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“I’m going to take that walk now,” Ivy says.
“You don’t know the village. You’ll get lost.”
Ivy shakes her head. “I won’t go far. I just need some space to breathe and to think, Cyran.”
Eliyen nods. “I would grant her her space, considering what you’ve done.”
I would like the know-it-all of the North Pole to stick her uppity attitude where the sun doesn’t shine. But rudeness won’t get me anywhere, I’m afraid.
I reach out and take Ivy’s hand. “If you run, I’ll never stop looking for you. And no, that’s not a threat. It’s a promise.”
* * *
Inside the ice-sculpted meeting chamber, Santa Claus sits alone, glowering at me as Eliyen, my escort, waits for the hearing to begin.
“You can go, El,” Santa says. “Thank you.”
The messenger elf puffs up her chest proudly, then leaves. “It’s an honor to serve.”
“Suck-up,” I whisper.
She shoots me a look over her shoulder as the door closes behind her.
The ice walls of the cave glow with lights that have been magicked to imitate the aurora borealis. Santa has set out a pot of tea on a tree trunk that doubles as a table. Who knows why the man insists on such rustic surroundings when we live in a perfectly modern village. Perhaps it has to do with his time spent in exile, many years ago, before matters were set right.
“Cyran,” he says, pouring my tea, “Am I a patient boss?”
“Yes, Eldrin. I mean, Nicholas.”
“Are you somehow unsatisfied with my leadership?”
I feel as if I’m going to be exiled or punished no matter what I say, so I speak the truth.
“Personally, I think rotating jobs is bullshit.”
Santa raises his eyebrows at me. “Do you? You sound like my wife.”
“Perhaps you should listen to her,” I say.
Santa glares at me as he drinks his tea down and pours another.
“However,” I add, “if you hadn’t made us rotate, then I wouldn’t have met Ivy.”
He pauses with his teacup halfway to his mouth, then sets it down.
“So kidnapping Ivy wasn’t some sort of rebellion?”
“No, sir.”
“What was it that made you take the girl?”
I swallow, fighting back against the tremble in my spine under the gaze of the man in charge of Christmas.
“It was…”
“Yes?”
“Love, sir.”
