Sweet Silver Bells, page 1
SWEET SILVER BELLS
ELLE KAELEE
Copyright © 2025 by Elle Kaelee
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
1. Chapter One.
2. Chapter Two.
3. Chapter Three.
4. Chapter Four.
5. Chapter Five.
6. Chapter Six.
7. Chapter Seven.
8. Chapter Eight.
9. Chapter Nine.
10. Chapter Ten.
11. Chapter Eleven.
12. Chapter Twelve.
13. Chapter Thirteen.
14. Chapter Fourteen.
15. Chapter Fifteen.
16. Chapter Sixteen.
17. Chapter Seventeen.
18. Chapter Eighteen.
19. Chapter Nineteen.
20. Chapter Twenty.
21. Chapter Twenty-One.
22. Chapter Twenty-Two.
23. Chapter Twenty-Three.
24. Chapter Twenty-Four.
25. Chapter Twenty-Five.
26. Chapter Twenty-Six.
27. Chapter Twenty-Seven.
28. Chapter Twenty-Eight.
Also by Elle Kaelee
Acknowledgments
1
CHAPTER ONE.
If there were ever a song of love, a ballad of heartbreak and beauty and strife, it would be the sound of Olivia’s voice through the trees. Her song lingered in the forest, the trees absorbing her melodic cries of loneliness and longing. When the magic of the holiday stars glimmer overhead, when the trees sway mightily to music that no one else can hear, Olivia finds herself on the edge of the darkness, looking for retribution, looking for love, looking for a ghost who can find eternity before they disappear together again into the bark.
Outside of Stockbridge, MA | 1914
“Olivia, stop!”
But she did not stop.
Instead, she listened to the sounds of her boots crunching in the snow, cursing the heels that made her move so slowly. He was going to catch her, and she couldn’t let him. His life was dependent on it, dependent on her moving, always as far away from them all as possible.
The phantom holy music was there.
It was always there, trying to soothe her, trying to seduce her into the trees.
Today, it would win.
She continued to pump her legs, focusing on not falling over the hem of her gown. The cold stung her lungs as she panted, her heavy breaths blowing warm air—a cloud that followed her, struggling to keep up. She didn’t have time to think, to feel—the feeling of knives piercing down her throat while she coughed and gasped.
“These rotten skirts,” she cursed under her depleted breath while she worked to peel off her burgundy-stained leather gloves. Her exposed fingers curled as flakes of snow drifted down from the leaves of the dark, ancient trees towering above her.
“Olivia!” a voice shouted behind her.
He was close. She’d hoped he would have given up by now. That he–that they all–would let her disappear.
Don’t stop.
Placing her hands on a fallen trunk, she propelled her body over, instantly regretting the gloves abandoned in the snow. They were quickly swept up, though–her father was closing in.
Olivia’s skirts ripped, caught on the trunk, the emerald green fabrics embroidered with dark cherry reds trampled. It made it easier to run now; with only two layers of cloth covering her legs she would trip over rocks and brush less often.
She moved as if she were flying, her hands moving to the back of her corset, untying the knot that kept her breaths so short, so painful. The fabric gave way, the bones instantly loosening. Olivia took a deep breath. She could do this. She could get away.
You can’t stop moving. You will hurt everyone if you go back.
Tears streamed down her face, her pin-straight, dark-brown hair falling out of the elegant plaits that her mother had spent so long working on. The festive bow had fallen out a long time ago.
“Just stay away,” she yelled over her shoulder. “I can’t control it. I have to leave.”
“Olivia, please.” Her father’s voice was further away. She was losing him.
You can save him.
Her stomach cramped, her thighs burned, but Olivia did not give in. She was the only one who could protect her family from herself.
A witch.
They had pretended not to know—her mother and father—so politely ignoring the growths, the vitality that responded to her voice, her songs. But time had changed things, and civility was no longer enough. Not now that she had come of age. Not now that it was her first Yule Ball, where she was to meet suitors.
And yet, her stomach still leapt at someone's touch, someone's lingering gaze. A small hope of an everyday life—a small wish for love to find her—fleeting, before it was crushed. Before she revealed herself to everyone who knew her family.
She had almost killed him in front of them all—that boy with wild blue eyes who made her stomach tighten. The boy in the white silk shirt with puffed sleeves, his blond hair slicked back with a single loose curl softening the dimples in his cheeks when he bowed and held out his hand.
Her first dance.
She had moved acceptably, though not exceptionally, eyes downcast, lips tilted in a slight smile, bending into a modest curtsy. Olivia was modest, quiet, and, above all, impeccably dressed. She hardly looked like herself.
She was no longer the girl covered in dirt, running barefoot in the garden, letting soil stain her fingers as she planted her seeds and clipped roses.
No, now she was a woman who had spent hours being bathed, dressed, and styled by her mother and the maids, treated as if she were a living doll.
