“So,” Vic said, tonguing a crumb on her lip because if she didn’t focus on something small she might start screaming, “we might not get… the things.”
“Turkeys,” Hyzenthlay translated helpfully. “And puddings. And reindeer food.”
Vic’s head snapped towards her. “The reindeer have their own supply chain.”
“Of course they do,” Julia murmured.
“We don’t know anything for certain yet,” Mr. Patel said, ever calm. “The caterers are monitoring the situation and will update us in the morning. I wanted to make you aware so you could… plan accordingly.”
Plan accordingly.
Vic’s fingers tightened on the schedule.
Forty-three pages of plans, and the weather had just taken a large, soggy eraser to half of them.
“Thank you,” Julia said, with the regal composure she’d learned from Alex and weaponised to suit her own style. “We appreciate the warning.”
“Is there anything we can do?” Vic asked, her voice coming out higher than she’d intended. “I don’t know, send a royal helicopter for the pigs in blankets? Have Erin escort the parsnips under armed guard?”
“I think the Royal Air Force has other priorities, Ms. Grey-Hughes-Wilding,” Mr. Patel said gently. “But we’re exploring all reasonable options. I’ll keep you updated.”
He gave them all another small, polite smile and withdrew, closing the door softly behind him.
Silence fell, thick and heavy.
Outside, the snow was coming down harder now, white veils thrown across the grounds. Somewhere in the depths of the castle, a clock chimed the hour. Hyzenthlay’s biscuit tower finally collapsed, crumbs scattering.
Vic stared at the door for a long moment, the words caterers delayed echoing in her head like a klaxon.
Then she turned slowly to Julia.
“Okay,” she said. “Don’t panic.”
“You’re the only one panicking,” Julia said calmly. “I’m drinking my tea.”
“I’m not panicking,” Vic lied. “I’m… pre-panicking.”
“That’s not a thing,” Julia said.
“It is and I’m doing it very well,” Vic said. She pushed up out of her chair and began pacing in a tight line in front of the fireplace. “Okay. Okay. Worst case scenario, we’ve still got… what? Frozen peas? Flour? We can bake. How hard can Christmas dinner be, really? I’ll do it myself. I’ll just… watch some tutorials. The internet exists. I can learn. Turkeys, potatoes, gravy, a full nineteenth-century banquet, how difficult can it be?”
“Very,” Julia said. “Also, the Wi-Fi goes funny in this wing when it snows.”
Hyzenthlay was watching her with unabashed fascination, as if attending a live performance of Mum Loses Her Mind: A Christmas Special.
“Mum,” she said solemnly, “are we going to starve?”
Vic stopped dead. “What? No! Absolutely not. There will be food. There will be so much food. No one is starving on my watch, I promise you.”
“But will there be pigs in blankets?” Hyzenthlay pressed. “And roast potatoes? And the pudding with fire?”
“Yes,” Vic said, with more conviction than she felt. “There will be pigs in blankets and roast potatoes and pudding with fire and… and… I don’t know, toast shaped like snowmen if I have to carve them myself with a penknife.”
Julia laughed, the sound soft and warm and exactly what Vic needed and didn’t want to admit she needed.
“Hey,” she said, rising and crossing to her, catching Vic’s restless hands in hers. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing,” Vic said. “Rapidly. In a very efficient way.”
