The Blue Fairy Dust Saga
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5
Not Enough Time The Ticking Lab Five Days Later Time To Try Again The Longest Night
Time to Try Again
The Lab of Ticking Wonders – March, 1825
The lab still ticked. That was the one good sign.
After five long days of absence—when Santa Chris Kringle had reappeared in a blur of swirling blue mist—there had been panic, relief, and quite a few arguments. But the clocks in his workshop hadn’t stopped. That alone was a small miracle.
Some had to be carefully reset, of course. The gear-driven scroll counters had gone wild, spooling parchment like streamers at a festival. Hourglasses had tipped. One sand-dial had actually reversed itself, pouring upward as if confused by reality. But now, weeks later, the steady tick of restored order was a comfort.
Santa stood before his massive chalkboard in the Lab of Ticking Wonders, eyes narrowed at the scrawl of spirals, numerals, and sketches that filled nearly every inch of slate. His red shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing a forearm smudged with both chalk and soot. Behind him, Bernard leaned against a table, arms crossed, watching quietly.
“You’ve run the numbers again?” Bernard asked.
“I’ve run them,” Santa replied. He tapped the chalk against the board. “Then I unraveled them. Then I reran them backwards. And finally, I made tea and screamed into a cushion.”
Bernard chuckled. “Progress, then.”
Santa didn’t smile, not yet. His hand hovered over a loop of numbers that curled into a sideways eight—the mark he now recognized as a fold point. “It was the layering, Bernard. I treated Blue Fairy Dust like a uniform field. But it’s reactive. Dynamic. It doesn’t just bend time—it folds it.”
He stepped back and turned, eyes brighter. “We’ve been thinking of it like oil. Coat the sleigh, coat the bells, coat the elf—off we go. But that’s not what it wants. It’s more like fabric. It has seams. If you align the fold at the wrong edge—” He snapped his fingers. “You get five days of soup and confusion.”
Bernard winced. “Which we’re all very grateful to have survived. Though I believe Whistle Nick is still convinced we were cursed.”
Santa allowed a small smile. “To be fair, I did briefly land in three simultaneous snowstorms.”
He moved to the central worktable, where a new sleigh bell sat suspended within a delicate glass ring. Its surface shimmered faintly with blue light, not glowing outright, but catching the eye like moonlight on frost.
“This,” Santa said reverently, “is Bell Twelve. I re-infused it with dust—just a trace—but only along the spiral ridge, not the full core. That seems to guide the compression instead of overwhelming it.”
Bernard stepped closer. “And the theory?”
“If we treat time like thread,” Santa said, “and draw it inward at the proper angle… we should get back to our original goal: compressing a five-minute journey into two seconds.”
Bernard arched an eyebrow. “You’re sure?”
“Not in the least,” Santa replied. “But that’s never stopped me before.”
He picked up the bell, then paused. “Lindle?”
A quiet figure stepped out from behind a storage shelf. Lindle Timewhirl was new to the lab—barely three months into his apprenticeship—but already irreplaceable. He was one of those elves who rarely spoke yet always heard everything. His notes were immaculate, his timing uncanny, and his knack for knowing when not to speak was a gift that Santa deeply appreciated.
“I’m ready,” Lindle said softly, adjusting his leather satchel.
“Good,” Santa nodded. “Get your coat. We fly in the morning.”
Mount Kloor - April, 1825
The wind curled over the northern slope of Mount Kloor, scattering snow like sugar across the ridgeline. Below, the forest shimmered with hoarfrost, and the sky arched a pale blue. Santa adjusted his gloves and checked the bell mounted just behind the reins.
Beside him, Lindle stood still as a tree, his small boots planted firmly in the sleigh’s floorboards. He wore an overcoat stitched with faint silver thread—part of Santa’s recent upgrades, designed to resist temporal misalignment.
“This will be a short hop,” Santa said, tightening the strap across his chest. “Five minutes due west, just along the coast, then loop back here. If it works—”
“It’ll be enough,” Lindle finished, voice calm.
Santa smiled. “You’ve been spending too much time in the lab.”
Lindle tilted his head. “Tick-ready, sir.”
Santa blinked, then laughed. “That’s still catching on, you know.”
He gave a final nod and stepped into the sleigh, which now bore tiny shimmering lines along its edges—less than frosting, more like thread that caught light sideways. He opened the small pouch of Blue Fairy Dust, pinched a few grains between his fingers, and tapped Bell Twelve with practiced care.
