The crowd parts for him.
And I stand there, trying to catch my breath, a hundred versions ofNo, it wasn’t a mistake, kiss me againlying limp and useless in my throat.
It was a mistake though.
Wasn’t it?
My phone buzzes, spiking my anxiety, but it’s Coal, asking me to call him so we can talk about Mom.
I don’t want to talk about her. I don’t want to give another second of thought to her.
But that’s my problem. Never talking about it. Never acknowledging it. Until it’s become such a beastly, hulking part of me that I’m a scrambled mess who has no idea who he isbecause of her,because of how I’ve repressed the shit out of my every response to her.
Is that why I couldn’t get myself to say anything to Loch? I never address my own problems. I avoid, and deflect, and ignore.
But I’mtiredof being that way. I’m tired of wallowing in not knowing what I can do to be useful, to contribute, tomatter.I’m tired of feeling like I’m bobbing along, waiting for something to give me purpose and make me happy, mercilessly at the whims of time and fate.
I plunge into the crowd and angle for the exit, only to remember the journalists I told off are likely still outside. Thankfully, there’s another exit across the tent, and it dumps me out in an empty path between this tent and another that’s blasting guitar music.
It’s nowhere near time to head back to the castle, but it was, what, a twenty-minute drive? I could conjure up some mistletoe and find a doorway to get there, but I can walk that. Ineedto walk that. I need torunthat, but I’m in dress boots and jeans.
I set off through the festival, walking through the cold March air. I hurry past booths selling crafts, more woodworking and paintings, woven bags and jewelry, musical instruments and photographs of dancers. Green Hills Distillery has another tent I avoid, though I would’ve heard if Malachy was in attendance.
How many of the other vendors are here because of Loch? What else has he been doing to compensate for being unable to affect his Holiday through magic? He’s an impromptu talent scout and coordinates cross-festival interactions. What would Coal and I be able to do for Christmas if we had no magic? Like maybebake cookies or some shit? And here Loch is, getting spotlights on parts of his Holiday, his culture, all on his own.
I cut up the road we took to twist down into the village and hike my way into the Irish countryside.
My fingers itch. Stretch absently in my pocket.
I pull out my phone. Swipe to a notes app.
And write.
Chapter Thirteen
I’mwritingagain. Journal-type shit shorthanded on my phone, but it’s a start, and that start blossoms long-dormant flowers throughout my body. By the time I jog into the castle, sweaty and winded with my coat thrown over my shoulder, I feel more like myself than I have in way, way too long.
Colm is coming out of the dining room when he sees me hurry in. His eyes drop to my T-shirt—pale blue, with a debonair monocled snowman over the wordsKiss My Snowballs.
To Colm’s credit, he doesn’t react.
“Prince Kristopher.” He glances behind me, clocks that I’m alone, and his brows go up. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah, I—” I stop.
The castle is empty.
Well, just Colm.
Which means that office is empty now, too.
I nod. “Yeah. I wanted to come back early. Can you text… uh, Siobhán, tell her I’m here? I don’t want her to worry.”
Colm studies me in that way staff have where they seem able to see through bullshit.
“Of course.” He bows his way down the hall.
I pocket my phone. Writing can wait—I need to find that joy meter. Loch or Malachy, it doesn’t matter.
