Page 26 of Go Luck Yourself
He’s definitely their new golden boy of paparazzi fodder.
When we announced my visit—and the reason for it—there was a brief shift in the articles, wherein few people believed I was actually both involvedandthe perpetrator of the tinsel incident, becausePrince Kristopher is usually so reserved. As though I’d lie about this.
So I’m now due to spend five days in Ireland, prancing from St. Patrick’s Day event to event, proving to the press that the tinsel was a harmless prank betweenfriends,not something that Lochlann had any fault in.
Not only do I have to apologize, I have to pretend that Lochlann and I were and still are the kind of pals who tinsel bomb each other. While, of course, I’m really there to figure out who’s stealing from us.
What could go wrong.
The delay of me going to Ireland also means that St. Patrick’s Day has spent these three weeks siphoning joy from us. Which could be another reason they pushed my visit, to allow more time to suck up our magic. They’re taking small amounts now, according to Marta, but it’s grating to know someone is actively hurting our Holiday and we have to let them.
The amount we’re planning to use as repayment to the winter Holidays shrinks each time another chunk is stolen, and if we don’t figure out who is doing it and stop them, we’ll have to tap into the joy we need to keep Christmas running. Which means things like monitoring the wishes of the world’s children, creating toys, and even keeping our whole North Pole compound hidden from the real world could be at stake.
It’s giving us a taste of what it was like for the winter Holidays Dad stole from.
Coal was right; it is karma. Karma for all those years Christmas spent draining other Holidays of their joy. But we’re trying toundoall that; if anything, it should be our dad who has to swallow his pride and fix this. That’s way too much to ask, though.
I muted all texts and messages from him, but Coal told me he sent a photo. Of him and our mom. At a pool bar.
That’s the most we’ve talked about them. Coal’s tried a few times, but I can’t. I won’t. It doesn’t matter. They’re grown adults; if they want to spend time together, the hell do I care? And, bonus, Mom hasn’t texted me the whole time Dad’s been with her, so really, this is a good thing for everyone.
I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the permanent kink in the back of my neck. My jaw is clamped so tight the beginnings of a headache palpitate across my skull.
“Unclench your jaw, Kristopher,” Wren orders without looking up from her screen.
Coal’s right. She is a witch.
I obey. It doesn’t help.
I tug at the tie around my neck, trying to free even a millimeter ofspace. At least the rest of my ensemble isn’t overly formal—relaxed blue pants and surprisingly comfortable brown shoes, a simple pale green button-up under an emerald cardigan, the tie an interweaving plaid of green and red. Subtly Christmas, subtly St. Patrick’s Day. Our stylists are going to become experts at tying Holidays together.
Wren deftly clucks her tongue at my continued fidgeting. “If you mess up that Eldredge knot, I will personally garrote you with it.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take. I can’t fucking breathe.”
She gives me an unimpressed stare.
“Sorry. Nerves.” I drop my hands and try to compartmentalize the choking grip of the tie.
“You don’t need to breathe,” Wren says. “It isn’t on the itinerary.”
My stare is flat. “Fantastic.”
“Do you know whatison the itinerary?”
“Yes.” No. She sent me a copy, I took one look at it—five days of festive activities culminating in a Dublin St. Patrick’s Day parade—and haven’t opened the file since.
The one solace: I know many of these activities will involve beer.
“Whatison the itinerary,” she continues pointedly, “is a detailed explanation of your daily stylings to coordinate with the arranged events, and today’s specifically saysEldredge knot.I will make sure you present the proper visage of Christmas for this first introduction, because I know you will grossly neglect the outfits I picked out for your remaining days.”
I snort but clear my throat to hide it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mmhmm.” Wren’s eyes drop to my suitcase, and she gives a sad headshake like she can read the assortment of pun-heavy Christmas shirts I stuffed in when the stylists left. But if I’m going to spend almost a full week trapped in Irish hell, I want to be comfortable. And passively witty.
Wren smooths down a stray curl that’s escaped my topknot and surveys my outfit for the fourteenth time. “All right.” She checks her watch. “As soon as your brother arrives to see you off, we can leave.”
I tug at the tie again before giving up and pinning my hands behind my back with an impatient huff.
