I can feel my father’s eyes on me. Considering. He won’t make a scene here, though.
Cameras flash.
A crowd has gathered, more people now, phones taking pics. The rink has been emptied for us—how no one realizes that absurdity, that we came to skate with our people but not actuallywithany of our people, is beyond me—and music starts from speakers set around the square, an airy, festive rendition of “Carol of the Bells.”
Dad is first out onto the ice. The rest of our court snakes in behind him, pushing through the gate.
Everyone from Christmas has some level of skill—it’s in our ancestry—but I’m drawn to watching specifically the members of House Frost. This is one of their specialties, one of the things that they alone brought to Christmas, and I wonder now what else we’remissing from them. What other things have we not embraced or lost in the name of cohesion?
I linger off to the side with Hex, letting the bulk of people funnel past us so we can take our time getting out.
“Are Christmas events always like this?” Hex asks, gripping my arm with one hand, white-knuckling the railing on the other side.
“Like what?”
He nods at the photos being taken. The press. The people with their phones.
“As long as I can remember. Well—” That’s not true, is it? “It didn’t used to be this bad. We’ve always had journalists recording our events and writing articles about us, but it used to be one or two, not half a dozen all the time. It’s only been this overbearing for the past twelve, thirteen years.”
Hex gawks at the side of my face. “You usually havehalf a dozenjournalists documenting your Christmas seasons?”
“Ha. I wish. No, it’s like this even outside of Christmas. We go visit Iris—press. I come home on a break from school—press. Dad likes to make sure our public has a specific image of their ruling family.”
There’s a rising sympathetic horror on Hex, so I shrug, like it’s not a big deal. “You learn to live with it.” No, you definitely don’t; you learn to blatantly ignore it and stay off social media, which I’ve been told is way better for my mental health in the long run. “Why? What’s Halloween like?”
They may read whatever articles get printed about us, but I know they don’t have nearly as many active paparazzi invading their lives.
“More cobwebs,” Hex says, not missing a beat. “Candy corn instead of candy canes. The occasional temporary possession. And our events are enjoyable.”
His teasing washes a smile across my face. “The month is young—there may yet be a possession during Christmas too. But are you saying you didn’t enjoy sleigh racing?”
“And I doubt very much that I will enjoy skidding around a pad of ice on razor blades.”
“Blasphemer.”
“Not my Holiday, so no, I’m not.”
“Bum-bum,” I start the dirge again.“Bum—”
He shoulder-checks me, but it makes him wobble, and he scrambles to tighten his grip on me in a flustered panic. That panic only lasts about two seconds, and when he catches himself, he glares breathlessly at me.
“Do not. Let me. Fall,” he punctuates.
“I won’t. Let you. Fall.” I hold his arm tight to my chest to emphasize the promise, but it pulls him to me. Reminds me of what it felt like to have his body pressed up against mine.
Yeah, maybe sexual tension reallywillbe how I kill us.
All of my court has worked their way onto the ice. There’s plenty of space for the two of us to ease out, but I only let us take another slow step, keeping him next to me, talking to me. I know photos are being taken, but I actively do not let myself consider what sorts of headlines will accompany Iris’s two suitors talking together.
“What kinds of events do you do for Halloween, then?”
Hex turns away to watch the people around the edge of the rink, his cheeks brushed the faintest shade of pink.
He clears his throat. “Lots of things. We have many traditions from both Halloween and Día de Muertos. My brothers love—”
“You have brothers?”
“Three. Triplets. They’re nine.”
