One and a Half Years Later Christmas Break, University Senior Year
I was the last person left in the dorm suite. None of my three roommates stayed year-round, so there was no one left to see me sprawled across the couch in our shared living room, trying to mentally transport myself to a beach in the Caribbean like one of the guys said he'd be doing over break.
I could do it if I conjured up some mistletoe and shoved it in a doorway. But all the Caribbean really made me think about was the half-hearted Merry Christmas text Kris and I got from our mom last week—on American Thanksgiving, great timing—and the corresponding photo of her waist-deep in the ocean, not even smiling. One of those staged influencer bikini pics. What made her think her sons would want that picture of her? The memory of it totally ruined any relaxing beach daydream.
I could always show up there. Every invitation from her had been hung with enough passive-aggressive guilt that I knew she'd love holding any visit over our heads for the rest of my and Kris's lives. *Your brother finally came to see me. Why haven't you, Kristopher? And Nicholas, you only stayed for a week. Children who love their mothers would visit for much longer.*
I could stay at school. Pretend the rec center where I worked had an influx of students skipping their winter break trips and needed me to pick up extra shifts.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table. I dug the heels of my palms into my eyes.
Yes. I could definitely get away with prioritizing minimum wage at the student rec center over my duties as Santa's heir.
Dad said he had an announcement this year.
Something big.
Best case, he'd only decided what role I'd be taking on under his guidance after I graduated in the spring. But a decision like that wouldn't warrant the maddening secrecy of a big announcement, would it? He'd have his assistant text me the details, especially with my track record of fucking up any actual involvement in Christmas's operation. Dad would avoid the tabloid fodder of letting anyone know I was back under his training wing until I'd proven myself.
So what was the worst case? My mind had been chewing on the possibilities for weeks. And I didn't like any of the stuff I came up with. Which was why I was lying on this musty couch that smelled like beer—I mean, no, we definitely did not spill beer on it because this was campus housing and alcohol was strictly prohibited—and screwing my hands into my eyes until light spots danced.
"DON'T SCREAM."
I flailed off the couch with a startled cry and slammed my knee into the coffee table. Pain shot up my leg and my phone skidded across the room; my suitcase, open on the table, teetered and spilled my stuff all over the floor.
And my brother howled with laughter.
"You suck," I moaned from the floor.
He ignored my writhing to head into the kitchen. "I got tired of waiting for you to come home yourself. We're going to be late as it is." He popped open the fridge. "It's empty."
"Of course it's empty. No one will be here for a month and a half. And I was getting ready to leave."
"Clearly. Horizontal packing, wildly productive. Do you even want to come home?"
I climbed to my feet, pocketed my phone from where it spun across the carpet, and started balling up sweaters to shove back into my suitcase. "That is a complex question and I swore off answering complex questions after I very nearly failed Applied Quantitative Analysis this semester."
"Is that the class you had me write that paper for?" he asked, head submerged in a cupboard that still had a few half-eaten bags of chips. He pulled back, poked through them, made a face, and shut the door.
I glared at him. "I asked you to edit that paper—you chose to rewrite the last two pages because my conclusion was wrong. On an opinion piece."
"And it got what grade?" He pulsed his eyebrows expectantly.
It passed with flying colors but he could bite me. "You don't get enough of your own dry classes at Cambridge? You gotta come across the ocean to steal mine?"
Kris opened another cupboard.
He went quiet.
I could never get him to talk about how his school was going beyond the fact that what should be a three-year program would, for him, be stretching into four years. Dad may have pulled all kinds of strings to force me into Yale to uphold the Claus legacy, but he left Kris to apply to a predetermined list of schools on his own.
He didn't get into Yale.
"If you're done being a coward." Kris shut the next cupboard. "We really will be late."
I hurled a wadded-up pair of socks at him. He turned from the kitchen and it hit him square in the nose.
But he was right.
I was a full-on coward now. Despite my conviction about turning over a new leaf after the New Koah incident, I'd avoided as many responsibilities back home as possible. School and my shitty jobs here had gotten the bulk of my focus, which you think would mean my grades were doing better. They weren't. And you'd think I'd be mastering my part-time work and at least have made manager at one of those jobs. I hadn't.
