The Mrs. Claus Chronicles
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Greenhouse Letters Important Delivery Inn for All Seasons Bells First Lady
First Lady of the North
Chapter 6 of the Mrs. Claus Chronicles
Santa’s Village, December 1933
The first snow of December floated gently over the rooftops of Santa’s Village, swirling through the chimneys and clinging to windowpanes like frosting. Smoke curled upward in friendly spirals from the Great Hearth Hall, while the sharp scent of pine mingled with fresh gingerbread in the air. Laughter echoed from a distant sledding hill, and silver bells chimed from the sleigh yard as the reindeer were led through their morning stretches.
Merry Lou Kringle—Mrs. Claus to those who knew her formally—stood by the parlor window of the Village Inn, her shawl draped loosely over her shoulders, watching the world beyond the glass. The Inn’s dining room bustled behind her, its hearth glowing warm with morning light and its tables laid for a winter breakfast. It had been nearly two years since the wedding, and she was no longer the newcomer from Winslow Junction. She had grown into something more: a fixture of the North, a quiet leader, and a source of gentle but persistent momentum.
The latest delegation from Rostlic and Peppermint Village was due to arrive any moment, and Merry Lou had made sure everything was ready down to the last detail. Extra quilts with fir-needle embroidery. Welcome packets with cocoa, maple toffee, and cards written in her own hand. Fresh spruce in every room. She had even arranged for soft music—pipes and handbells—to be playing in the background when the guests arrived. Not a concert, just something warm and familiar to carry through the doors with them.
It wasn’t about impressing the visitors. It was about welcoming them, truly, in the way her grandmother had always done—open arms, warm tea, and the sense that you were known and wanted.
One of her first formal initiatives as Mrs. Claus had been the creation of the Elfling Orientation Program, a year-long curriculum designed to help young elves from across Evela adjust to life in Santa’s Village. Many arrived wide-eyed and unsure, having never seen so much snow—or so many tools. With Bernard’s support and the guidance of veteran elves like Crumbelle and Rudy, Merry Lou helped shape a gentle, structured introduction to Village traditions, workshop safety, kindness training, and, of course, cookie etiquette.
The program quickly became a cornerstone of Village life, ensuring each new generation of elves felt welcomed, equipped, and part of something lasting. And when she noticed some of the younger arrivals were quietly homesick or overwhelmed, she made sure the Village Inn had space for them too.
The Inn itself had undergone noticeable changes since the wedding. The new sunroom—designed by Merry Lou and built with input from the Shoe Elves—offered a light-filled place for conversation even on the coldest days. She’d also helped reconfigure the kitchen to serve not just dignitaries, but passing travelers and young orientation elves in need of a proper bowl of stew.
But Merry Lou’s impact extended far beyond the Inn’s walls.
Her first foray into “Santa-side problem solving,” as she jokingly called it, began with a curious question asked over breakfast.
“Chris,” she had said one morning, slicing a warm honey biscuit, “what happens if someone puts too many things in one of those portal sacks?”
He’d paused, fork midair. “I… well. Hm. I suppose we’ve never truly tested the limits.”
Bernard had shrugged when asked, and the logistics team had mumbled about a few incidents where objects disappeared or reappeared in the wrong location.
So Merry Lou proposed a simple fix: a stabilizing marker—something visual that could indicate when the sack was approaching capacity. It seemed obvious to her. With some help from the textile team, a shimmering panel was sewn into the lining of each sack. When the internal space neared its limit, the panel would softly glow amber. No more guesswork. No more unfortunate mix-ups with toys arriving in unexpected places.
“That’s the kind of mind we need around here,” Bernard had said, only half-joking, as he approved a production run of fifty new sacks using Merry Lou’s design.
Around that time, she also introduced her next quiet revolution: the seasonal guest teas.
It started small—just a few elves from Snowball and Restful Wood invited to share peppermint tea and ginger crisps in the Greenhouse Lounge. But word spread quickly. Within weeks, she had to schedule a second gathering to accommodate all who wanted to come. By spring, the seasonal teas had become semi-formal events: a gentle forum for discussion, storytelling, and checking in on the health of each village and household.
