Silence.
“And how the winner will be elected to ring the bell as we enter Rockhaven this evening.”
“Ring the bell,”Ian whispers, his eyes widening. He shifts his gaze back to me, holding the same reverence as when he explained the treasure of his 1956The Amazing Spider-ManCGC 2.5 vintage classic comic find. “Willow, I’ll—I’ll save this for you.” He pats the cover of the comic. Then looking at Oliver, he bites his lip. “You don’t suppose I can—”
“Just a private ringing this time, I’m afraid.” Oliver shrugs as though in apology. “Those were the rules.”
Ian nods like this makes perfect sense, that no one—noteven the creator of the rules himself—can break them once they’re put in place.
Ian steps aside, and in the sudden opening, I make my escape.
Once the door to Ian’s room is shut behind us, Oliver and I move down the hall. I keep as close to him as possible as we walk through the employees’ quarters and make our way past the Chestnut and Mistletoe cars, shouldering through the clusters gathered for game room and elective activities. I only realize how close I am when I nearly trip him up as he slows.
“Sorry,” I say, giving one last look over my shoulder. Already my cheeks are starting to burn as anxiety over Ian’s return lessens, and embarrassment over the whole situation I landed myself in, including this welcomed—but still humiliating—rescue mission I have no doubt Clarence initiated, settles in. I feel like a child.
A ridiculous child who got herself into a mess she was too much of a coward to get out of.
“So. I take it Ian’s room tour wasn’t your cup of tea.”
“No. Not really.” I put my hands to my cheeks to try and cool them. “Oh, this is so embarrassing.”
“Don’t let it be.” He smiles. “Don’t worry about it at all.”
I shift the conversation as best I can away from Ian and his terrifying room. “I’m guessing you found me because...”
“Dad. He said he was, and I quote, ‘on the cusp’ of taking your queen and would very much like me to haul you back from Ian’s room so you could stop evading defeat.”
“What? My queen is thoroughly protected.” I press my hand to my chest. “He doesn’t have a chance and heknowsit.”
A bemused expression falls across Oliver’s face, as though the whole competitive spirit between Clarence and me is quite adorable. But he hasn’t been there for the past six games—three of which Clarence won, three which I claimed. And he hasn’t seen how this seventh one is thebattleto claim it all.
“Anyway,” I brush an invisible speck of pride from my skirt, “I wasn’t aware of any Christmas contest...”
Oliver holds open one of the curtains between the cars. “Yes. Congratulations. It’s a great honor.”
“And I’m the first to win such an honor, I’m guessing,” I say, both pleased and embarrassed by the illustrative lie he’s pulling off on my behalf.
I search for any clues in his face of frustration. After all, I don’t know, maybe that’s why Oliver came running, ignoring his obviously enormous duties on this busy day. Maybe Ian is notorious for luring unsuspecting girls to his room under the guise of wit and charm, only to throw man-eating pythons on them. And here I am, this season’s dupe.
But my scan turns up with nothing—nothing but an easy expression like Oliver has all the time in the world.
“The very first,” Oliver says, nodding solemnly. “No pressure, but if you don’t get it right when you ring the bell, that’ll be it for future generations.”
My lips twitch a little. Every moment that passes eases the knot in my stomach. “It’s not very kosher to admit as the inaugural champion, but I would’ve bet my money on thatcandy-cane couple over in 12E. They even passed out candy canes from bedazzled fanny packs. You can’t get better than that.”
“The judges did consider them,” Oliver says, quite seriously. “But, unfortunately, full range of motion in costume was a requirement they just couldn’t meet. And with the pool noodle–canes situation out their backsides... Well. We hated to disqualify them.”
“We,” I say, grinning at the image of Oliver standing in some back cabin around half a dozen elves, arguing over our costumes with score sheets. “Sure.”
“But seriously now, if we’re going to get to the ringing, we’d better hurry.” He leads the way as we pass several more cars—including my own, where I pause long enough to shock Clarence with a fabulous surprise attack with my pawn—and as I glance out the windows, I see we are indeed slowing.
Frosted trees line one side of the train, and on the right stands the rocky shore of the Atlantic Ocean, frothy waves crashing against beaten sand. The landscape is dotted with cedar-shingled saltbox houses and Victorians perched on rocky cliffs, their steep gabled roofs standing watch over the watery horizon. Lobster shacks with sailboats lie beached alongside them, in no hurry to get back, and in the distance stands a panoramic sunset of such watercolor oranges and yellows, it looks like we’ve slipped off the page of a book.
Before I know it, I’m standing in the driver’s cab. Walls, gadgets, and ceilings are all painted in the same antique green, the paint appearing as vintage as the dials themselves. WhereasI wasn’t sure before, now I’m certain. This train isn’t some new replica straining to appear like ancient steam engines of old. It’s the real deal, recovered in maroon velvet and golden tassels but never able to shed its true roots. Full of history. Full of life.
“How old is this train?” I take a step forward.
Oliver seems to appreciate the respect in my voice. “It’s from 1953. Dad bought it when I was a kid. I spent my childhood running through these cabs. It got a complete remodel just two years ago—well, except for this. Wanted to keep this area just like the original.” Oliver puts his hands on his hips as he admires his surroundings.
