On the third weekend of Advent the whole house smelled of cinnamon, and that was not only because of the humans. Behind the red door Mille had set up the bakery: a plank for a table, a thimble for a bowl, a candy cane for a rolling pin that got a little shorter with every roll.
The recipe was Grandfather Aske’s. It was written on a scrap of paper so old that its edges curled, and it had four ingredients: flour, butter, honey, patience. “The last one matters most,” said Aske, “and it is the first to run out.”
Tove had no patience. Tove had icing sugar. She stood on a button to reach the table and sprinkled before anything had been anywhere near the oven. “You sugar at the end,” said Mille. “I sugar now,” said Tove, “then I haven’t forgotten.”
They cut the stars with a shirt button that had five points if you held it the right way. Twelve stars, then the oven, which was really a tea-light holder with a lid, and then the waiting. Waiting is the same for gnomes as for children: a time when the world suddenly has very long seconds.
Molly smelled it first. She came down the hallway, stopped in front of the door and stared at the gap the scent was coming from. Cats do not like cinnamon. Molly stayed anyway. She had learned that things happened behind this door that should not be missed.
The first stars turned black. The second stayed pale. The third, said Aske, as he broke one and bit into it, the third were exactly right, just as his grandmother had baked them. Then he said nothing for a long time, and Mille pretended not to see him wipe his eyes.
Twelve stars did not all fit behind the door. So they laid six on the mat, in a row, with a note: For the big people. These are the third batch. We ate the second ourselves.
In the morning Jonas and Lea found the stars. They were tiny, smaller than a fingernail, and tasted of honey and very faintly of candle. Lea ate three. Jonas ate two and kept one, in a matchbox, where it still lies today. You cannot eat it any more. You can look at it and know that someone had patience.
