My chest kicks.
I don’tdislikeit. Quite the opposite, honestly. And that’s sort of my problem.
“Oh, the horror.” I drag my suitcase through and shut the door behind us.
We’re set upon by Dad’s head assistant, Wren, tablet in hand. Her white hair is pulled into a tight bun with a candy cane shoved through it and I can’t decide whether that’s a fashion choice or if she stuck it there and forgot about it.
“The trimming started ten minutes ago.” She checks a watch, scowls, then snaps for one of the other staff. “We’ll take your bag to your room. Change, please, andquickly—everyone else is waiting.”
“Ah, jumping right into tree trimming.” I give my most charming smile. “Why the rush? Let’s catch up, Wren. How are you? How are things in North Pole City?”
She doesn’t flinch, of course. One of Dad’s right hands for years, she’s an unflappable fixture who’s morphed into an extension of his severity. “Go, please. Your outfit is laid out for you.”
Something sours on my tongue and it’s no one’s fault but my own that Wren doesn’t take my question seriously. The people who live in the city around our palace could be plotting a murderous coupand I’d be none the wiser. Dad probably knows how they’re doing, right? He keeps up on things like that?
“Stylists are waiting in the hall,” Wren continues. “You as well, Kristopher—be ready in five minutes.Five,please.”
“You know, sayingpleasedoesn’t add anything to the—hey!”
Kris hauls me towards the stairs. “Don’t antagonize her. She oversees our stylists.”
“Very wise, Kristopher,” Wren calls. “Upset me and you’ll be wearing neon corduroy for the rest of your lives.”
“Isthatwhy you occasionally still put me in salmon—shit!” I’ve somehow found myself in a headlock. “God, Kris, I’m coming, uncle, uncle.”
Soon we’re up the stairs and down the halls and he shoves me into my suite on the way to his own.
My suite is as decked out as the rest of the palace. A Christmas tree a little taller than I am set with ornaments and lights stands guard over a desk and sitting area near the lit fireplace, and the room through a side door shows a canopied bed with a scarlet velvet comforter and perfectly fluffed pillows.
Briefly, I consider dragging out the time to be an ass. But I have 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, has no benefit beyond pissing off my dad.
So I change quickly into a relaxed blue suit with a white button-down and polished black shoes. I’ll have to thank Wren—Kris was right. Keep the woman in charge of making us look good on our side. Got it.
I open the door and stylists flurry in. They quickly fix my hair—my auburn curls are still short, and they set them from unruly and mildly frizzy to controlled and sleek. I’ve never been a big makeup guy, and they respect that with only minor touch-ups “for photos.”
Then I’m shuttled out the door to where Kris is already being similarly shuttled down the hall in a complementary blue suit a shade lighter, his with pinstripes.
I jut my chin at his topknot as we walk—briskly—down the halls. Magic pulses, and a candy cane appears skewered right through his hair.
He reaches up to thumb it. “Hysterical.”
“They’re all the rage this year.”
A cavalcade of staff corrals us through the palace, back across the foyer, and down another hall until we get to our destination, the epicenter of not only the cheer and decorations, but the North Pole.
The Merry Measure.
Gold striates the wide ivory marble floor, leading up to a massive brass and gold behemoth that looks like a steampunk Christmas contraption designed by H.G. Wells. Pipes lead in and out of the room, syphoning down to a switchboard with gauges keeping track of the amounts.
The only other joy meter I’ve seen is in Easter, but I know every Holiday has something similar to collect the joy they generate, log the amounts, and feed it out to their cities. Each tube that stretches over our meter is labeled in a massive gilded plate:TOY ROOM, STABLES, KITCHENS, LETTERS, LIST ROOM,and more. Some magic funnels out to Dad, Kris, and I directly, a lifeline we can 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’s not like it takes much to conjure a candy cane. Dad can siphon out magic to other people too, members of the noble houses or anyone in the North Pole who needs magic to do their jobs—but he’s the dam on it, the bottleneck of power that decides who gets what and what goes where.
Normally, the Merry Measure is kept under careful lock and guard, but for the first official night of the season, Dad opens it to our court—and ample press shots. This time of year, our joy gauge is off the charts, the toggle dancing at the edge ofmax.Carefully placing that in the background of any pictures is just one of many intentional—and not exactly subtle—flexes.
Between the door and that towering machine stand about thirty people, all as Christmas-fancy as we are, as well as a half dozen staff who circulate with refreshments. Christmas press photographerswreath the crowd, fromChristmas Inquirer, Morning Yuletide Sun,and several other outlets. Music plays, an instrumental version of “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas,” while everyone mills around a comically large tree in the center of the room, its boughs twined with strands of beads and popcorn. At its trunk wait boxes of ornaments.
As Kris and I stop just outside the threshold, the crowd takes note of us, and their energy shifts from blithe chatter to an arching of intent like several dozen hawks sighting the same two mice on a field.
Kris nudges me. “Once more,” he whispers.
