Quinn nods. Clearly not sharing my thought. “I’ll go.”
The blockage in my throat clears enough for me to choke out, “No. We’ll go. Together.”
He turns to me fully. His head shake is a somber toll. “I can’t let you do that.”
“I can’t let you leave.” Once again, we’re having an important conversation in inadequate quarters. I wish the council could dematerialize for a second. I need Quinn alone. I need Quinn to know how desperately I need him. How consumingly I love him.
His watery eyes lock on mine. “You have to. I had time to think about what you said last night. You were right. You do belong here. I don’t know where I belong. I don’t want to be the shadow behind the mythical man. I’ve never been happy inside a mold, and frankly I can’t live with being the reason Christmas is canceled.”
“Quinn.” It comes out garbled.
A single tear tracks down his cheek. Almost in slow motion. That tear is going to haunt me forever. “Maybe the space will begood for us.” Two big steps and then he’s holding me. Kissing me. I can taste goodbye on his lips.
He turns and lets Hobart escort him out of the room.
“One last thing, Quinn,” Nicholas says, standing and striding toward him. “We’ll need your ring.”
I could disintegrate into the floor. Float away as dust. I don’t want to witness this.
“My ring?” Quinn ekes out. “What for?”
“The magical bond. When Patrick donned the cloak and signed the scroll, the magic fused to your union. We can’t let you leave with it,” Nicholas says. “It’s precautionary. You understand?”
Quinn wrestles the ring off his finger. He looks dully at the empty space where the ring has sat for the last year before slapping the band down into Nicholas’s open palm. Nicholas could be holding a grenade given the pace with which my heart is racing. I want to chuck it into the ether. Save our relationship from the inevitable explosion.
“Thank you,” Nicholas says.
“Good luck,” Quinn says. His stormy eyes meet mine one last time before the doors glide closed behind him. Sealing our fate for the sake of Christmas.
45HOME, BITTERSWEET HOMEQUINN
99 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS
Hobart parks the sidecar on the roof of the New Jersey house, helps me down through the chimney, and makes sure I’m safe and settled inside.
At least that’s what I think he’s doing. We haven’t spoken the whole ride. What’s there to say? Everything about this is impossibly awful.
Except, I’m surprised to find, as I move through the living room, that the walls of this house no longer seek to smother. They breathe steadily with freedom.
I shuck off my boots, fling off my coat, and go directly to the kitchen for a glass of water. The pipes gurgle before the finicky faucet spits anything out, but when it finally does, the water is cold and crisp and exactly what I need to combat the altitude- and speed-induced headache I got from the trip.
Thankfully, the council had been telling the truth when they said they’d keep our house in order while we were away. It’s probably cleaner than it was before we left, which is a relief.
“I’m sorry about all of this,” Hobart says. It was pin-drop silent only a second ago, so his voice makes me jump. His mood-ring eyes have gone glassy and bright blue.
“Hobart, no. I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m sure this is not what you imagined when you dreamed of being head elf.”
“None of this is what I imagined,” Hobart says, almost meditatively. “I don’t think it’s what I wanted, either. I related a lot to what you said back there in front of the council about molds and not knowing where you belong.”
I’ve never heard Hobart sound this introspective. “How so?”
“I think head elf isn’t for me. I wanted a position that allowed me to engage more with the human population. I wanted to go out and make connections. But unfortunately, everyone said I’m not built to be a special missions elf. You know, the ones who get to go to the mortal realm to remind people of the innate goodness and love all around them? I thought that being head elf, working closely with the new humans and helping them acclimate, would be the next best thing,” he says wistfully. “Don’t mistake me. I’ve loved working closely with Santa Patrick. He’s wonderful and creative and kind. None of which I need to tell you of all people.”
“It’s still nice to hear,” I say. I become acutely aware of my naked ring finger, which still has a weight to it. The ghost of a promise lost. Any minute, I half expect Patrick to round the corner in search of a post-trip snack. “Why can’t you be a special missions elf?”
“Because special missions elves are spontaneous and thrill-seeking agents of disguise who can fit seamlessly into the human world with little to no notice. I’m order and stress and too green for my own good sometimes,” he says with a shrug.
“That’s very self-aware. That’s a strength in and of itself.”