But Dad also hadn't stepped in and forced me to reassert myself with Christmas.
Until this year. With my graduation one short semester away, all the looming responsibilities of my birthright would no longer be something I could skirt around or Dad could make excuses for.
I heaved all my weight on my suitcase and managed to get it zipped shut. "You deleted that text from Mom?"
Kris tossed the socks back at me and I stuck them in the front pocket. "Yeah, I swear. I really don't care that she's dating some guy who's a beach detector."
"No, the Merry Christmas—" I frowned up at him. "Kris."
He looked away.
I straightened, vertebra by vertebra. "You've been talking with her? We promised neither of us would respond to her manipulation anymore. It was nearly a blood oath."
He crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels, suddenly finding the ceiling very, very interesting. "I didn't talk to her a lot. I wished her a Merry Christmas back. She told me some shit about her dating life. It was fine."
"Talking with our mother is never fine, Kris. What'd she say to you exactly?"
He gave me an offended look, redness creeping across his face. "Nothing. It really wasn't bad. Don't worry about it."
"Don't tell me not to worry about you." It came out harsher than I'd intended.
His eyes drooped, defeated and apologetic, because he knew exactly what I was remembering: how the last time she unloaded the full force of her guilt trip on him, I couldn't get ahold of him for two days, and when I'd shown up in Cambridge, it was to find that he hadn't left his room or eaten in all that time.
Kris winced like I projected the memory on the wall. "I had the flu. That doesn't count."
"The flu, my ass. She fucked with your head about you not being able to convince me to answer her calls, and you got so stressed out you stopped eating. So I will fucking worry." Protectiveness rose up the back of my neck, but I kept my voice somewhat steady and asked again, "What did she say to you?"
Kris rolled his eyes. "Nothing. I promise, I won't talk to her again without checking with my real mother first." He waved at me, apparently christening me his real mother, and I held out my hand.
"Give me your phone."
"What? Why?"
"I'm blocking her number."
"Fuck off. I don't need you to block her number for me."
"So you'll do it on your own?"
He ran his tongue across his teeth.
I grabbed for his arm. "Give me your phone."
He recoiled, hip slamming into the kitchen counter. "Shit, ow—no! Get off me."
"Give it." I reached around him, knowing he had it lodged in his back pocket. "I'll kick your ass, Kris, I swear to god."
"I'm not giving you my phone, dipshit."
"Yes, you are. Drop it. Sit. Stay. Roll over."
"No! Jesus Christ—I am not giving you my phone. It's full of porn—"
He may have had more muscle on me, but I had more height, and I tried to use that advantage, cocooning him like a spider, all limbs and angles. My elbow jabbed near his kidney—accidentally, sort of—and he plummeted to one knee. I followed.
"Ow—fuck. This stalling tactic is pathetic, even for you," he grumbled from underneath me.
I peeled myself off, and when he looked up, I pointed at him.
"Don't talk to her. I'm serious. If you need to say something to her, tell me, and I'll do it."
"When was the last time you even talked to her?"
"I… responded to her text."
"Liking her pic isn't responding."
"It's enough. I'm serious, Kris. If you need to talk to her, I'll do it for you. I don't give a shit."
Kris stood with a cautious stare. "If I agree, can I keep my phone?"
"Depends what kind of porn you have on it."
"Classy."
I went back and grabbed my suitcase. But I paused, staring at the wall, that protective anger still hot on the back of my neck.
Kris was quiet long enough that I looked at him. He was toeing a spot on the carpet.
I wheeled my suitcase over. "All right. Fine. Let's get this over with."
He cocked an eyebrow, relief showing, that we were done talking about her. For now. "Sound more miserable. Iris is already there."
"She texted me. Mostly to tell me that Lily wouldn't be there."
"She isn't," Kris assured me. "Just Iris and her dad."
"And I'll say the same thing to you that I told Iris—I do not care where Lily is. She's engaged now, yeah?" Newly sold off, I meant betrothed, to a Valentine Prince.
Kris gave the same look Iris gave me no matter how many times I swore I was fine: pity.
"It's been almost two years!" I threw my head back. "The breakup was mutual."
