The Price of Royal Duty
Author: Penny Jordan
Date: 2012-05-01 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: bought; Christmas
Description: Santina's rebellious princess Sophia made a shock exit from her brother's engagement party last night following the surprise announcement of her own arranged marriage. It seems Sophia did not favor the match instead boldly stowing away on the magnificent Maharaja of Naipur's private jet! Staff insiders to the charismatic maharaja, Ashok Achari, aren't denying the pair spent a wild night together before being caught on film on arrival in Mumbai. Scandal is the last thing the Santina royals need right nowmight this maharaja be persuaded into taking Santina's runaway princess as his wife?
Publisher: Harlequin
Rights: © 2020 Jordan Castillo Price, allrights reserved

Contents

1. Book Info
2. 1 DIXON
3. 2 YURI
4. 3 DIXON
5. 4 YURI
6. About the Author
7. The ABCs of Spellcraft Series

Guide

1. Cover

2. Contents

PRESENT TENSE

The ABCs of Spellcraft 8

Jordan Castillo Price

Find more titles at
www.JCPbooks.com

Present Tense. ©2020 Jordan Castillo Price. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

ISBN 978-1-944779-17-7

Electronic Version 1.0

1

DIXON

Winter. It’s the time of year when frost etches pretty pictures on your windows and the world outside is nestled in a soft white blanket. A time when you get to snuggle up in your mismatched mittens, and no one comments on how many hot chocolates you’ve had—if you don’t start acting too hyper, anyhow.

I’ve always had a fondness for winter.

And since there was snow on the ground and a nip in the air back when I first met Yuri, now I love it even more.

December is also traditionally a lucrative time for my people. While it’s widely known that Spellcraft has no business in politics or religion, nowadays Christmas is pretty secular. And who wouldn’t want to impress their special someone with a bespoke piece of Crafting?

My family had been working hard these past few weeks, and if my dad had his druthers, Practical Penn would be open on Christmas Eve to snag those last-minute shoppers. But our official Seer had negotiated Christmas Eve as one of his annual days off, and we didn’t dare break his contract by letting Yuri fill his shoes. Or wield his paintbrush, since shoes don’t really have anything to do with Spellcraft. And Rufus Clahd has unusually small feet.

Speaking of feet—there was still a bit of snow clinging to my shoes. I stomped it off on the welcome mat in my parents’ vestibule, then hung up my winter coat on the nearby coat tree. It was actually more like an alien life form than a tree, with a giant ball of winter coats up top that took up half the room. I’m not sure it was even possible to dig down to the innermost layers anymore. But if you did, you’d probably find something so old it had come back in style again. Maybe more than once.

My mother hustled in as I was draping my coat over the top of the coat-ball. Once my hands were free, she enveloped me in a big, squishy hug, and greeted me with, “Where’s Yuri?”

I adored the way she loved him as much as I did. “Picking up dinner.”

“That’s generous of him—but he really didn’t need to. We’ve got plenty of leftovers in the fridge.”

“What can I say? He insisted.” I steered Mom into the living room where my dad was clicking through channels from his favorite recliner. I gave him a kiss on the top of the head, then said, “You guys’ve both been working so hard lately, might as well let us pamper you.”

Mom settled into her chair with considerable arranging and re-arranging of her bulk—not unlike the way my cockatoo friend, Meringue, fastidiously fluffs her feathers as she’s settling onto her perch. “Just so it’s understood this isn’t a Christmas present.”

“Don’t worry, Mom, it’s not. He just wanted to do something nice.”

“Yuri might be a Seer, but he wasn’t raised in the Craft.”

“Trust me—I’m awesome at explaining our traditions. And Yuri knows. No gifts.”

Mom was skeptical. “Because there’s nothing less meaningful than being trapped into an endless cycle of reciprocal obligation with the people you’re supposed to love.”

“That’s just what I said.” Actually, it was more like, Spellcrafters don’t do Christmas presents. Same difference. “I think Yuri actually seemed pretty relieved.”

