Page 36 of Go Luck Yourself
Well. Today has been a comedy of errors, hasn’t it?
Somewhere in my soul, my guilt grows several more roots, but I won’t feel it until tomorrow morning. I’m locked in this state of suspended sensation and I really should drink more whiskey. All the noise in my head is… muffled. Like the alcohol is holding a pillow over my self-contempt’s face.
Distantly, I can hear that self-contempt screaming to pull myself together, but oh no, I can’t make out what it’s saying, how tragic.
Loch slams his hands on the table and shoots to his feet. I flinch so hard it’s a full convulsion.
“I’ll show our guest to his room,” he tells his sisters.
Finn’s eyebrows leap up. “Are you sure?”
“Dead on. We’ll be fine.”
“We will? Ha.” I press my fingers into my temples. “He’s going to throw me into the moat, isn’t he?”
“No.” Finn smirks icily. “Only because we do na have a moat.”
I laugh. And have a disconnected thought that they could kill me, very easily, right now. The three of them. Maybe the butler’ll help.
Siobhán smiles at me again, pleadingly. “He will na throw you anywhere. Will you, Loch?”
Loch presses a hand to his chest. “On my honor, he will live to see the race. I would na deny myself the chance to beat the Christmas Prince.”
“It’s afamily fun run,” Siobhán enunciates. “Remember.Fun.We’ll be seeing you tomorrow, Kris. It was lovely to meet you.”
She stands in tandem with Finn, so I mirror them, hands planted on the table as the room goes upside down then right back up.
Holy shit, Irish whiskey is strong. Do they know how strong it is? They should warn people about how strong it is.
Siobhán leans over the table, that conspiratorial glint back in her eye, and I decide I like her, that she couldn’t possibly be the one to screw over Christmas. Her brother got all the severity and dickishness; she’s pure sunlight.
“For what it’s worth,” she whispers, not low enough to be private, “I thought the tinsel was right funny.”
“Siobhán!” Finn smacks her arm.
“What?” Her grin scrunches her nose. “No one ever gets to take the piss out of Lochy.”
He looks like he wants to dump the rest of his Irish cream on his youngest sister’s head.
“Leaving.Now.” Finn grabs Siobhán’s arm, and they both press kisses to Loch’s cheeks as they funnel out of the dining room.
Loch stays rooted against the table. Maybe he’s drunk too, just hiding it well.
“Lochy,” I mimic Siobhán.
Me saying it is even more hilarious than her saying it, and I splutter laughter as Loch’s eyelids pulse.
Loch leads me out of the dining room and I pad along silently, not trusting myself to speak again. It’s hard enough to walk without toppling into side tables as he winds us through the castle.
The lights are low, the walls dabbled stucco with that heavy cherry-red wood stretching in beams across the ceiling. Occasional tapestries show scenes of Irish history and landscapes, the stone floor covered in mismatched antique rugs, making the castle cozier than Claus Palace. Homier. Like everyone who lives here is required to sit in front of a roaring fire and read for a few hours a day, and I definitely don’t hate that idea.
“That was Colm,” says Loch. “If you need anything, ask him. Do na bother me.”
The butler. “Colm. Got it.” And then, plowing through my rapidly degrading filter, “Where’s everyone else?”
“Eh?”
“Your staff. For St. Patrick’s Day? Shouldn’t there be other people getting ready for—”