She kept the tone light, often asking thoughtful questions like, “What’s the best story you’ve heard this season?” or “What’s one thing we could make easier for next year’s travelers?” And elves, who could sometimes be shy or overly practical, found themselves opening up over lemon-lavender scones and cups of raspberry bark tea.
“These teas are sneaky,” Bernard had said after attending one in disguise. “Before you know it, everyone’s solving problems over cookies.”
Then came the matter of the letters.
Children had always written to Santa, of course. Some found their way to the North Pole; others were lost to the winds. Replies, if they came, were often random—one child might receive a reply and a small bell, while another received nothing but a memory.
Merry Lou saw the heartbreak in that. She remembered being a child herself, wondering if Santa had even seen her note.
So she helped reorganize the entire process.
The Letter Room was moved from its cramped corner in the Toyworks Annex to a space beside the main workshop. A cozy space was outfitted with ribbon cubbies, parchment drawers, inkpots, and a reply team of True Elves who specialized in tone, kindness, and creativity.
Each child who wrote would now receive a card—simple, warm, and personal. Many replies included small keepsakes: a jingleberry pin, a holiday sticker, or a postcard showing a sleigh against the stars. First-time writers received a folded parchment designed by Merry Lou herself, trimmed in fir branches and golden ink, with hoofprints stamped at the corners and a seal marked “You Are On Our List.”
The effect was astonishing. Children from around the world began writing more often—and Santa’s connection to them deepened. Teachers even began incorporating the letter-writing into classroom traditions.
“You’ve turned correspondence into comfort,” Chris told her one evening as they sorted letters together beside the fire. “That’s a kind of magic all its own.”
In late December of 1933, after the sleigh bells had quieted and the elves began returning from post-delivery shifts, Merry Lou proposed something new.
The Village Council was gathered informally in the Great Hearth Hall, warmed by mugs of spiced cider and a roaring fire. Representatives from Dromstad, Lone Pine, and even the Emberwood contingent were present. Chris sat nearby, his coat dusted in snow, listening quietly as his wife addressed the room.
“We’re always rushing toward Christmas,” she said, her voice gentle but steady. “Then we deliver gifts, celebrate, and… we move on. But there’s something special about after. The glow that lingers. The quiet. The chance to look around and say, I’m glad we’re here together.”
She proposed the first Holiday Hearth Gathering—a new tradition held in early January, not tied to any agenda or exchange. Just an evening of fellowship, shared stories, music, and warmth. Elves could bring whatever they liked: a song, a pie, a memory. No duties. No roles. Just community.
It wasn’t met with immediate cheers—some were unsure about adding another gathering so soon after the season. But Chris stood, raised his mug, and said, “This is why we’re here. Not just to deliver presents—but to build something that lasts beyond the sleigh.”
That settled it.
That first Holiday Hearth Gathering was held on January 6, 1934. Snow lanterns lined the paths, guiding guests through the trees to the Great Hearth Hall, where rugs were laid out and every stool and cushion in the Village had been brought in. Kathy supplied trays of honey wafers and cherry-fudge bark, Crumbelle sent cinnamon bread by the armload, and soft music—pipes, flutes, and bells—drifted through the rafters.
Merry Lou sat in the circle, cocoa in hand, and watched the magic unfold—not the grand, showy kind, but the slow magic of people leaning in to listen, of elders passing down stories, of laughter echoing through the beams.
Later that month, on a quiet evening, she climbed North Path Hill by herself. The sky was dusted with stars, and the fir branches glittered with ice. From there, she could see the rooftops of the Village, the glow of the Inn, the steam curling up from the Workshop chimneys.
It hit her all at once—how much had changed.
She’d arrived in this world not knowing if she belonged. Now, she had planted roots so deeply they would last for generations. The Inn bore her touch. The letters carried her care. The village moved in rhythm with traditions she’d helped nurture.
She thought of her mother, back in Winslow Junction, and how she used to say: “The best homes feel like open arms, not closed doors.”