Chapter 8 #2
She stroked a hand through Hyz’s hair. “We also have another mission,” she said softly. “Operation: Don’t Drive Auntie Alex crazy. It involves being… selective about what we announce.”
Hyzzie frowned. “But secrets cause problems,” she said. “You said we should talk about things.”
“In general, yes,” Julia said. “But sometimes adults need a little privacy for… grown-up conversations. It doesn’t mean they’re hiding anything bad. It just means they need time to be… themselves.”
“Like when you and Mummy go to your room and tell me not to come in until you say?” Hyz asked. “And then you come out with messy hair and happy faces?”
Julia nearly inhaled a bauble.
“Something like that,” she managed, face heating. “Yes.”
Hyzzie considered this. “So I should not report those,” she concluded.
“That would be… ideal,” Julia said.
“Okay,” Hyz said. “I will add it to my internal rules.”
“Bless you, sweetheart,” Julia murmured.
By the time she straightened, Alex’s chance had evaporated.
The equerry had found his courage and stepped forward, brandishing the tablet again. “Your Majesty, I’m so sorry, but we really do need your decisions on these last two options for the Christmas message subtitles.”
“Of course you do,” Alex said, with a sweetness that made Julia’s spine tingle in sympathy. “Bring me your subtitles, James. Let us prioritise subtitles over my marriage.”
She caught Erin’s eye, a flicker of apology and longing passing between them, and then she let herself be pulled back toward the sofa, the children, the responsibilities.
Erin watched her go, hands flexing uselessly at her sides.
Julia’s chest ached for them. They were such devoted parents. But three children was a lot and their marriage was making sacrifices.
Julia moved toward Erin without quite deciding to, navigation automatic after years of reading a room and sliding into the gaps.
“Hey,” she said softly, stepping into her orbit. “You look like someone just stole your pudding.”
Erin huffed. It wasn’t quite a laugh. “Trying to maintain a professional demeanour,” she said. “Her Majesty has formerly requested no sulking on Christmas Eve.”
“Her Majesty has requested a lot of things in her time,” Julia said. “Her track record on blanket declarations is mixed.”
Erin’s mouth twitched despite herself.
“They’re trying,” Julia said, voice gentling. “Both of you are. It’s not you versus the schedule.”
“It feels like me versus the schedule,” Erin said. “And I’m losing.”
“You’re… temporarily delayed,” Julia amended. “There’s a difference. And for what it’s worth… I see it.”
“See what?” Erin asked.
“The way you’re doing your very best to keep everyone safe,” Julia said. “Including my idiot wife. And to be an amazing mum. And the way Alex lights up when she sees you, even when she’s exhausted. You’re still very much her favourite part of any room.”
Erin swallowed. Looked away. “Yeah, well,” she said gruffly. “I’d like to be her favourite part of at least one bed this week.”
Julia snorted. “You will, my dear. I’m also keen to get some time alone with my own wife!”
They shared a brief, wry look. Mutual sufferers of Vic’s affection embargo.
Before Julia could say anything more, her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She fished it out, glancing instinctively at the screen.
Patel.
She tapped it open.
Caterers stuck south of Perth. Main delivery trucks cannot get through. Turkeys currently “in limbo.” Exploring alternatives.
Julia’s stomach did a small, controlled drop.
Oh, she thought. There it is.
She looked around for Vic.
Found her.
Vic was standing by the doorway, talking animatedly to a junior staff member about emergency battery packs. Her body language was already taut, like someone holding more plates than they could comfortably balance.
Julia considered, for one guilty second, not telling her yet.
Then she remembered Vic’s reaction to delayed information last year, when someone had tried to “protect her” from a last-minute change to the concert timings.
Full-blown meltdown. Tearful apology three hours later. A miserable hangover and three days of “I should have known sooner.”
No. Better to rip the plaster off.
She approached, tucking the phone away again for a moment.
“Love,” she said quietly, touching Vic’s elbow.
Vic turned, harried expression softening automatically at the sight of her. That reflex still made Julia’s heart squeeze.
“Tell me it’s good news,” Vic said. “Tell me the laundry has miraculously unflooded and Maureen has conjured ten new beds out of air.”
“I can’t tell you that,” Julia said. “I can tell you the reindeer have settled in well.”
“And?” Vic said, bracing herself.
Julia exhaled through her nose. “You should… take a breath,” she said. “I have an update from Patel.”