She supposed that’s what being a woman meant: to be looked at, to be wanted—but never glorified. Not like she glorified the moon when it was full and round. Not like when she whispered unknown words and danced immodestly before her window at night, gazing into the forest behind the estate—the forest that had long called to her.
And she hadn’t accepted its call—until now.
Until the moment she had to run.
She had to save everyone in that dance hall. They were likely frozen in place. Porcelain cups of champagne spilling down their wrists. Eyes wide. Staring.
You can belong here, she had told herself. The blue-eyed boy had pulled her onto the dance floor.
He belonged there, among beautiful women and wealthy families. They showed off their holiday spirit in ornamental skirts. Their shoes made music of their own. They added rhythm to the six-piece band with perfectly timed, choreographed steps.
The boy spun her. Olivia’s steps grew unsure. Then she was in his arms. One of his hands was on her lower back. The other clasped her left.
The butterflies inside her went wild. She had never been this close to someone who looked like him, who smiled like him, who smelled like him. His hand rested low. Her hips were only inches below.
"You are radiant tonight, Olivia," he said. She watched his lips move. She felt the heat of his breath on her neck. The thrill sent a shiver down her spine.
They were dancing. They were touching. Everyone watched. Her mother. Her father. All of them.
It felt illicit.
The thrill surged through her. She smiled so widely that her suitor leaned back slightly.
"I would like to think I could always make you smile like this," he said.
She started to laugh, but she held it in. Emotion was dangerous in polite society.
"When we were all little," he said, "there were stories about you. The wealthy babe who could speak to trees. You sounded like a goddess reborn."
"And do you believe in goddesses?" Olivia asked. The song was coming to an end. Her voice matched the melody of the violin.
"Well, I want to hear you sing," he said, bowing.
"I cannot sing," she replied. Her body froze. Her feet locked in place.
She wasn’t supposed to talk about singing. Even the music around them was too close not to feel dangerous—a current she could not afford to fall into.
"Why is that?"
"Because bad things happen." Olivia turned away. She scanned the crowd for her mother, who stood hand in hand with her father. They looked proud, their heads held high, as they presented their daughter to the world.
The band quieted. A small choir of children holding candles marched into the center of the room, still in their cloaks.
"She is a witch!"
It was a cruel joke.
A trap.
A way to mock the outcast.
Olivia’s body went rigid. The voice echoed over the hall. Her hand slipped away from her partner. The dance was over. She turned slowly as the room fell into murmurs and whispers.
The dance hall was enormous, especially to someone as small as Olivia. She had only seen it used a few times before, always for holiday gatherings. A large table stood in the corner, its chocolate and cheese platters untouched—servers glided by with empty trays.
The marble tile gleamed. The ceiling stretched twenty feet above her head. It looked like a place built for royalty.
But Olivia didn’t feel royal. She felt ashamed.
"Witch," her dance partner snapped again. His finger pointed to her chest. "The stories are true."
Others gathered around him. They looked like him. Spoke like him. Snickered like him. Their laughter cut through her skin.
"You want me to sing?" Olivia whispered.
Rumors had followed her since she was a baby. Babbling in melodies and making flowers bloom. They would follow her until she died.
The shame twisted into anger. Then resentment came.
They would never accept you. Not this town. Not even if the rumor sounded absurd.
It didn’t matter if it was true. It was silly.
You don’t believe in silly little stories even if your heart refuses to forget them.
"Olivia, no," her mother said, stepping behind her.
But she couldn’t see Olivia's heartbreak. She couldn’t feel the anguish rising in her chest. Olivia looked around, searching for something—anything to hold on to. But there was only staring. Boys laughed, and girls her age whispered behind fans and purses.
The Christmas tree stood tall. Sixteen feet of pine filled half the room with the faint scent of sap. It had been chopped down and dressed in ornaments, meant to be looked at. It was not meant to be heard or understood.
How like her it was.
How unjust.
Olivia opened her mouth.
"You wanted me to sing," she whispered. No one heard those words.
But the next sounds from her rose-stained lips weren’t heard either.
They were felt.
Cries of horror burst from the crowd as Olivia began to sing.
"Hark, how the bells—"
The dirt beneath the manor was alive. Every root and green thing answered her voice. A crack split the marble tile.
"—sweet silver bells—"
Her voice rose, gathered volume, strength, and power.
The crack widened, splintering across the floor. The Christmas tree responded. Its trunk stretched downward, burrowing through the stone, reconnecting with the earth.
Olivia drew in a deep breath as if she were the tree. It felt as if she were breathing for the first time and had been brought back from an unjust death.
She smiled.
Screams followed.
"Olivia, stop this," her mother pleaded in her ear.
"—all seem to say, throw cares away," Olivia continued singing.
She threw out her arms, and the tree mimicked her. Branches exploded outward, thick and wild, ripping through the marble at every level. Guests stumbled and fell. They ran out of the dance hall and out of the estate.