"You had one serious relationship, got dumped publicly, then never dated again. It's not healthy. Besides"—he dragged in a quick breath—"we know Lily brings up… that night."
I made a cracking shriek noise, half laugh, half deranged feral panther. "Back up—you wanna come at me about healthy relationships? How many people have you dated, like ever?"
Kris focused on pulling mistletoe out of his pocket, fascinated by the sprig of greenery. "I date. I date plenty."
"Sitting next to someone in the campus library doesn't count."
"I didn't sit next to them—it was an arranged date."
"You took a person to a library, Kris, a library on the campus where they also go to school."
"We went there for an exhibit to see the—"
"Between you with your lifelong devotion to pining after Iris and Dad with whatever the hell he's been doing since Mom left, I'm the only one in this family who even plays chicken with healthy relationships."
Kris snorted. "Being fuck buddies with your roommate isn't a healthy relationship."
"You said you liked Steven!"
"I did. But you weren't dating him. Hey, I failed my midterm, give me a blowjob isn't a relationship. You're stalling. Again."
I was stalling, so I groaned and kicked the floor. "It's weird that she's there early, right?"
The first event of the season was usually just Christmas upper crust.
Kris stuck the mistletoe in the front door of the dorm suite. "Maybe she needs a change of pace. Our classes are ramping up."
Iris swore she was happy in the UK alongside Kris, in the same course as him, even, but I knew it was her father's influence that pushed her to also go to Cambridge instead of a fancy art school she once waxed on about. She was at least graduating on time, right as I would from Yale—and don't get me started on the fact that I got stuck in a four-year program while she was out after only three. I'd berate Kris for dragging his program out an extra year, but I knew he wasn't doing it on purpose.
"Yeah. Maybe." A weird feeling itched, something out of place I couldn't make sense of.
Kris finished with the mistletoe. He stepped back, and I gave a confused hum.
"What the fuck is a beach detector?"
He shrugged. "One of those people who scours beaches with metal detectors."
"That's—that's the guy's whole identifier? Like that's all he does? Just—no. Never mind."
The pulse of magic from the mistletoe washed over both of us, and when Kris opened the door of my dorm suite, instead of the hallway, it showed Claus Palace in the northernmost part of frozen, tundra-coated Greenland.
If the palace's normal state was festive, this time of year, it was the Sugar Plum Fairy's wet dream.
The foyer was an explosion of green trimmings with clusters of vibrant red berries. Shining ornaments in a rainbow of colors hung from every free surface, including a massive chandelier done to look like a sleigh in flight, diamond reindeer at the helm. Lit candles flickered along the brown banisters that wrapped up the two identical staircases and tables held decorative scenes of Santas and reindeer and snowmen. A miniature train belched smoke as it lapped the ceiling on a meandering track, and even its chug-chugs sounded jovial.
People bustled all around, staff rushing to this or that preparation—not elves, much to the chagrin of the common myth, but they were decked out in holiday finery. And the smells—I lingered behind Kris in the doorway and breathed for a beat, soaking in that scent, god I wished I could bottle it. Suddenly coming home didn't seem so bad, not when the air was sugar-dusted from the kitchens, and the decorations added scents of evergreen sap. Beyond it all, there was the stinging crystalline scent of bone-shaking cold: snow.
Kris nudged me. "Careful, Coal. Someone might think you like this stuff."
My chest kicked.
I didn't dislike it. Quite the opposite, honestly. And that was sort of my problem.
"Oh, the horror." I dragged my suitcase through and shut the door behind us.
We were set upon by Dad's head assistant, Wren, tablet in hand. Her white hair was pulled into a tight bun with a candy cane shoved through it and I couldn't decide whether that was a fashion choice or if she stuck it there and forgot about it.
"The trimming started ten minutes ago." She checked a watch, scowled, then snapped for one of the other staff. "We'll take your bag to your room. Change, please, and quickly—everyone else is waiting."
"Ah, jumping right into tree trimming." I gave my most charming smile. "Why the rush? Let's catch up, Wren. How are you? How are things in North Pole City?"
