Amanda crouched by the tree, cocoa in hand. A speck-sized elf dangled upside-down, jingling a tiny bell. "Not yet!" it whispered.
Her mouth fell open. Cocoa sloshed over the rim and plopped on the floor. The elf zipped away—leaving a silver thread tangled in her fingers.
The elf bounced onto Mummy's knee, wearing a tiny crown of gumdrops. Ding. Ding. Mummy yelped. Daddy's newspaper crumpled in his fist.
The elf tipped its hat and vanished. Then—pop!—it reappeared tangled in the Christmas stockings, which it had tied into a knot.
Amanda followed the silver thread up to the mantel. The elf blew a squeaky BRRRAAAP on a candy-wrapper trumpet. Mummy's cocoa mug jumped off the table.
Daddy grabbed Amanda's shoulder. The elf bowed, wiped gum off its chin, and pointed down at the tree.
The elf unrolled a wobbly crayon drawing from behind its ear: three scribbly figures huddled under the tree. It pressed the crumpled paper into Amanda's hands.
Amanda looked up. Mummy and Daddy were already squeezing her on the rug. The cocoa sat cold on the table. She blinked, then grinned.
The tiny elf crawled into Amanda's mitten and went still, curling up tight. She tucked it in, patting the fabric softly.
The three of them sat in the mess—knotted stockings, cold cocoa, crumbs everywhere. From inside her pocket, a tiny bell jingled. Amanda laughed.