Vic’s eyes narrowed. “On the weather?”
“On the caterers,” Julia said.
All the colour drained from Vic’s face.
“No,” she said automatically. “Nope. Not listening. La la la.” She clapped her hands over her ears like a child, then dropped them a second later, because this was Vic and information was her drug of choice.
“Okay, fine. Tell me. Slowly. Like you’re explaining a difficult concept to a skittish horse. ”
“The lorries can’t get through,” Julia said. “They’re stuck south of Perth. The roads are closing as the snow picks up. The caterers say they can’t guarantee delivery of the main course meats in time.”
Vic stared at her, eyes huge. “The… meats,” she repeated faintly.
“The turkeys, yes,” Julia said. “And associated trimmings.”
There was a beat of absolute, stunned silence.
Then:
“THE TURKEYS AREN’T HERE,” Vic exploded, far louder than she’d intended. Her voice bounced off the stone, echoing down from the gallery. “DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS?”
Half the room turned.
Alex looked up from helping Florence untangle a string of beads. Erin’s head whipped around. The equerry flinched. A page boy dropped a box of crackers, which burst open and showered the floor with tiny plastic toys.
Julia closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again. Too late for discretion now.
“Indoor voice,” she murmured. “Remember indoor voice?”
“This is an indoor emergency,” Vic said, backing toward a table as if she needed something to cling to.
“We don’t have turkeys. We don’t have back-up turkeys.
We have… I don’t even know what we have.
Frozen peas and blind optimism. The Queen is going to have toast for Christmas dinner.
There will be headlines. ‘QUEEN RUINS brITISH CHRISTMAS.’ Piers Morgan will spontaneously combust on national television.
We’ll cause an international incident with France over poultry. ”
“France doesn’t care what we eat,” Julia said. “France thinks we’re culinary savages anyway.”
“That’s not helping,” Vic said. “We can’t not have turkeys, Julia. It’s… it’s Christmas. It’s tradition. It’s the one thing people expect us to get right.”
“People also expect the trains to run on time,” Julia said. “Have you been on a train recently?”
“This isn’t trains,” Vic said wildly. “This is the royal Christmas dinner. We made a promise to the nation.”
“To be visible and vaguely aspirational,” Julia said. “Not to ensure universal turkey availability.”
Vic was breathing fast, hands fisting and unfisting at her sides. Her eyes were shiny in that way that meant the panic was teetering on the edge of tears.
“It’s not just the nation,” she said, voice dropping. “It’s… them. The kids. Alex. Erin. This is their first proper Christmas here where something complicated and/or horrible isn’t hanging over their heads. No newborns, no pandemics, no funerals, no referendums. I wanted it to be… perfect.”
Julia’s anger at the universe softened. This was the raw centre of it, then. Not vanity. Not hunger for control for its own sake. Just Vic’s battered, stubborn heart, trying to give the people she loved a version of Christmas that wasn’t tinged with loss.
“It can still be wonderful without turkey,” Julia said. “We have ham. We have salmon. We have Mrs. MacLeod and three hundred years of Scottish starches.”
“It won’t be the same,” Vic whispered. “All my plans… the timings… the photos… Hyz has already drawn diagrams of the table with turkeys.”
“You can redraw diagrams,” Julia said. “You can write ‘mysterious vegetarian centrepiece’ and confuse everyone.”
“That’s not funny,” Vic said. Then, after a beat, “Okay, it’s a bit funny. But still.”
From somewhere near the tree, Hyzenthlay’s voice floated over. “We don’t have turkeys?” she asked, loud enough to cut through the murmuring.
The triplets gasped as one.
“Does that mean no pigs in blankets?” Frank demanded.
“That’s not how things work,” Matilda said. “Pigs and turkeys are separate.”
Florence’s lower lip wobbled. “Is Christmas cancelled?”
Alexandra, to her credit, reacted immediately.
She swept over, cloak swirling slightly, and crouched so she was level with the kids.
“Of course Christmas isn’t cancelled,” she said. “Christmas is not dependent on poultry. Christmas is about…” She cast a quick look at Julia and Vic. “…being together with the people we love. And wearing ridiculous jumpers. And occasionally setting pudding on fire.”
“That last bit is optional,” Julia added.
“And if the turkeys are stuck in the snow,” Alex continued calmly, “then they are having their own little adventure and we will wish them well. And we will eat something else delicious instead.”
“What?” Frank asked. “Cake?”
