Page 113 of The Nightmare Before Kissmas
Wooden booths sell Christmas goods still, scenting the afternoon air with spices and cocoa and cider, and people skate and laugh. Music plays, a live band dancing to their own songs on one end of the square, with tables set up where people decorate gingerbread cookies or make wreaths or do other festive activities. Twinkly strand lights and a few bigger floodlights illuminate the area, and space heaters keep the arctic chill at bay.
Everyone, everywhere, no matter what they’re doing, smiles into the frosty air. This whole square is saturated in joy, pure and unforced.
I linger at the edge of the alley. Kris, next to me, is similarly stunned.
“I forgot it could feel this way,” he whispers.
It’s what I was thinking. How long has it been since Christmas felt this unburdened for us?
I sniff away the severity. “We’re here now—so we get to experience this joy too.”
Kris doesn’t say anything, but that silence is weighted enough that he doesn’t need to.
I nudge him. “There. Mailbox.”
He sets off, and Iris and Hex come up around me.
“Where should we—oh, cookies!” Iris grabs my hand and hauls me into the square, and I let her, because I had no real plan beyond this point.
The musicians are playing some instrumental songs, fast beats and uplifting melodies and I swear I canfeelmy stress start to peel off. I let Iris push me into a seat at a long table, and cookies are shoved in front of us, frosting and sprinkles and candy in dozens of bowls, the whole table is a disaster zone of rainbow sugary concoctions.
Hex sits next to me, Kris joins across from us, and it hits me, sinks in, that we’ve never done this before. Just enjoyed Christmasanywhere.It’s always masked behind performative lead-up celebration stunts.
And here I’d thought skating with Hex would be the closest I’dget to being anything like a normal couple. I swing on him and smile and Hex leans into me, returning that smile, and for a second, for a beat, this is all that exists. No other responsibilities.
We smear frosting on cookies and pile on way too many sprinkles, and I let my mind drift out, listening to the conversations around us.
Most people are talking about their plans, what they’ll be doing for Christmas and into the New Year. Someone is traveling. Someone else is having a Christmas movie marathon, and for the life of me I don’t think I’ve ever watched more than one Christmas movie in a singleyearlet alone a singleday,but they seem excited about their binge.
There’s no mention of us, and I lose focus on my cookie decorating as I realize I have no idea how to smoothly ask people what they think of their royal family without sounding like one of those aggressive reporters.
An idea springs to mind.
Oh, Iris will hate me, but she wanted to come, right?
I swing a cocky grin across the table at her. Her face sinks in thatI know you’re up to something, don’t you dareglower.
“Oh mygod,” I say, overly loud, “you lookjustlike Princess Iris!”
The people around our end of the table turn from their conversations.
“She does!”
“Oh, you’re lovely just like her!”
“It’s uncanny!”
Iris takes a deep breath and quickly mouthsI hate youbefore she turns a small smile at the nearest person. “I get that a lot. I don’t mind. She’s sweet, right?”
“Extremely,” an older woman says. She’s helping what must be her granddaughter decorate a series of gingerbread reindeer, and the ratio of frosting to cookie is irrevocably tipped in favor of frosting. “Though, I have to admit, I don’t think either of them is worthy of her.”
I grip my hand into a fist to keep from reaching for Hex, but I hear the sharp pull of his breath.
“Either prince?” I guess stupidly.
The woman bats my arm good-naturedly. “Don’t tell me you haven’t voted yet? I thought I was the only one left. It’s been all theChristmas Inquirerhas posted about for days.”
“Voted?” Now my confusion is honest.