She didn't flinch, of course. One of Dad's right hands for years, she was an unflappable fixture who'd morphed into an extension of his severity. "Go, please. Your outfit is laid out for you."
Something soured on my tongue and it was no one's fault but my own that Wren didn't take my question seriously. The people who lived in the city around our palace could be plotting a murderous coup and I'd be none the wiser. Dad probably knew how they were doing, right? He kept up on things like that?
"Stylists are waiting in the hall," Wren continued. "You as well, Kristopher—be ready in five minutes. Five, please."
"You know, saying please doesn't add anything to the—hey!"
Kris hauled me towards the stairs. "Don't antagonize her. She oversees our stylists."
"Very wise, Kristopher," Wren called. "Upset me and you'll be wearing neon corduroy for the rest of your lives."
"Is that why you occasionally still put me in salmon—shit!" I'd somehow found myself in a headlock. "God, Kris, I'm coming, uncle, uncle."
Soon we were up the stairs and down the halls and he shoved me into my suite on the way to his own.
My suite was as decked out as the rest of the palace. A Christmas tree a little taller than I am set with ornaments and lights stood guard over a desk and sitting area near the lit fireplace, and the room through a side door showed a canopied bed with a scarlet velvet comforter and perfectly fluffed pillows.
Briefly, I considered dragging out the time to be an ass. But I had tried turning over a new leaf these past years, or at least picking my battles. And fighting this, the first of many photo ops of the Claus family partaking in Christmas revelry, had no benefit beyond pissing off my dad.
So I changed quickly into a relaxed blue suit with a white button-down and polished black shoes. I'd have to thank Wren—Kris was right. Keep the woman in charge of making us look good on our side. Got it.
I opened the door and stylists flurried in. They quickly fixed my hair—my auburn curls were still short, and they set them from unruly and mildly frizzy to controlled and sleek. I'd never been a big makeup guy, and they respected that with only minor touch-ups "for photos."
Then I was shuttled out the door to where Kris was already being similarly shuttled down the hall in a complementary blue suit a shade lighter, his with pinstripes.
I jutted my chin at his topknot as we walked—briskly—down the halls. Magic pulsed, and a candy cane appeared skewered right through his hair.
He reached up to thumb it. "Hysterical."
"They're all the rage this year."
A cavalcade of staff corralled us through the palace, back across the foyer, and down another hall until we got to our destination, the epicenter of not only the cheer and decorations, but the North Pole.
The Merry Measure.
Gold striated the wide ivory marble floor, leading up to a massive brass and gold behemoth that looked like a steampunk Christmas contraption designed by H.G. Wells. Pipes led in and out of the room, syphoning down to a switchboard with gauges keeping track of the amounts.
The only other joy meter I'd seen was in Easter, but I knew every Holiday had something similar to collect the joy they generated, log the amounts, and feed it out to their cities. Each tube that stretched over our meter was labeled in a massive gilded plate: TOY ROOM, STABLES, KITCHENS, LETTERS, LIST ROOM, and more. Some magic funneled out to Dad, Kris, and I directly, a lifeline we could tap to spread good cheer to the world—or, more often, play dumb pranks on each other. Not the best use of magic, but it wasn't like it took much to conjure a candy cane. Dad could siphon out magic to other people too, members of the noble houses or anyone in the North Pole who needed magic to do their jobs—but he was the dam on it, the bottleneck of power that decided who got what and what went where.
Normally, the Merry Measure was kept under careful lock and guard, but for the first official night of the season, Dad opened it to our court—and ample press shots. This time of year, our joy gauge was off the charts, the toggle dancing at the edge of max. Carefully placing that in the background of any pictures was just one of many intentional—and not exactly subtle—flexes.
Between the door and that towering machine stood about thirty people, all as Christmas-fancy as we were, as well as a half dozen staff who circulated with refreshments. Christmas press photographers wreathed the crowd, from Christmas Inquirer, Morning Yuletide Sun, and several other outlets. Music played, an instrumental version of "It's Beginning to Look a Lot like Christmas," while everyone milled around a comically large tree in the center of the room, its boughs twined with strands of beads and popcorn. At its trunk waited boxes of ornaments.
