Chapter Eight
The library of the Claus Palace is a work of art, it really is. Towering mahogany shelves of books with glinting gold spines are accessible by sliding ladders that rim the dark, cozy walls, with more reasonable- height shelves segregating the room throughout. One end is a massive gray stone fireplace, the mantel decked out with a tiny porcelain Christmas village, and cushioned chairs and a table are set in front of it, loaded with a relaxed dinner spread of all the Christmas trimmings.
Roast beef and juicy ham and candied sweet potatoes and cranberries broiled over triple cream brie all combine to assault me with a sweet, savory barrage of dinners of Christmas past. Like that smell alone could cocoon me up and transport me to this exact dinner when I was a kid, when I hadn’t seen beyond the magic yet and could still be consumed by it.
We had a break between the end of the race and dinner. I showered and changed into a Christmas sweater that looks like it’s stripes of holly and candy canes, but on closer inspection it’s rows of red and green robots blasting each other to bits—I don’t know where Kris finds these things. I’d hoped freshening up would cleanse what happened, but I’m stuck in some kind ofGroundhog Day,which is borderline treasonous, given that that’s not even sort of a Holiday I have any dominion over. But here I am again, feeling like I messed up things with Hex; here I am again, not knowing how to apologize, knowing I need to.
Kris drops into a chair next to me and takes a gulp from his drink. Beer in a wine glass. We’re chic. “So. That sleigh ride was. Something.”
I pick at the plate of food I’d grabbed before giving up and shovingit onto a nearby end table. Shit, I must really be morose if Renee’s cooking is losing its appeal.
This isn’t a formal dinner. Dad even opted out—something about overseeing a new reserve tank for the Merry Measure; it’soverflowingwith joy, he’d been sure to say, loudly, as we left the stable yard. So the people milling around now—some of our court, not everyone; more intimate—eat as they like, chat idly.
Hex might not come.
Iris joins us, licking brown sugar sauce from a spoon. “I’m going to poach Renee from you one day.”
I don’t react to that. Not to what Kris said either. Kris and Iris share a look and pivot to me more purposefully and shit, I do need new friends.
“What’d you do?” Iris asks.
“Nothing.” I swing on her. “I thought you were on my side, Iris. Itold youwhat I needed from you.”
I hear my words as I say them, and my eyes roll shut on a pained wince. I shouldn’t be asking anything of her. I should be trying to win her trust—did I ever really have it?—to get her to tell me what she’s thinking now and if she wants out of this whole arrangement. Because if she does want out, I—
—don’t actually know what I’d do. Throw some kind of gigantic hissy fit at the next event? Set up a stupid prank where I figure out a way to melt the ice skating rink or put permanent dye in cookie frosting so everyone’s mouths are green for a month? Yeah, that’ll help.
She bats the spoon at me. “I changed my mind once I saw the way he looked at you.”
That’s more distracting than if she’d socked me in the throat. “He looked at me? How did he look at me? Wait, no, god—Iris.”
I sink back into the overstuffed armchair, shaking my head, wanting so badly to make a joke out of this. But it’s not funny. At all.
She balks. “You’re actually angry.”
I bolt forward, so aware of the people nearby—there’s only one reporter, this one fromChristmas Inquirer.He snaps a fewnot-exactly-covert photos of me and Iris, and even though the conversation we’re having is basically an argument, the headlines will be shit likePrince Nicholas and Princess Iris cozy up over a quiet firelit dinner; will she choose him over Prince Hex?
I glare at the reporter long enough that he shifts uncomfortably and swivels his attention to a member of the Christmas court.
“Yeah, I’m mad,” I say to Iris. “This is already a shitty situation for all of us and I cannot mess it up more. He doesn’t deserve this,youdon’t deserve this, and I won’t—”
Iris’s eyes snap over my shoulder. “Prince Hex.”
I lurch to my feet, startling her backwards, and spin to see Hex, far enough away that I know he didn’t hear anything, but close enough that my body shakes with him being in the same room as me.
The gold firelight pulses across him. He’s in a black button-up and black pants with his black boots, a short black tie hanging around his neck, a simple yet effective display of his Holiday in one color. His hair is pulled back again, showing the strain in his jaw when his eyes meet mine.
But he looks down at Iris. “Princess.”
“Help yourself.” She waves at the table by the fire.
He crosses the room to the food. Taking a longer route, circling around, to avoid coming too close to me, moving with such graceful intent that the air around him barely rustles.
Iris tugs on my hand. “What did youdo?”
“One of them fell off the sleigh,” Kris whispers at her.
“What?” She yanks on my arm and I drop back into the seat. “Coal! You let him fall off?”
