But this. This was going to work. Real reindeer in thecourtyard on Christmas Eve. The kids’ faces when they saw. Alex’s delight. Erin’s wary, grudging fondness.
She could already see it: the triplets in little woollen hats, Hyzenthlay solemnly feeding one of the beasts from a gloved hand, snow falling gently in that cinematic way that miraculously didn’t melt in their hair.
It was going to be perfect.
They reached the big double doors leading to the inner courtyard. Cold air licked under them, carrying a new sound: snorts. Hooves. The low jangle of harness bells.
Vic’s heart did a ridiculous little jig. She pushed the doors open and stepped out.
The cold hit her first. The temperature had dropped another notch since the morning; the air had that sharp, metallic edge that meant the snow wasn’t going anywhere. Fat flakes fell steadily from a sky the colour of unpolished pewter.
The second thing that hit her was the sight.
Three reindeer stood—or rather, fidgeted—in what was supposed to be the carefully cleared central space of the courtyard. Their thick winter coats were damp with snow, their breath puffing out in white clouds. Their antlers were, Vic was pleased to note, satisfyingly photogenic. The harnesses she’d specified in her sixty-seven email chain glinted gently, bells and leather and tasteful red trim.
So far, so good.
The third thing that hit her was the sound of someone swearing in Finnish.
One of the handlers—tall, bearded, dressed sensibly in layers of weatherproof clothing—was clinging to the harness of the largest reindeer, boots sliding on the packed snow as the animal tossed its head.
“Easy, Vesa,” he muttered. “Take it easy. You’re all right.”
The other handler, a woman with a plait down her back and snow in her eyelashes, was trying to coax a smaller reindeer away from the stone balustrade, where it had developed a sudden and passionate interest in licking the moss.
“Hi!” Vic called, projecting cheer. “Welcome! You made it!”
Both handlers looked up, faces a mixture of relief and strain.
“You must be Ms. Grey-Hughes-Wilding,” the bearded man said. “We’re a bit early, sorry. Roads were starting to clog up further down, and we didn’t want to be stuck halfway.”
“Early is great,” Vic said. “Early is my love language. Are they… okay?”
“They’re… lively,” the woman said diplomatically. “The trip spooked them a bit. It’s a lot of new smells. And bells.”
As if to underline her point, the third reindeer chose that moment to execute an impressive sideways bound, nearly colliding with a stone planter.
“Right,” Vic said. “Okay. Lively is fine. We can work with lively. We just… we need them vaguely in the centre here, in formation, for the ceremonial bit tomorrow, and maybe not… smashing into things.”
The bearded handler—Jarmo, according to his name badge—grimaced. “We’ll need a bit of time to walk them around, let them get used to the space,” he said. “Right now they know ‘farm,’ ‘forest,’ and ‘shopping centre.’ Castle courtyard is a new category.”
Something about that sentence tickled the deeply absurd part of Vic’s brain that had been living on coffee and adrenaline for days.
“Of course,” she said. “Acclimatisation. Great. Dowhatever you need. Just… try to avoid the fountain. And the doors. And the?—”
One of the reindeer—Vesa, presumably—snorted, tossed his head, and yanked free of Jarmo’s grip.
It happened in slow motion.
The rope slipped from his gloved hands. The bells on the harness jangled wildly. The reindeer leaped, hooves scrabbling on the snow-slick stones, eyes rolling.
“Shit,” Jarmo said.
“There he goes,” his colleague muttered.
Vesa bolted.
Of all the possible directions he could have chosen—a nice, scenic loop around the courtyard, a dramatic dash toward the stables, even a symbolic gallop toward the main gates—he picked the one that made Vic’s stomach drop.