As Kris and I stopped just outside the threshold, the crowd took note of us, and their energy shifted from blithe chatter to an arching of intent like several dozen hawks sighting the same two mice on a field.
Kris nudged me. "Once more," he whispered.
"Unto the breach," I finished, and we stepped inside.
I spotted Dad across the room, closest to the Merry Measure with Iris and her father. Iris grinned and waved—but getting to her meant navigating a minefield of Christmas aristocracy, so I pulled up my best smile as Kris and I schmoozed.
People were here from all the main houses that oversaw various parts of Christmas. Jacobs, with toys and engineering; Caroler, with treats and song; Luminaria, with creatures and decorations; and Frost, winter and all the frozen shit. We may be celebrated in the southern hemisphere too, but being located where Christmas equaled winter meant we dipped into that association more often than not. The Frosts were also Mom's original house, and that small talk sucked the most, chatting aimlessly with a cousin about how yes I was excited to be home and no I didn't have a favorite event I was looking forward to, all while emphatically not mentioning Mom.
I guided Kris away after two minutes with the Frosts.
"We'll catch up more at the next event, yes? All right. All right, yes—we'll—yes, we'll talk then—okay." I spun around Kris and blew out a long exhale. He was a little pale, and I hooked my arm around his neck as photographers caught our angles at the edges of the room, and through my charming grin, I muttered, "Kill me."
He didn't laugh. He took a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and kicked it back as we finally, finally made it across the room.
"Since when do you drink champa—" I started, but I got my answer when Kris realized you couldn't shoot a whole glass of champagne, and he sputtered a cough as the carbonation fizzed up his nose, cheeks billowing to keep from spluttering the whole mess down his suit.
I crowded in front of him, blocking him from any pics. "That was refined as hell."
"Shut up." He wiped the back of his hand against his lips. But it broke the tension and he shook his head with a self-deprecating smirk.
"Coal!"
I turned as Iris darted for us, and she somehow did so elegantly and in heels, her shimmery purple dress catching the light of the massive chandelier.
She threw herself at me and I caught her, grinning as much as she was. I hadn't seen her since October, when she and Kris last visited me in New Haven, and I gave her a tight squeeze before setting her down.
She twisted to Kris, who had recovered, and hugged him too. I was very aware of our dads watching us, and of the snap of pictures being taken, so I behaved and did not make any suggestive bedroom eyes at him over her shoulder.
Kris, though, must be able to tell I was at least thinking of doing that, because the moment Iris stepped away, he closed in on me and punched me in the thigh. A zap of cold came with it.
He froze my pants to my leg.
I bat at the ice, breaking it apart so the cold shivered down my leg. "Dick."
"Idiot."
"Boys!" Dad spread his arms like we'd rush to him. He was playing the Santa part with his styled white beard and scarlet suit.
I managed what hopefully passed as a cordial grin, and with Kris and Iris at my side, we joined the group in front of the Merry Measure.
Dad swept both Kris and me into a pose for the photographers.
"Best behavior," he said to me through his smile.
"Wouldn't dream of anything else," I said. "The people of Christmas will surely Marie Antoinette us if they don't get their yearly photos of us hanging ornaments."
His grip on my shoulder tightened. That itch of something being out of place scratched me again, and my lips flattened, but the photo was over, and Dad spun me to Iris's father.
Who had never liked me. And the whole "dating his daughter then ruining her birthday by almost destroying a small country" thing did not help.
So when his expression of greeting was a poorly capped glower that told me he still daydreamed about popping my head off my shoulders like a dandelion, I kept my back straight and did not do anything to make the situation worse.
"Nicholas," King Neo said. "Are you enjoying school?"
Ah, pleasantries. "Very much." It was nicer last year when one of my roommates would fool around with me, but Steven transferred this year. Somehow I didn't think Iris's dad would care about that tidbit.
"Your father tells me you have yet to decide on plans post-graduation."
I hadn't? I rather thought my post-graduation plans were destined from birth. "I—"
Dad dove in. "Hardly! Nicholas will be getting his master's in Global Affairs, just as I did."
"I will?" I gagged.
He didn't look at me, but his hand pinched on my shoulder. "He's already been accepted to the program at Yale. I'm very proud."