Dad paused in his channel-changing, looked at my mom and said, “Speaking of traditions, you told Dixon about the Magi…right?”

Normally, I would’ve presumed this was some kind of setup for a cheesy joke—except that my mother stopped rearranging herself and said, “I thought you did.”

“Magi?” I said. “As in the story about the guy who sold his pocket watch and the girl who cut off her hair?”

“As in the three wise men,” my mother said testily.

“That sounds kind of…biblical.” I could’ve sworn my mother thought the Bible was full of baloney. Speaking of which, I hoped Yuri remembered to grab us a nice relish tray, since I was feeling a mite peckish.

“I’m sure it’s all just superstition,” Dad said.

Mom gave him her patented single-squinty-eyeball look. “And since when does superstition stop a Spellcrafter from doing something? Everyone knows superstition is just the poor cousin of luck. The way my parents explained it to me, the Magi were the first Seer and Scrivener.”

I supposed legends had to start somewhere. “But aren’t there supposed to be three Magi?”

“The third guy was their customer,” Mom said. Huh, lucky him. I wonder if they Crafted a way for his camel to go faster…or at least not spit so much. “The Magi didn’t turn up for every single one of their messiah’s birthdays bearing gifts…just the first one. And so, it’s Scrivener tradition to surprise your partner with a small gift on your first Christmas together.”

“In fact,” my father said, “it’s bad luck if you don’t.”

“And you’re just telling me this now?”

Mom looked somewhat chagrined. “We meant to say something. You know how crazy it’s been at the shop.”

“And now I’ve got nothing for Yuri!” I scrambled to recall if I’d seen any stores open on our way over, but all I could think of was the car wash with the big inflatable noodle-guy flailing around in the parking lot. Was a premium car wash a good gift? Maybe for some people. But if I ran the pickup truck through the high-powered water jets, I’d likely blast off the rust that was holding on the fender. “It’s too late to shop online, and all the local stores are closed.”

“How about the gas station?” Mom suggested. “The one by the highway to Strangeberg is open twenty-four-seven.”

Dad set down the remote, pried himself from the recliner and dusted his hands together. “Before Dixon tries to figure out how to make an air freshener and a bag of pork rinds look festive, I suggest he take a gander at The Stash.”

The Stash was Dad’s collection of assorted useable objects that just needed a little TLC to bring them back to their former glory. In theory, it was a great resource for someone looking to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon tinkering at the workbench. But in reality, my father just can’t stand seeing anything of potential value being thrown away…and he likes gathering things a lot more than he likes fixing them. I wasn’t quite sure how much longer I could count on the supermarket keeping Yuri busy—but since those places are more cutthroat on Christmas Eve than a roller derby, I hoped I could head down to the basement and find some random item that would pass for a thoughtful gift.

Unfortunately, the current state of The Stash was less than encouraging. You’ve seen organizing shows where a stack of plastic bins makes a roomful of stuff miraculously fit onto a closet shelf? This wasn’t like that. At all. Cheap plastic storage containers teetered in tall stacks, and because they were all from some no-name bargain bin, most of them were cracked or warped, and none of them quite fit together.

Still, an invitation from my father to go through The Stash was not to be taken lightly. With Mom always hinting that she’d take great pleasure in throwing it all away, over the years he’d grown protective. But as I rifled through bin after cracked plastic bin, I wasn’t so sure there was anything there worth protecting. Jewelry—not even the good stuff, with its faux gemstones and plastic pearls scattered like ball bearings in the bottoms of the containers. Weird kitchen gadgets you might buy on TV when insomnia struck. Kitschy little statuettes that needed a touch-up to their paint job. And while I did know my way around a paintbrush—I’ve always been fond of flourishing—I strongly suspected Yuri was the wrong audience for the big-eyed baby statuettes and chubby-cheeked cherubs. He’s none too keen on looking at an inanimate object only to find it looking back.

“Aha!” my father said. “This looks promising.”

