A Key for Every Lock
Lab of Ticking Wonders - June 1826
Santa stood in the middle of the Lab of Ticking Wonders, a bent copper key in one hand, a tumbler lock in the other, and a puzzled expression beneath his frosty brows.
The Green Fairy Dust had proven impressive—reshaping objects, softening surfaces, and even letting him squeeze through impossibly tight spaces. But on his recent scouting trip to Earth, he had discovered a flaw in the plan.
“Some houses have no chimneys,” he said aloud.
Across the workbench, two young True Elves paused mid-task. One, a short fellow with a wild puff of red hair, was carefully sorting fairy dust samples into vials. The other, taller and more serious, was recording the results in an oversized logbook.
“You mean no entry point at all?” asked the red-haired one, looking up. “Not even a window gap?”
“None, Jindle. Not in some of the new brick homes. And in the cities—apartment flats stacked so tight you'd think they were puzzle blocks. No rooftop access. No flues. Just doors.”
The taller elf nodded. “Then you’ll need a key,” she said, tapping her quill against the book.
“Exactly, Calva,” Santa replied, eyes twinkling. “But not just a key. The key.”
He set the tumbler lock down and strode across the room, pulling open the lower cabinet of his mixing station. “We’ve unlocked flight,” he said, gesturing to a small vial of red dust. “We’ve unlocked time and distance.” He tapped yellow and blue jars in succession. “But now… we need to unlock actual locks.”
He brought out the filtered fairy dust—85% Green, just a dash of Yellow—and began stirring it gently in the mixing basin. The green shimmer pulsed with the now-familiar wobble of shifting form, while the yellow added a faint directional sparkle, like the static around a compass needle.
Jindle leaned in. “What happens if we upend the Yellow ratio?”
“Last time, the key teleported itself into the soup kettle,” Santa replied dryly. “Let’s avoid that. Crumbelle still won’t speak to me.”
Calva cracked a small smile as she recorded the current proportions.
The first key—a plain iron skeleton key—was dipped and shimmered faintly, a pale mint-green with yellow sparkle. It gave off a warmth, like it remembered how to fit into something. Santa held it with both hands, testing its balance.
“Let’s begin,” he said.
Test One: Padlock. Tap. Click. Open.
Test Two: Childproof cabinet. Tap. Click. Open.
Test Three: Calva’s secure drawer (with permission). Tap. Click. Open.
Test Four: The mechanical latch to the messenger post box. Tap. Click. Open.
“Remarkable,” said Calva, noting each result. “Shape and origin of the key seem irrelevant. Dust holds the active property.”
They continued through a dozen locks: barrel bolts, luggage latches, even a combination safe with no visible keyhole.
“It opened with a tap,” Jindle whispered, awed.
Santa turned, now beaming. “Let’s try the vault.”
Down the corridor, past a humming row of mechanical counters and bell-jingling timers, stood the Workshop Vault—a triple-dial monster of a lock installed by the Dwarves a century earlier. The vault was built into solid stone, with dwarven runes etched around the edge, warning in three dialects: Do not tamper unless you are willing to explain yourself to a Dwarf.
Santa approached it with the green-and-yellow key in hand. He gave it a smart tap.
Click.
The heavy door creaked open an inch.
Calva raised her eyebrows. “That was supposed to be impossible.”
“Apparently not today,” Santa said with a grin. “Though I’d like to avoid explaining this to Bromli Ironpost.”
Later that afternoon, they set up a field test at an abandoned cottage outside Ainslo. The small structure had been donated for experiments, its door firmly sealed and its chimney bricked over. Moss had grown around the stone foundation, and ivy crawled up the frame like watchful fingers. A perfect test case.
Santa stood before it, key in hand, while Jindle perched on a fence rail and Calva took notes from the grass.
“Here goes nothing,” Santa murmured.
Tap.
Click.
The door swung open. He stepped inside.
Then, from within, he tapped again. Click. It opened outward.
When he emerged, Jindle let out a whoop. “It works! It actually works!”
Santa rubbed his gloved hands together. “That one even had a double bolt.”
“Logged,” said Calva. “We should test magical resistance next—wizard latches, anti-theft charms, hex-loop catches.”
Santa nodded. “Agreed. But first, let's prep a production batch.”
Back at the lab, Santa labeled a new pouch in the sleigh gear—green-and-yellow ribbon stitched to the flap in a spiral pattern. Inside, a dozen freshly coated keys waited, each one timed for twelve hours of active use.
Jindle fidgeted with an unfinished prototype: a reversible key with dual tips. “What if we made one that could toggle between unlock and lock?”
Calva looked up. “Or a sequence-based unlock? Like one key for the outer door and another for the child’s bedroom.”
Santa considered both ideas. “Not bad. Let’s get the basics field-ready first—then we explore combinations.”
Just as he was finishing the pouch stitching, Bernard wandered into the lab, holding a clipboard and squinting suspiciously at the unlocked vault door.
“I don’t remember giving permission for vault entry.”
Santa handed him a glowing key. “New invention. Temporary universal key. Locks only, no drawers of sweets.”
Bernard gave it a measured glance, then raised an eyebrow. “Impressive work. But I recommend tight control. Keys like this—fairy-enhanced and universal—must be stored securely and monitored closely.”
Santa nodded, already tucking the pouch into his delivery pack. “Understood. These keys will be made fresh before each run, and never stored afterward. One-use cycle, tied to the sleigh’s launch clock.”
Bernard jotted something on his clipboard, muttering about audit logs and security elves.
As the door closed behind him, Jindle turned to Santa. “Do you think these keys could work in reverse? Could they lock something that wasn’t already locked?”
Santa paused. “That’s… an excellent question.”
Calva’s quill scratched on the page:
Hypothesis: Reversibility of Lock Effect (Explore in July).
From that day forward, it no longer mattered whether a home had a chimney, hatch, or even a single open window. Wherever there was a lock, Santa had a way in.
A key for every lock.
And—perhaps, someday—a lock for every key.