Hex pauses, so we’re quiet when he says, “International Development and Management.”
“Wow.” I lean back on the seat. “We are a fun bunch. Look at us. So diverse. No one would ever be able to guess what family obligations we come from.”
“It is hardly surprising that we all have similar avenues of study,” Hex says. “What else would we do?”
“I tried to major in Theater at first.”
Hex’s face flies into such a look of charmed surprise that I wantto keep talking and I’ve found that that’s an incredibly dangerous state for me to be in.
“Theater?” he echoes. “At Yale? You want to be an actor?”
“Oh, no. I did it because it made my father threaten to disinherit me”—among other things—“but luckily for him, the Yale Theater Department is apparently rathereliteand not prone to letting wayward obscure royals fuck around to piss off their dads.”
“Then he majored in Classic Civilization,” Kris says with a shitty grin.
Hex’s surprise is shifting to all-out delight and I’m chasing it like a hunting dog. But like a new, untrained hunting dog that has no idea what he’s going to do once he catches it.
“You majored in Classic Civilization?” Hex clarifies.
“And Humanities. Then Burmese with a Dutch minor, and that set me off on a language kick—Punjabi, Russian. Somewhere around me switching from Latin to Czech, Dad cut me off from everything. Phone, money, magic. I caved after two days, he told me I’d get a degree in Global Affairs, and here we are.”
“Why did you do that?” Hex laughs, a too-quick burst of an airy chuckle.
“All the same reason: velociraptoring my dad’s fences.”
“What?” Hex rocks forward, his look saying he had to have misheard me.
Iris groans. “Oh, do not get him started. He’s way too pleased with himself and this analogy.”
I ignore her because yes, I am too pleased with myself and this analogy. “Jurassic Park.The velociraptors would hurl themselves into the electric fences to test them for weak spots. Thus, velociraptoring my dad’s fences—testing him for weak spots. Where he’ll cave, what he’ll let slide. My life’s goal, really.”
“Imagine if you’d applied yourself to something useful,” Kris mumbles, but he’s smirking, and it’s the same joke everyone’s been making my whole life.
Only now, it yanks the smile off my face and I look up to see Hex’s own smile dimming.
“So yeah.” I force my grin back up. “I’ve trademarked that phrase and I will happily charge you a negligible fee if you want to use it.”
His lips cock. Not that teetering amusement again, not the joy I’d almost drawn out in him, the sun that had started to peek above the horizon.
“I will refrain from using that term without prior arrangement with you,” he says. His eyes stay on mine, studying my dip. Iris and Kris are oblivious to my shift, but he catches it, and I’m not sure what to do with that awareness.
The sleigh takes a turn, and North Pole City comes into view. We’re getting closer to reporters.
Hex’s eyes stay on me.
And I should look away.
But I don’t.
Chapter Eleven
The North Pole ice rink sits in the center of a picture-perfect ski resort of a town, lit by more of those giant lights along with what have to bemilesof twinkly strand lights. All the buildings are in storybook Tudor-style wood-and-plaster architecture, interspersed with garland-draped market booths selling fragrant roasted nuts and handmade gifts and, of course, cocoa. Dozens of people mill around, giggling and chatting and snapping pictures of the heater-warmed area where the sleighs deposited the palace group, a cluster of royals spread over benches, all tying on skates.
I can feel the sharpening of attention on Hex. This is the first time he’s been out of the palace, and tons of people have their phones on him, pointing and whispering and it’s the invasiveness of every journalist interaction but cranked to the max. All the images taken and shared are feeding the story that Halloween’s allies believe, that Christmas bowed to them like a kicked puppy and they have a shot at linking with Easter now. Is anyone really buying that Halloween has an honest chance at getting that alliance? Maybe that’s the point: they believe whatever story my dad is letting out because Christmas is sowonderfulandgraciousand why would Santa lie?
My arms itch to put myself between Hex and the onslaught, but thereisno division—it’s everywhere. Pummeling us in a 360-degree sweep, and here we are, supposed to have afunandcandidday of skatingamong the people.
I yank my laces too tight as a shadow falls over me.
