A furry white creature grinned up at me, its long ears folding out from behind the crown of cotton atop its head. I lifted my mitten but before I could ask what the rush was about, the girl shoved something into my palm: a glass ball about the size of a tennis ball. Your aunt tells me she had to leave you in the street to make it here on time, she said to me beneath the chatter of the room. The scolding in her voice was entirely overshadowed by the smirk on her face.

Merry Christmas, my dear! My grandmother, Wendy Wilthsmurther, appeared from the living room in a flour-covered apron and reached down to give me a hug even though it had barely been two hours since I’d seen her. Her arms were warm in comparison to my cold skin, and I shot her a crooked half-smile when she pulled away.

Everyone is welcome to join (you don't have to have a blog). Please keep comments clean (i.e. no swearing, crude language, etc.). My gasp was lost in the cold wind drifting down the walkways overcrowded with holiday lights and Ontarians in multicoloured mittens. But the street wasn’t just busy with the usual Waterloo crowd, it was also busy with birds. As though summoned by the girl’s lunacy, a horn-like blast echoed down the city street, and I whipped around in alarm. I hope you’re getting into the holiday spirit, and if not, then you’re about to, because the 12 Days of Bookish Christmas Blog Hop is here!

I hesitated, studying the vintage sign and eyeing the splinters of wood that seemed to have flaked off the storefront into brittle piles over time. It wasn’t an eye-catching place, but still, I was sure it wasn’t here a moment ago, which didn’t make sense because the store wasn’t newly built; all the evidence said as much. Antique streetlamps illuminated downtown, prismed in every direction like hovering confetti. Carols blared from the speakers of a newspaper stand whose buzz-like radio sound muddied the familiar melody of Jingle Bells and swallowed most of the other noise in the street. Buildings hosted glassy bouquets of scarlet, green, and gold ornaments, but it was difficult to enjoy the splendour of the season in this bitter flash-freeze.I jumped in surprise when the still haze erupted into a volcanic blanket of white flakes, littering the end of the street and temporarily eating a streetlamp before it calmed. After dinner, Uncle Ralf read a Christmas poem as we gathered around the large stone fireplace in the living room and tried not to ogle at Aunt Sylvia’s horrendously fat spruce tree, held together with gold ribbons, crystal teardrop ornaments, and ropes of tiny white lights. The display gave off the fresh scent of pine needles, sap, and the sort of inconsiderate wealth-flaunting that practically shoved spare bills up one’s nose. Book two, A Heart as Red as Paint was just released last month, so you’ve got two gorgeously festive fantasies to dive into this Christmas, and the wait for book three, A Crown as Sharp as Pines, is only a few months! My muscles seized, lurching me to a halt. I thought I was dreaming, but I couldn’t peel my stare away, even though all I could think about was running for my life.

I approached sluggishly to keep it from springing away, and I crouched to study the specimen while my mind raced with explanations based on things I’d read in books. I didn’t go in right away; I stole a look around and swallowed, worried I’d been followed. But I saw nothing—nothing but regular vehicles, regular lampposts, regular pine trees covered in regular snow. There is a subtle Christian undertone to some of the story, in a very similar vein to Aslan in The Chronicles of Narnia, so if you’re a fan of Christian fiction you’ll love the added layer, but if you’re not looking for it then you won’t notice it’s there.I rubbed my eyes, questioning what in the world was going on with me when a Toooot! blasted through the space, bringing a startled scream from my throat. Alarmed customers stared, taking in my dripping wet coat and soggy-butt pants. My name is Lyndsey, I live on the edge of Sherwood Forest in Nottinghamshire, UK. I'm the author of The Fair Queen, a YA fantasy novel and the first in a complete trilogy, The Fair Chronicles. Past their rippling current, I noticed a store wedged between a luxury clothing boutique I could never afford to shop in and a barber shop. The new store fit like a puzzle piece, nestled snugly into the alley between the two buildings.

The Quarrel of Sword and Bone was a death sentence for anyone who stepped into the arena with the deranged Queen, whose soul had crisped to frost in an age long since past. I slid into the chamber where amber light danced along every surface from the candle on the coffee table, and I dragged a chair across the rug Sylvia told me she found in the Middle East, biting my lips when the chair leg caught a tassel and ripped it right off.Open my…what…? I got the strangest impulse to turn and run—a nervous reaction to her husky, outlandish blabbering and harsh features.