Chapter 7
VIC
In Vic’s professional opinion, the universe was mocking her personally.
She had just finished rewriting the entire afternoon section of the schedule—crossing out “Final Tree Decorating (Power On Version)” and replacing it with “Emergency Candlelit Tree Triage”—when Lewis appeared in the doorway of the little study she’d commandeered.
“Ms. Grey-Hughes- Wilding?” he said.
She looked up, already bracing. Lewis never used her surname unless something had gone wrong.
“What now?” she asked. “Has the snow unionised? Is the Wi-Fi on strike? Has Mrs. MacLeod declared independence and seized the kitchens?”
“Reindeer,” he said.
Vic sat up straighter. “My reindeer?”
“I don’t know if you’ve formed a personal bond,” Lewis said carefully, “but yes. Those reindeer. They’re here.”
She blinked. Then checked the clock on the mantelpiece. “They’re not supposed to be here for another forty minutes.”
“They’re early,” Lewis said. “Apparently the driver was worried about the roads worsening, so they set off ahead of schedule. They’re in the outer courtyard now.”
Relief and delight surged through her, punching straight through the anxiety fog. Early was good. Early she could work with. Early meant they’d beaten the snow. Early meant her miracle animal centrepiece was real, not just a line in a document.
“Okay,” she said, already rising, grabbing her clipboard like a general seizing her sword. “Great. This is great. Phase One is a go. Have we got the handlers with them?”
“Yes,” Lewis said. “Two of them. They’ve asked if they can get them settled as quickly as possible, because visibility’s dropping.”
“Perfect,” Vic said, powering past him into the corridor. “I’ll meet them. We’ll get them into position, do a final run-through, check the antler situation—”
“The what?” Lewis asked, falling into step behind her.
“Symmetry,” Vic said. “You can’t have one reindeer with majestic Hollywood antlers and two with tiny apologetic ones. It ruins the aesthetic.”
“You’re… aware they’re living animals, right?” Lewis said.
“Yes,” Vic said. “I’m not asking them to grow more antler on command. I’m just… managing expectations.”
She strode down the corridor, boots squeaking slightly on the polished floor.
The castle felt different today—charged, like static.
The snow outside was a constant presence, pressing up against the windows, blurring the edges of the world.
After the power flicker and the mattress disaster and the news about the caterers, Vic felt held together more by stubbornness than anything else.
But this. This was going to work. Real reindeer in the courtyard 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. Do whatever 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.
Straight toward the helicopter pad.
“NO, NO, NO,” Vic yelled, and took off after him without thinking.
Snow slapped at her face. Her boots slid, caught, slid again. Vesa was surprisingly fast for something that looked like it should move majestically in slow motion. His hooves clattered on the flagged path as he careened around a corner.
“Vesa!” Jarmo bellowed behind her. “Püsi! PüSI!”
“I don’t think he speaks Estonian,” Vic gasped.
“He understands tone,” Jarmo said.
The helicopter pad lay just beyond the low wall that separated the main courtyard from the outer approach. It was currently empty—thank God—but the idea of a rogue reindeer making merry hoof-prints all over a critical piece of royal infrastructure was enough to propel Vic forward with fresh energy.
She rounded the corner at speed.
For a split second, all she could see was white and grey and a blur of antlers. The pad ahead was a clear, circular patch of darker stone, surrounded by low lights half hidden by snow. Vesa was making a beeline for it like it contained the reindeer equivalent of a spa day.
“I swear to God,” Vic muttered. “You are not certified to take off.”
She lunged, arms out.
And something hit her from the side.
Hard.
One moment she was upright, reaching for the trailing lead rope. The next she was airborne—just for a heartbeat, a horrible flailing heartbeat—and then she slammed into the snow-covered ground with a force that knocked the breath out of her.
Snow exploded around her, cold and soft and shocking.
For a second she saw nothing but white. Then awareness filtered back in in bits.
Heavy weight. On top of her.
An arm across her chest, shielding.
A familiar scent—soap, wool, the faint metallic tang of winter air.
“Jesus Christ, Vic,” Erin’s voice said, right against her ear. “Do you have a death wish?”
Vic blinked, focused, and found herself staring up at the sky. Snowflakes drifted lazily down onto her face. Erin was sprawled across her, half on, half off, one knee in the snow, one hand planted by Vic’s shoulder, the other arm still clamped around her like a safety bar.
“What the fucking fuck, Bodyguard?!”
Beyond Erin’s shoulder, Vesa thundered past, missing where Vic had been by what felt like inches. He hit the pad, skidded a little, then slowed to a confused trot as Jarmo finally caught up and managed to grab the rope again.
“Got him!” Jarmo called, triumphant and breathless.
“Fantastic,” Erin said tightly, not taking her eyes off Vic. “Let’s try not to turn the Queen’s best friend into reindeer roadkill next time, yeah?”
“I wasn’t going to die,” Vic protested once her brain caught up with her mouth. Her heart was racing, adrenaline roaring in her ears. “I was just… intercepting.”
“You were standing directly in the path of a frightened half-ton animal with spiky headgear,” Erin said. “That’s not intercepting. That’s auditioning for A&E. They aren’t the same as horses, Vic.”
Her grip loosened, just enough for Vic to sit up. Snow slid down the back of her jumper.
“Ugh,” Vic groaned. “Gross. Cold. Everything’s cold.”
“You’re welcome,” Erin said. “Cold is better than concussed.”
“I know they aren’t the same as horses, by the way. What,” Vic said, squinting up at her, “are you doing out here anyway? Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, interrogating a radiator or something?”
“Security heard the reindeer trailer pulling in,” Erin said. “I came to make sure nothing… unexpected happened.”