Too bad that exclamation could only work so many times. And since I couldn’t really see Yuri being particularly enthused over a broken foot massager or a promotional backscratcher, it took me a moment to realize precisely what had been plucked from the teetering stack. “Dad…is that what I think it is?”

“No clue. I’m still trying to get the top open.”

“That box you’re holding…it’s my favorite box!”

Dad looked skeptical. “It’s just your average cardboard box, Dixon.”

“You say average like it’s a bad thing—but just look at it. Not too big, not too small, not too flimsy, and not too thick. In short, it’s an absolutely perfect box. I thought it was long gone, smashed flat in some far distant recycling bin. But here it is!” I took it from his unresisting hands with a happy sigh. “In all its boxy glory.”

“And even better, if you look inside, you might find something for Yuri.”

After a few tries, the old cellophane tape yielded to my thumbnail, and with great eagerness, I pulled open the flap. And inside was….

Another box.

Not a cardboard box, but a wooden box. A fancy wooden box—very sturdy. Very solid. And very elaborate. My breath caught as I held it up to the fluorescent light and said, “What’s this?”

“Dunno. Open it and see.”

When I popped the seal, a smell wafted out that was mostly dust, but something else, too. Oranges. Cloves. And beneath it all…cedar. I opened the lid to a bunch of wood shavings. “I hope there wasn’t originally a hamster in here.”

“Potpourri,” my father said decisively. “All the rage in the eighties. You’d be hard-pressed to find a bathroom without it.”

I gave the box a dubious shake. The smell of mingled spices tickled my senses.

Dad said, “That lid’s awfully plain, though, don’t you think? Maybe you’re holding it upside down.”

I flipped it over and discovered he was right. The actual lid was very decorative. Unfortunately, there was a word etched within the carvings. A very unfortunate word.

Poopourri.

My heart sank. “Well, that’s a shame. I was just thinking Yuri would actually like this. But he’s never once laughed at an American pun. Not in my presence, at least.”

“Maybe he’s just never found the right one.” Dad eyed the lettering. “Though as jokes go, this one’s not so hot. But take a look at the etching. It’s pretty shallow. You could add some flourishes with a wood burner and turn the word into a decorative design.”

I’d only ever seen my father use the wood burning tool to singe our name onto our patio furniture in case any of our neighbors ever decided to appropriate it—which they never did—but it seemed straightforward enough. I’m no artist. Not like Yuri, with his ability to evoke a morning mist with a swipe of a half-cleaned brush or a distant horizon with a single horizontal stroke. But all Scriveners receive extensive calligraphy training, so decorative elements like cartouches and ornaments were certainly in my calligraphic vocabulary. As I considered the shape and position of the current lettering, the bowls and stems of the letters shifted in my mind’s eye to become the twigs and fruits of an elaborate bouquet of holly. Seasonal, yet secular.

In other words, perfect!

2

YURI

Offering to procure dinner might have seemed altruistic on my part, but in actuality, I was leery of my ability to consume something called “pigs in a blanket.” I see eye to eye with Florica Penn on many things. Her cooking is not one of them.

Braving Bay Mart on Christmas Eve, however…I was beginning to rethink that strategy.

Pinyin Bay’s only supermarket sprawled at the back half of a parking lot that was never more than a quarter of the way full. But on this night, I had to park at the farthest end—and wait for someone else to finally leave, too. Calling the inside of the store chaos would be generous. More like pandemonium. Beleaguered parents scolded their children. Children threw tantrums in the aisles. And a pair of old women were having a tug-of-war over the last honey glazed ham. I managed to grab one of the cooked chickens, though I may have accidentally stomped on the foot of an obnoxious businessman to do it. Since he was braying on at the top of his lungs about a trip to Tahiti on his Bluetooth earpiece, I felt it was a stomp well-deserved.

But I could hardly show up with just a single chicken.

Normally, there were dozens of options in the deli case, both hot and cold. True, most of them contained mayonnaise—but in Dixon’s family, that was considered a food group. Tonight, the line at the counter was at least a dozen people deep, and all the bins looked perilously empty.