Ting.
The sound was crisp and perfect. The moment stretched—
—then folded.
The world blinked.
They were back.
The sleigh materialized on the launch deck with a hush of displaced air. Santa blinked twice, adjusted his hat, and looked around.
Bernard was mid-sentence, speaking to Tinsel McGinnis. “—and I told her, if she wanted to adjust the harmonic drift, then she’d better—” He stopped, eyes widening. “Oh.”
Santa checked his pocket watch. “Two seconds.”
Lindle, already stepping out, confirmed: “Five-minute loop. Exact.”
Bernard hurried forward, wide-eyed. “It worked? It actually worked?”
Santa beamed. “No soup. No simultaneous snowstorms. No floating backward through New Year’s Eve.”
Tinsel clapped her hands. “That’s wonderful! Can we do it again?”
Santa chuckled. “We’re going to need more dust.”
Bernard looked at the shimmering bell, still faintly glowing on its mount. “You’ve stabilized it, then? No tears or slips?”
Santa nodded. “It’ll still take precise calibration. But if we can embed this into the sleigh bells used during the Christmas Eve run—”
“—you could fold delivery time,” Bernard said slowly, “across the entire planet.”
Santa’s grin widened. “Not quite yet. But it’s a start.”
Lindle stood quietly by the railing, eyes turned to the horizon. The snow was falling again—gentle, persistent. Somewhere in the trees below, a bird sang a single note, then went quiet.
“I think,” Lindle said quietly, “we’re going to change everything.”
Santa glanced at him, then looked down at Bell Twelve. “We already have.”
Time to Try Again
October 1824 – February 1825
The lab still ticked. That was the one good sign. After five long days of absence, when Santa Chris Kringle had reappeared in a blur of swirling blue mist, the clocks in his workshop hadn’t stopped—though some had to be carefully reset. And now, weeks later, their steady tick was a comfort as he stood before his great chalkboard, frowning deeply.
Bernard stood behind him, arms folded, watching. “You’ve run the numbers again?” he asked quietly.
“I’ve run them,” Santa said, tapping the chalk against the board. “Then I unraveled them. Then I reran them backwards. And finally, I made tea and screamed into a cushion.”
Bernard chuckled. “Progress, then.”
Santa’s hand stilled over a loop of numbers that spiraled into a sideways 8. “It was the layering, Bernard. I treated Blue Fairy Dust like a uniform field. But it’s reactive. Dynamic. It doesn’t just bend time—it folds it.”
He turned around, his face brighter. “We’ve been thinking of it like oil—coat the sleigh, coat the bells, coat the elf—off we go. But that’s not what it wants. It’s more like fabric. It has seams. If you align the fold at the wrong edge—” He snapped his fingers. “You get five days of soup and confusion.”
“Which we’re all very grateful to have survived,” Bernard added with a stiff smile. “But are you saying you can control the fold?”
Santa nodded. “If I treat it like a thread, and I pull time inward… just enough… we should get back to our original goal: a five-minute journey compressed into two seconds.”
He moved to the central table, where a new sleigh bell sat suspended inside a glass ring. Its surface shimmered faintly blue. “This,” Santa said reverently, “is Bell Twelve. I re-infused it with dust, but this time only along the spiral ridge, not the full core.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Shall we?”
February 5, 1825
The wind curled over the northern slope of Mount Kloor as Santa adjusted his gloves.
Beside him stood Lindle Timewhirl, his new assistant—quiet, serious, with an uncanny ability to sense when exactly to speak (which was, more often than not, never). Santa liked him already.
“This will be a short hop,” Santa said. “Five minutes along the coast, then loop back. You ready?”
Lindle nodded. “Tick-ready.”
Santa smiled at the odd phrase. Lindle had started using it this week, and it was catching on in the lab.
Santa stepped into the sleigh, which now bore tiny shimmering lines along its edges—less than frosting, more like thread. He flicked a small pouch of Blue Fairy Dust and gave Bell Twelve a single tap.
Ting.
The world blinked.
And they were back.
Bernard was mid-sentence when Santa reappeared on the launch deck. “—and I told Tinsel if she wanted to adjust the harmonic drift—”
He blinked. “Oh.”
Santa glanced down at his pocket watch. “Five Minutes”
Lindle nodded. “Two seconds loop. Exact.”
Bernard staggered forward. “It worked? It worked?”
Santa grinned. “We’re going to need more dust.”