“Not cake for dinner,” Alex said. “Well. Not only cake.”
Hyzenthlay tugged at Vic’s sleeve. “We can have reindeer-shaped potatoes,” she suggested. “And call it a creative pivot.”
Vic made a sound that might have been a laugh strangled by despair. “Reindeer-shaped potatoes,” she repeated faintly. “Sure. Why not. We’re already one rogue hoof away from anarchy.”
Alex straightened and looked at Vic properly.
For a moment, Julia saw the old dynamic: Princess and best friend, long before bodyguards and coronations and triplets. Alex’s eyes softened.
“Vic,” she said quietly. “Look at me.”
Vic did, reluctantly, like a child expecting a scolding.
“We will be fine,” Alex said. “I do not care if we eat turkey, ham, or beans on toast. I care that my children are here. That you and Julia and Hyzenthlay are here. That Erin is here. That we’re not spending this one putting on black clothes and attending funerals on live television.”
Something flickered in Vic’s face at that.
A memory. Julia felt it too, sharp and painful: the year the King had died and the children had been born.
The quiet in this castle that winter. The way Alex had stood in this very room dressed in black giving her annual Christmas speech to the world with cameras pointed at her, every movement scrutinised, the world demanding comfort while she was still drowning.
Everything Alex did publicly was a performance and she, over many years had become a gifted performer. But, Julia didn’t want to calculate how much each and every performance took from her.
“Yeah,” Vic said hoarsely. “Okay. That was… that was worse.”
“It was,” Alex said. “So we can handle a few missing birds.”
“It’s more than a few,” Vic muttered automatically.
Julia slipped an arm through Vic’s, grounding her. “We will problem-solve,” she said. “You’re very good at that. But you’re not doing it alone. We have staff. We have local suppliers. We have…” She hesitated. “We have a royal helicopter.”
Alex’s eyebrow rose. “You are not sending the Royal Air Force on a turkey run,” she said.
“I didn’t say air force,” Julia said. “I said one tiny royal helicopter. There’s a difference.”
“Hmm,” Alex said, but there was humour in her voice now.
“Mummy J,” Hyzzie said. “You look like you’re about to start issuing orders.”
Julia flicked her a look. “That’s because I am,” she said. “Here’s the plan. Vic, you are going to sit down, drink some water, and take three slow breaths before you do anything else. Alex, you are going to go back to the tree and spend time with the children. Erin…”
She turned to Erin, who was hovering on the edge of the group, clearly torn between wanting to help and wanting to vanish.
“Yes, Julia?” Erin said automatically.
“You’re coming with me,” Julia said. “Patel and I are going to split the problem into two fronts: logistics and optics. You’re logistics. Vic is… banned from direct contact with any poultry-related communication channels until she has calmed down.”
“I can hear you,” Vic cut in.
“I know,” Julia said. “That’s why I said it out loud.”
Alex smiled. “Delegation,” she said. “My favourite language.”
As the little knot of crisis began to uncoil, Julia felt a new, quieter resolve settle in her.
Vic was stretched too thin. Her perfectionism had gone from endearing to self-destructive. The rule about unscheduled affection was… not helping. The kids were picking up on the tension. Alex and Erin were being pulled in opposite directions.
Someone had to adjust the dials.
“Hyzzie,” she said, catching her daughter’s attention again. “New mission.”
Hyzenthlay straightened, eyes bright. “Codename?” she asked.
“Project: Keep Mummy From Exploding,” Julia said. “Phase One is getting her to hand me that clipboard voluntarily.”
“That’s impossible,” Hyz said.
Julia smiled. “Watch me.”
She squeezed Vic’s arm, feeling the jittery energy under her fingers, and thought: Enough. We’re not doing another year where the holiday eats us alive.
They could survive without turkeys. They could survive without a perfect timetable. What they could not survive—not without scars—was allowing the things meant to hold them together to pull them apart.
She met Alex’s gaze over Vic’s head. The Queen’s eyes were tired and amused and full of something like hope.
Julia nodded, once.
She was going to intervene.
For the turkeys.
For the tree.
For her wife.
And most of all, for the two women who’d once risked everything for love and now couldn’t get five minutes alone in a castle full of rooms.
Before this holiday was over, Vic’s ban on unscheduled affection was going to die a quiet death.
And if Julia had anything to say about it, Alex and Erin’s next attempt at a kiss would not be ruined by anyone, not even the ghost of a scheduled turkey.