The Twelve Little Cakes Read Online Free PDF

and smiling bitterly as I fled. I ran for the safety of my parents’ bedroom, but stopped in front of the locked door on the opposite side of the hallway. In the whole time I had lived in the house, my grandmother’s door had never been opened. It was a high, white door with a shiny brass handle and a large keyhole that I was too small to look through. I pressed my ear to the door and wondered whether my grandmother was still inside. The room was very quiet, so I lay on the floor and peeked under. I was able to make out the legs of what looked like a bed, but I couldn’t see any sign of my grandmother. Maybe she was asleep. I didn’t want to wake her, so I got back up and ran down to the kitchen where my mother and sister were baking Christmas biscuits.
    â€œHello!” I called out. “I’m awake!”
    â€œYes you are,” my mother laughed.
    â€œI went and said hello to the fish!” I told her. “And then Mrs. Nedbal came and took the bucket and told me that we might have to find a new house!”
    â€œReally?” My mother stopped laughing.
    â€œYes! And she said that the grandmother lives in the room next to yours, and this is really her house. We don’t have to leave here do we, Mum?”
    A look of sadness passed across my mother’s face.
    â€œCome here,” she said.
    She picked me up and hugged me tightly to her chest.
    â€œWe’re not going anywhere,” she said. “We’re going to stay here and have a lovely Christmas. Don’t worry about the house, and don’t you listen to the Nedbals. If anyone is going to find themselves looking for a new house next year, it will be them.”
    She sat me down on my special place at the counter. There was sugar and cocoa and flour everywhere. Several trays of biscuits sat cooling on the floor and the smell of vanilla wafted sweetly from the oven.
    â€œWe’re making strudel. Would you like to help?” my mother asked.
    â€œYes!” I said. “Can I have a biscuit?”
    â€œOf course you can,” my mother smiled.
    She rolled a sheet of dough while my sister peeled and chopped some apples, and I crushed cinnamon and cloves with a mortar and pestle. Outside, snowflakes fell from the sky like feathers. By the time the sun had set, the garden was covered in white. My dad came in with a box of wood for the stove, and we huddled in the kitchen, talking and laughing as we baked the strudel and spread jam on the biscuits. I could hear Mr. Kozel’s radio playing Christmas carols in the next room, and an owl began to hoot in the forest. The forest was full of owls and badgers and pine martens, and the nights were very noisy with the sound of them hunting. As part of the old winter-solstice tradition, my mother filled a large wooden bowl with water and put it on the table. She put four little candles inside four walnut shells, lit them, and floated them together in the middle of the bowl.
    â€œOne candle for each of us,” she said.
    We switched off the lights and watched the candles as they slowly drifted apart and burned out, which is the way it goes in life. On this night, they seemed to stay together much longer than usual, and I went to sleep feeling happy and safe.
    The following morning, I leaped out of bed and raced into my parents’ room. I dove beneath their blanket and snuggled up between them.
    â€œHello, Dad,” I whispered in my father’s ear. “Wake up! It’s Christmas!”
    â€œJezis Marja!” my father growled. “What time is it?”
    â€œShhh, little one,” my mother said softly. “Pretend that you’re a biscuit in an oven and you have to bake for another fifteen minutes before you’re ready to be eaten.”
    I loved this game. My parents threw their arms around me and I squirmed happily between them, imagining myself turning brown and crispy in a big warm oven. They would try to keep me in the oven for as