My name is Kringlewart.

I am a runt of a tree elf, the size of a small kitten. My parents, who care for majestic forest trees, are 10 times my size.

My father coerced my mother to drink a brew that stunted my growth, 381 years ago, so that I could only care for his accursed Christmas trees.

I hate Christmas.

I always drag my tree into the forest soon after the farmer plants them. I deliberately deform them so that no one would ever choose them as Christmas trees. I have saved 52 trees from this fate, but this year, I failed.

My best friend, Pure Snow, hates me. We have been friends for almost 200 years. She has white fur and pink eyes, and she is the tall but stunted elfspring of the legendary Silver Lightning. She always grows perfect trees.

We once spent a Christmas in one of her trees, inside Windsor Castle, where we met the newlywed, Queen Victoria. Hundreds of magical creatures lived in the castle. Like us, they could turn invisible to all but the queen.

Until recently, I lived in the branches of my Esmeralda, the crookedest tree I ever crafted, in a circle of six mature fir trees that I planted over the past half century. My life is in turmoil now that my Esmeralda, covered with lights and bobbles, is dying in a London townhouse.

The famous writer Charles Dickerson lives in the house with his orphaned nephew, Harry. I eavesdropped on their conversation, from within the branches of my tree. Charles told the boy that he was close friends with Father Christmas, an ancient elf over three thousand years old.

I used sleeping powder to put the writer to sleep so I could talk to the boy. Harry and I chatted for some time until that most famous jolly old elf interrupted us when he and his elves popped out of the fireplace.

Father Christmas has a much different life than most humans would believe, and he is due for a life change that will transform the holiday.

The events of the next day - December 25th, my 392nd birthday - could change all our lives.