Holy shit.
I stared at his profile.
This was how he told me he'd made that choice for me? This was how he told me he enrolled me in grad school? Shit fuck, the doors money could open were truly grotesque, because honestly, with my grades, there was no way in hell I had any business going near a grad school, let alone one at Yale, that I did not apply to myself.
Not to mention I did not want to get a master's, what the fuck. I'd taken great pains towards not being a disappointment to him and Christmas, and I thought I'd done a pretty damn good job of it—there had been almost no headlines caused by me since the gifts fiasco. So what did I do to deserve this manipulation?
He knew this was messed up. But he smiled at Neo and asked what Lily's plans were and thorny vines grew in my stomach.
Staff began opening the boxes of ornaments, and our court shuffled around, lifting those ornaments, hanging them, posing just so. But I couldn't move as my father slapped my shoulder in faux camaraderie and I felt that plan sink in.
This had nothing to do with my behavior or a punishment. He was trying to turn me into him. And I got an image of what that would be like as I watched my father smile too broadly, laugh too loudly, every movement honed to paint a flawless portrait of our ruling family that would be displayed to our people and other Holidays, look how mighty Christmas was, look how jolly and joyful.
When was the last time anyone in this family felt actual joy?
An echo of a conversation scurried across my brain.
*Maybe you've been putting your weight on the wrong things.*
*That's what happiness is, at the root. A foundation.*
I shrugged it off like I usually did. A drunken night, too fogged to really remember, I didn't actually know what happened—but I was only lying to myself, and doing a piss poor job of it, considering I thought about that conversation a lot. And that guy. And that kiss.
How he felt. How he tasted. The way he'd moaned.
But I couldn't admit all that to myself so I was going to keep living in my delusions about not really remembering where those nuggets of wisdom came from.
They didn't matter, anyway. Because I was going to grad school, then eventually taking over the family business of bringing quote-unquote joy to the world, behold my future.
It was suddenly very, very hot in here. This suit was too tight. The collar was too high—
Someone handed me an ornament. I went into the motion, stepped across to hang it on the tree; a photo snapped.
Okay, duty done, right? I could leave—
Iris eased up next to me. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah," I lied. "Great. Going to grad school, apparently."
She scoffed. "With your grades?"
"Thank you, I know, right?"
She looked back at our fathers, talking, sipping their drinks. "For what?"
"Global Affairs, because it isn't enough to have an undergrad degree I don't understand, let's add a master's too." I tipped my head back, looking up at the massive tree. "God fucking damn it. Grad school. Why didn't I see it coming? I always underestimate him."
"I've stopped trying to estimate my father at all," Iris said. She hung a red bulb on a branch that bent, too thin. "It's made everything way easier."
"Easier?" I frowned at her. "Did something happen?"
"I've switched to taking mostly online courses. I didn't tell you?"
"You definitely did not. Why? You're still on campus, right?"
She shook her head. "Dad's pulled me into day-to-day tasks since Lily—" She stopped.
"It was years ago. I'm fine. Your sister's engaged. Continue."
Iris looked at Kris, who came up alongside me and hooked a gingerbread ornament onto a branch. "I see Coal's still master of being super fine, nothing is wrong."
"I don't know what you mean," Kris said. "Nothing is wrong. Coal said so."
"Anyway." Iris tapped an ornament, a sleigh filled with gifts. "My father's been keeping me busy getting more into the coordinating of tasks with Easter since Lily will be split between us and Valentine's Day, and I'll be taking over some of her duties after I graduate."
I gaped at her. Gaped at Kris, who shrugged, but they were in the same course, taking mostly the same classes, so he had to have known, right?
"You haven't told me any of this," I hissed at her. "Since when do you keep things from me?"
Iris gave a rather fake yet bright smile, more for the cameras than my benefit. "I don't tell you everything."
"I tell you everything."
"To which I again have to remind you that you do not need to tell me everything. I don't give a shit about the gross things your roommates do. Stop texting me pictures of them."
"I mean everything important, Iris. You should tell me these things." My face fell, but when I opened my mouth to push her more, she sighed.
"I don't need rescuing, Prince in Shining Armor."