She spotted the boy she had danced with. He had fallen on the stairs in his escape. He stared up at her, horrified, as if he hadn’t believed in witches.
Not really.
Not until now.
"Christmas is here," she sang.
She wouldn’t stop. They had seen it. They knew now.
"—bringing good cheer."
"Olivia!"
Her father gripped her shoulder. His face was inches from hers as his eyes pleaded.
The kindness there, the love, had stopped the following lyric from leaving her lips. She shuddered.
Olivia felt ice cold. Her body shook.
She looked around, eyes wide and wild. She only saw ruin and fear. There were people still inside who hadn’t managed to escape.
"I told you," said her blond suitor. He stood now, steady on the stairs. His beautiful eyes burned with fury. "She’s a witch."
Olivia’s hands smoothed the top of her corset. She clutched her skirts and looked down at her feet, weighing what came next.
Because the boy was right.
“Olivia, are you okay?” her father asked.
“Tell Mother I’m sorry,” she said through a sob. Tears streamed down her face. Shame burned inside her, but worse than the shame was the hate. The hate for who she was. For what she was.
“Olivia!” her father cried, reaching for her.
But she grabbed her skirts and ran up the stairs and out of the dance hall. Her heels echoed through the foyer.
Guests gasped and froze. Eyes tracked her as if waiting for something, waiting to see what she’d do next.
All she could do was run.
Get away from them all.
Run, Olivia. Run.
“Olivia, stop!” her father shouted again.
The chase began.
Now, in the woods behind the estate, her body screamed. She was exhausted. Her legs dragged, breath ragged.
She knew she couldn’t go much farther.
Olivia splashed through a stream, crying out as icy water soaked her ankles. Mud clung to her hem. Snow latched onto her bodice, her shoulders, her hair.
And still, she ran.
Her father was nearly behind her now. The gap between them had almost vanished. She couldn’t let him catch her. She couldn’t let him hug her, love her, or change her mind. She had to keep him away.
They will be better off without you.
They were better off without the whispers from high society and without the shame of having a daughter no suitor would touch. Olivia would be alone with the flowers, roots, and dirt.
You love the dirt.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
But first, she’d need to sever a few threads of the heart. It would hurt. God, it would hurt. Her parents would heal. They might even have another daughter. Her mother was still young enough.
This is what is best.
She dropped to her knees. Her hands hit the cold ground, pine needles and stones biting into her skin. Olivia turned.
Her father stood there, chest heaving, hands on his thighs as he caught his breath.
“Oh, good God. You’ve come to your senses,” he said, half-laughing.
“If you don’t go, I’ll have to make you,” she said. Her voice shook; even her soul didn’t believe her.
His head tilted. The slight smile faded, confusion taking its place.
“I wouldn’t just leave you out here, Olivia. You’d freeze.”
“Father, go,” she said.
A final plea. One last hope.
Please don’t make me do this.
“I will not. Not unless you come with me.” He stomped a foot into the snow. His chin lifted with that familiar, stubborn pride. He wouldn’t yield.
But she wasn’t being silly.
“You’ve left me no choice. Why can’t you just go?” Her voice broke. “Leave!”
She sucked in a breath. And then she sang.
I have to protect them, she thought. I have to protect them from myself.
“Hark ... how ... the ... bells,” she sang, slow and broken. The melody warped, no longer a hymn. No longer holy. It became a curse—a threat.
“Olivia,” her father whispered.
With each word, his face collapsed. His pride crumbled. Fear filled his eyes.
"I will not leave you."
She wasn’t supposed to sing. She had promised him when she was small. The memory was blurred, filled in by stories her parents had told her. But the promise had been real.
“No,” he whispered again. Tears welled in his eyes.
But the earth had already begun to respond.
Her boots trembled against the ground. The dirt shifted, thickened, and churned like quicksand. Branches, snow, and ice moved with it.
“Go,” she yelled. Her voice didn’t waver this time. “Go!”
The land between them pulsed, crawling toward him.
She could scare him away. She had to try.
It’s for his own good.
He shook his head again but stepped back a few more feet.
“Sweet silver bells,” she almost yelled. The smoothness of the song crashed against her throat. Cold coated her voice. Tears streaked her cheeks. Fear and pain swallowed her.
This is the only way.
Her father opened his mouth again, but she didn’t let his words in.
“All seem to say, throw cares away.”
Branches burst from the soft earth between them, thick and dark. The scent of fresh bark filled the air. It gave Olivia some comfort, just enough to hold her focus.
She closed her eyes. She couldn’t watch.
The ground shifted again. Branches cracked, stretched, and grew.
He’ll run, she thought. He’ll go.
“Christmas is here, bringing good cheer.”
But then a shout tore through her focus. The trance shattered.
She listened for his breath. For his retreating steps.
But she didn’t hear them.