The whole store, it seemed, was picked over. In Russia, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought.

The fact that I even noticed goes to show how easy it is to be spoiled by such plenty.

I was about to admit defeat, despite the fact that not only would I be inconveniencing Dixon’s mother, but would also be forced to eat one of her “specialties,” when I noticed there were a few trays left toward the top of the refrigerated shelves, where most people could not reach. The first tray, cheese logs rolled in nuts, had obviously been dropped face-down, then haphazardly mashed back together through the plastic. The next was a bizarre attempt at Christmas festivity—a liverwurst Santa with sauerkraut beard—and that sauerkraut was now leaking through the plastic. There was one more tray. I expected there to be something horribly wrong with it, but the sausage was normal sausage, the cheese was normal cheese, and there was enough to feed even Dixon’s father, who can consume an impressive amount of processed meat in one sitting.

Florica met me at the front door and held the tray as I hung up my coat. “Would you look at the size of that cold cut platter! Johnny will be raving about it till New Year’s.”

Some part of me must have been expecting criticism…but I was slowly getting used to the family’s praise. Once I allowed Dixon’s mother to hug me, I craned my head around the corner to greet his father and found the recliner empty. “Where is Johnny?”

Florica cut her eyes to the cellar door. “Down at the workbench with Dixon—you know how men and their toys are.”

I doubted she was referring to the sorts of toys in the X-rated videos Dixon introduced me to. Good thing I did not easily blush.

She caught me by the sleeve and dragged me through the dining room, pausing only for us to relieve ourselves of the platter. “While they’re both busy, come do me a favor.”

She seemed so secretive about it, I half-expected her to ask me for a Seen. Magical paintings were my only currency, my main advantage. And yet, when anyone in the Penn family asked—as, occasionally, they did—it surprised me that I always felt eager to help them. Perhaps because they’d been so eager to embrace me as one of their own…and not just because I was a Seer.

I was reaching for my travel paintbox when Florica surprised me by thrusting a jar of pickles at me, whispering, “Open this.”

I did.

She took the pickles, then handed me a small bottle of maraschino cherries. “Now this.”

I dreaded to think what the two of them would taste like together. “You really don’t need to go through any trouble—there’s a pie at the bottom of the bag.”

She placed her finger to her lips. “This isn’t for tonight—I’m planning for the week ahead. Johnny is always complaining about how hard it is to open a jar these days. He’s got all kinds of theories—like the canning equipment being on the fritz—and I’d just for once like to have our afternoon pickles and old-fashioneds in peace.” She took the cherries and pressed a jar of tomato sauce into my hand. “Let’s keep this between you and me.”

“Fine.”

She cut her eyes toward the basement. “And…since we’re already in collusion…I should probably mention that a token Christmas present would not go amiss with my son.”

“But Dixon told me Spellcrafters did not celebrate the holiday!”

“As a religious event, no. I don’t know how it is in Russia, but around here? Christmas is mostly secular. After all, you don’t see reindeer in the Bible, do you?” Florica frowned in thought. “Actually, can’t say I’ve ever read it, so maybe you do. Most parents go through all kinds of rigmarole to make their kids think Santa Claus is real—but Dixon was always convinced we were lying about Santa being nothing more than some Handless marketing racket. Not that I’m saying he still believes in Santa—I should hope he’s figured it out by now. The point is, it wouldn’t hurt to give him a little something to commemorate your first Christmas together.”

Dinner was tense. I racked my brain trying to think of somewhere I could find a gift on such short notice. And while Johnny enthused over the deli platter and Florica picked the chicken clean, I could not shake the feeling that something unspoken was simmering just below the surface. Especially when we said our goodbyes, and Dixon hoisted a medium sized box onto his hip.

It was not unusual to leave his parents’ house with an armful of something. In fact, I often suspected they used our visits as an excuse to unload a few things and carve out a bit of space in their overcrowded home. But the fact that Dixon had not remarked on it in any way? He remarks on everything…so of course, I was suspicious.