I squinted when her eyes didn't meet mine, but then she remembered the cameras and crowd and pulled up an empty smile.
"Liar," I hissed at her.
"It isn't so bad, you know. Our jobs. Our—gasp—duties. We help make the world happy."
No, we created a single day of one-off smiles that did nothing to stop bad shit from happening.
"Sure," I said. "But we don't get to be happy too?"
"I'm happy to see you and Kris," she said. She grabbed another ornament, a stuffed teddy bear, and tossed it to me. "I'm happy to spend this month with the two of you."
Kris leaned around me. "And I'll happily beat you at sleigh racing this year."
Iris blanched. "Oh no. Nope. Not doing that. I'll be a spectator."
My grin went demonic. "Aw, why?" I looked at Kris, all innocent wide eyes. "Did something happen?"
He put his finger on his chin in exaggerated thinking. "Huh. I recall something… about sap, maybe?"
She'd gotten tossed from her sleigh and landed quite safely. In a pine tree.
Iris bat his arm. His cheeks went scarlet but he was grinning like mad.
"You have no idea how long it takes to wash off sap," she said.
"No, we know." I popped a pine needle off the Christmas tree. "You told us. Repeatedly. Oh, Coal, Christmas sucks—'"
"You're a jerk." Iris hung another ornament, her smile sickly sweet for the cameras.
"I wasn't even in the sleigh with you!"
"But you're mocking me, ergo, jerk." She flipped her braids over her shoulder with an overembellished flair, and I barked a laugh, and Kris smiled.
The cameras snapped, getting photos of us legitimately happy. I wanted to ask for copies, but though I swore off reading any of the paparazzi crap that came out since the New Koah incident, I could find them online easily enough. Maybe it wasn't always so bad to have reporters everywhere.
A presence loomed behind us, and what happiness we'd managed to conjure evaporated. The joy we felt still went towards Christmas's magic like the joy from normal people, but it never felt particularly magical or lasting or like it had any real purpose at all.
My dad surveyed the part of the tree that Iris had decorated. "Lovely, dear."
She smiled at him, amiable as ever, but I hadn't forgiven him for dumping the grad school thing on me in the past five minutes, so I went stiff.
"Nicholas, Iris, if you would join us by the Merry Measure," he said and started to steer me around.
I eyed her. She was just as confused. We hadn't finished trimming the tree yet, and that was the whole point of this evening, wasn't it?
Kris got left behind, his brow bending as he watched the three of us gather with Iris's dad.
The music stopped, which drew a hush over the crowd, and everyone twisted to us.
Iris pushed next to me. "What's this about?"
"No clue. Probably another photo op to—"
My words fell off as the chatter of voices crashed into the room, and staff led in a whole gaggle of reporters, way more than were usually present—and we typically had a lot of reporters present. These were from outlets beyond just our internal Christmas ones: Holiday Herald, Joy Gazette, 24-Hour Fête, Tradition Times; there were a few specific to Easter too. They slipped inside, skirting the edges to gather as close to us as possible, until we were front and center at an impromptu press conference.
I frowned at the side of my dad's head.
Whatever he was announcing, he wanted all the other Holidays to know about it.
Staff positioned us quickly. Iris in front of her father. Me next to her by my dad.
Those itchy feelings of something being off coalesced.
The room silenced, cameras rolling, recorders outstretched, our court whispering softly to one another, and I hated that the reporters knew more about what was happening than I did. They were summoned here for the promise of something, whereas Iris and I were being blindsided.
"The Claus family is thrilled to have the Lentora family with us as we participate in the usual festive calendar of activities that highlights the best of Christmas, culminating in our annual Christmas Eve Ball," Dad started, one hand on my shoulder. It was weighing me down, making it so I couldn't move. "In the spirit of unity, we have come together not only in celebration, but to make an announcement."
Iris looked at me questioningly. I could only frown.
"Easter has begun the search for a marriage partner for Princess Iris," my father said so easily that his tone numbed his meaning until I saw horror on Iris's face, and before I could form a reaction, Dad pressed on: "I am happy to announce that Prince Nicholas has begun courting Princess Iris, and we expect an engagement by the end of the season."