it sounded kind and grandfatherly.

A fold of furs at the end of the tent swayed open and made way for a plump old man. He wore a long, crimson coat, and a cherry-red top hat that he hung on a hat stand next to the desk at the end of the bed. From his breast pocket, a golden pocket watch hung on a chain, covered partially by his white beard.

Leaving briefly, he returned with a glowing lantern and placed it on the writing desk, bathing the room in a warm glow. Its curling firelight tinged his bushy, white beard pale orange.

'Where am I?' Toby asked, confused.

He opened his blankets and swivelled around, placing his feet on the floor. He was surprised to see that they were bare; his shoes were on the grass next to him. The air was cold, vaporising their breaths like dragon-smoke.

'Hyde Park. What is your name, boy?'

'Toby Carter, sir.'

'Mmm, Toby... good strong name. You'll be perfect.'

'P-perfect for what, sir?' Toby's mind was still a little fuzzy.

'Never you mind. There's plenty of time for that,' soothed the pleasant old man, beaming. He ruffled Toby's hair and sat at the end of the bed. 'Why were you sleeping in the snow, Toby? Haven't your parents taught you better that that? It's dangerous, you know.'

Toby looked solemn. 'I don't have parents. I ran away from the workh...' He paused, not sure if he should say any more, but continued anyway saying, 'Please don't send me back.'

'Oh, there's no danger of that, my son. Don't you worry...' The man chortled softly and held out a hand. Toby shook it. 'It's lucky I found you then. My name is Nicko. That's an interesting birthmark you have there, my boy.'

Toby glanced down at his forearm and looked at the bluish-red mark that had been there for as long as he could remember. It was roughly the shape of a flying bird. Nicko inspected it, nodding resolutely as if making some sort of judgement. There was something comforting about Nicko, although Toby wasn't sure what that might be.

Nicko whistled. It was a strange sort of whistle that Toby had never heard someone make. It seemed to resonate off the roof of the tent. Moments later, a figure darted into the room. He was spindly and small – a child – most probably younger than Toby. He had a broad smile and a rosy glow that oozed impishness. He handed the old man a parcel of papers.

'There you go, Nicko,' he said in a sing-song voice, then nodded cordially at Toby. Toby nodded back.

'Thanks, Melvin. Could you see to it that the others get ready? It's almost time.'

'Rest assured, Boss, everything is on schedule,' Melvin replied and seemed to glide out of the tent, his footsteps making no sound at all.

Nicko gestured to the door. 'That's Melvin. He's my Head Elf. He helps around the place. I don't know what I'd do without him.'