Alex had laughed, which was, frankly, tantamount to royal assent.
Then Vic had gone home and stared at her laptop and thought about all the Christmases that had sucked.
The ones after her parents split. The ones she’d spent alone in the stables with the horses, eating cold pizza because all the shops were shut. The one after Hyzenthlay’s birth, when she’d been so consumed by fear and guilt and love she could barely breathe, let alone hang tinsel.
The idea of making something different for this strange little extended royal family of theirs—something cosy and fun and stupidly wholesome—had lodged itself in her chest and refused to budge.
So she’d planned.
And planned.
And planned.
Hence: forty-three pages.
“Is that the page where we sing?” Hyzenthlay asked, craning her neck to see.
“Multiple pages, technically,” Vic said. “We have carols by candlelight on the twenty-third, the triplets’ performance on Christmas Eve, optional hymn massacre at church on the day, and drunken karaoke on Boxing Day if I get my way.”
“You won’t,” Hyzenthlay said. “Mama J. says you’re not allowed to make the Queen do karaoke.”
“Julia underestimates my persuasive powers,” Vic said. “Also, your mother has never seen Alex after three glasses of mulled wine. The woman can belt power ballads. I have recordings.”
“You’re not allowed to blackmail the Queen,” Hyzenthlay said dutifully.
“Why are all my best ideas illegal?” Vic sighed.
Her phone buzzed again, with horrible timing.
This time it wasn’t Julia.
It was the head of household logistics, Mr. Patel, whose legendary calm had withstood three royal weddings, two funerals, and one unfortunate incident with a streaker and the Christmas choir.
Weather looking heavy. I’m monitoring the forecast. We may need to adjust delivery schedule.
Vic stared at the message as if glaring at it hard enough would change the words.
Adjust delivery schedule.
“Don’t you dare,” she whispered.
Hyzenthlay’s ears pricked. “Is the schedule misbehaving?”
“Not the schedule,” Vic said. “The universe.”
She tapped open the weather app. A familiar swirl of blue and white spun ominously over the Scottish Highlands. The forecast for the next forty-eight hours was a cheerful mix of phrases like heavy snow, travel disruption likely, and risk of road closures.
She looked out the window again. The snow had picked up, the flakes bigger now, falling in earnest. The distant tree line was already fading into a grey blur.
“Oh, come on,” Vic said to the sky. “You had one job. Be picturesque, not apocalyptic.”
As if in response, a gust of wind hurled a fresh fistful of snow against the glass.
Hyzenthlay slid closer on the rug, peering up at the window. “It’s pretty,” she said.
“It’s a menace,” Vic said. “Pretty, but a menace. Like your Auntie Erin.”
“Auntie Erin is a menace,” Hyzenthlay agreed. “But she’s also really strong and good at piggybacks.”
