“Who told you that?” Dad’s eyes narrow.
Oh.
Oh, that wasdumb.
Hex told me that in confidence, and what do I do? Immediately run to my dad and shatter that confidence with a sledgehammer.
“I—”Lie, fucking lie, through my teeth, through my ears, through every fucking orifice.“I overheard him talking on the phone. To his parents, I think. Did I hear wrong? Because it sure as hell sounded like we have aprisoner.”Don’t just lie; deflect. Put this all on Dad, where it should be.“How many other prisoners do we have? Is there a dungeon somewhere I should know about?”
Dad rolls his eyes, likethat’scrossing the line, but he buys my explanation and I stifle relief as he tosses his glasses onto his desk. “The Halloween Prince will be sent home after you and Iris are finalized. I am surprised by your reaction—his presence here is largely unchanged from the story you know. This is the reality of our position. Ofyourposition, someday. We have to keep certain people in line.”
I’m coming to really, really hate that phrase.
But then my gut bottoms out. “Certain people? Who else?”
The question feels like a door opening. All of this evening has been a door opening, honestly, a door that opened and I stepped through and there’s no going back now.
Dad considers for a moment. Then he stands.
“Are you ready to ask that question? I’m not sure you are.”
A well of resolve gushes through me, and I draw on the pieces of me still reeling over what happened in the library.
I’ve been passive for way too long. But my version of stepping up is disastrous—thisis disastrous, though, too. So maybe that’s exactly what we need, my version of disastrous to break whatever is happening.
I look at the floor. The red-patterned rug.
When I face my father again, my gaze is level, echoing his calm.
“I messed up,” I start. “With New Koah. With so many other things. I know I messed up, but if I’m going to do this someday, then I should knowhowto, more than staged training for press shots. I should know what you’re doing there”—I point at whatever papers he’s going over—“and I should know how Christmas’s inner workings operate and what you’re planning so I can help it move forward rather than hinder it. I want to be a part of it.”
It isn’t a lie. It’s so very muchnota lie that I have to grit my teeth, hard, to keep from gasping, these words like a cork zooming off a bottle and here come all the desires I’ve been suppressing. How I want to be worthy of this legacy, theoriginallegacy, an overexcited seven-year-old boy who thought his father wanted him to help bring joy to the world. How I want toimprovethis legacy, for what we do tomean somethingmore than small fleeting moments, something lasting and real and—
Dad gives me a look of honest surprise. For once, I don’t try to hide the truth, don’t make a joke before someone else can.
Holding back makes my chest ache; I’m stripped raw.
Silently, Dad moves to a filing cabinet next to his desk. He shuffles through it for a second and pulls out a manila folder before he faces me, one more cursory stare.
“This is a test.”
“Yes.”
“You have failed far too many tests. The trainings I have arranged for you. Every opportunity to step up during events. Everything I’ve given you.”
“I know.”
“Do not abuse the knowledge I share with you. Hopefully, through seeing this, you will come to understand the full breadth of what Christmas can be.”
That small part of me springs up with hope again. That stupid, childish hope that he’ll prove himself better. That he’ll reveal some master plan that makes everything he’s done okay, and he’ll beSanta,like he should be, like I thought he was once.
He extends the folder to me. I take it, flip it open, and start scanning through the handful of pages within. There are entries dated in the past decade or so, percentages, and the wordTithe,over and over, next to repeating names. The list of those names grows, until I shift to the latest entries.
Yule.
Thanksgiving.
New Year.
