“Coal in your stocking?”
She chuckled. “In its mildest form. But yes, Santa is a Wild Hunt. Just a slightly less terrifying version than Perchta or Krampus.”
Rowan slid on her mask and looked over just as he put on his own. His face disappeared beneath the Krampus mask.
“How do I look?” he asked.
“Terrifying.”
“Well then, I guess it’s time to scare kids into their best behavior.”
The Hunt was well underway when they emerged. The team had set out many more firepits than usual, cords of wood stacked beside them to prepare for the night’s festivities. Additional concession stands were also being set up in empty booths, offering strong libations come nightfall.
A giant troll woman, Grýla of Icelandic lore, lumbered past, stooped with her long arms swinging nearly to the ground. Her head was a mottled construction of papier-mâché, which swung their way and gave them a nod of acknowledgment. In that brief lapse of attention, a crowd of children erupted from behind a stall to surround the troll.
“Curses!” she shouted, raising a fist to the sky. Grýla hunched over, scanning each of them and sniffing her enormous nose. “Are there anynaughtychildren present?”
They all shook their heads and cried out, “No!”
“Ahh…how disappointing.” She stuck out a basket fromwhich they all grabbed bags of pebbled chocolate before running away in a flurry of giggles.
When they had cleared out, Grýla stalked over and tipped up her mask, revealing Stephan underneath. Sweat beaded on his cheeks from the heat and weight of the costume.
“Hey, guys,” he said, glancing between them, furiously scratching at his beard. His voice, which had only moments before been a perfect mimicry of an old troll woman, was his own again. “Thanks for coming. Looks like I can take a break.”
“Happy to help,” said Gavin. “You are frighteningly good at voices.”
“I’ve had some practice,” said Stephan, glancing at Rowan with amusement in his eyes.
It had been a spell, but of course they couldn’t tell Gavin that. Not until she came clean.
“One tip,” said Stephan, “watch out for the Franklin kids. They think this is a high-contact sport, and they hunt as a pack.”
“Noted,” said Gavin. Then he gave them each a nod before disappearing into the crowd.
“Guess you two haven’t cleared the air,” said Stephan, watching him go.
“Not yet,” said Rowan, her stomach flipping.
“Well, there’s plenty of time and mead to go, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. But hey—don’t get so caught up you forget the ritual tonight.”
Rowan winced. “Right.”
She had, in fact, forgotten about the night’s ritual. There had been so much going on that she hadn’t spared a thought for the ceremonial burning of the massive straw Yule Goat, but her mother was convinced it would help them in their dealings with the Goshen Group. An offering to whatever sympathetic entities might have taken an interest in their fate.
And at this point, they needed all the help they could get.
31
Rowan had forgotten the liberty of disguise. With every step through the festival, she slipped further into the character and out of herself, leaving behind her anxieties as she allowed herself to play with her audience. Inhibitions blunted as she became Frau Perchta, delighting and challenging visitors in equal measure.
With children, she simplified the traditional challenge of the Hunt to “Have you been good this year?” Most of them said yes, but some admitted they could do better, and promised they would. She gave them double shares of chocolate.
With the adults, she offered the full “Have you done all you need to before the New Year?”
Most visitors were eager to play along. Sometimes a little too eager—men, mostly, presuming they were entitled to touch and suggest ways she might punish their failures. When it happened, she bared the mask’s teeth and snapped, unconcerned if it offended them. As unconcerned as she was when people rolled their eyes or scoffed and waved her away. They were responding to Frau Perchta,not to Rowan, and their reactions and judgments didn’t hit like the usual barbs to the chest.
Whenever she needed a break from being hunted by sugar-addled children, she pitched the plan for the Elk Ridge Wheel of the Year to any familiar face willing to listen, buoyed by a stream of excited responses. She and Stephan were showing off their video to Arnauld in a corner of the festival public house when there was a tap on her shoulder.