I put the key in the ignition, but did not turn it. Instead, I cut my eyes to the box and said, “What is it?”

“This?” Dixon laughed wanly. “It’s just, ah…towels.”

“Bath…towels?”

“Shop towels.” He patted the box as if to reassure himself of its squareness. “So we don’t need to get our bath towels dirty. We’ve got so many projects going on up in the attic, no doubt something at some point will need drying off. And no one likes a gritty bath towel.”

True. And perhaps he was nervous because he had a particular home improvement project in mind—yet another one he presumed I would object to. (It wasn’t so much that I disliked the idea of an indoor swimming pool, just that I doubted the house’s ability to support the weight.) But when I swerved around a pothole, something shifted in his box. Something which let out a definite clunk. I cut my eyes to Dixon and he gave me a forced smile.

The American saying, pick your battles, is one which I seldom need to use with Dixon. He is cheerful. He is agreeable. And he can change his mind faster than a street in Scrivener Village changes direction. But as long as he was not bringing home yet another small animal—a toad, a snail, a hermit crab—it mattered little to me what he was protecting.

Plus, he might actually be telling the truth. In which case, I was glad whatever was thumping around was a shop towel, and not a bath towel. Though now that I thought about it, too bad it wasn’t a bath towel. Because once Dixon got himself ensconced in the tub, with bubbles and candles and a good book—or even a passable one—he’d be occupied for the rest of the night. Enough time for me to find a store which was still open…and which sold something that would pass for a gift.

The bath plan did have merit. If I encouraged him to listen to some “relaxing” music (and if I turned that music up loud enough) he wouldn’t even know I’d slipped away. The trick to manipulating Dixon was to not seem overly eager. It also helped that he was somehow still so enamored of my accent, he took everything I said at face value. Still, he was raised by a family with a very broad definition of the word truth, so I found myself rehearsing the suggestion, How about a nice bath? all the way home, as I trailed him across the sidewalk and up the stairs.

With my hand on the light fixture, I was just about to speak when a different light flared to life: the refrigerator light.

Aside from our bedroom and bathroom, the rest of the attic we call home is wide open, with sloped ceilings, a brick chimney, and at the far end, a large louvered window. The kitchen was more like the suggestion of a kitchen, with a salvaged sink, two dorm fridges stacked on top of one another, and a massive old microwave that turned everything to leather. Dixon was silhouetted by the light of the top fridge as he pulled out the half-gallon of milk. He unscrewed the top, met my eye, then tipped it back.

Straight from the carton, he drank. And drank.

And drank.

He drank until the plastic carton flexed empty and his eyes watered. And once he’d drained the milk dry, he smacked the empty container down on our folding card table, swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, gasped thickly, and said, “Well. That hit the spot.”

I blinked stupidly. Dixon never drinks milk…not unless it is mixed with bright pink strawberry syrup, anyhow. And that concoction is mostly syrup. “You were craving…milk?”

“Yep. Sure was.” He swallowed at nothing a few more times as if to hold back a belch, then gave the empty carton a shake. “Oh no. Did I drink all of it—every last drop? How can that be? And now you have no milk for your morning coffee. I’ll have to go get you some more.”

“Now?”

“Better now than tomorrow—Christmas morning. You know how crabby the Handless can be about working on Christmas.”

Obviously, Dixon was up to something…though this is usually a pretty good bet. But if he was providing me with a good excuse to go find him a gift, I would not squander the chance. “I will go. I am very, ah, picky about my milk. You stay here. In case…Meringue needs you.”

3

DIXON

We both cut our eyes to the cockatoo. She was already asleep with her head tucked under her wing, though at the sound of her name, she ruffled ever so slightly. Yuri turned around and headed back out the door before I could ask what on earth Meringue might need.

Perfect.

I’d known full well that Yuri would never let me venture off to the store after dark. He was convinced I had lousy night vision, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the time I sideswiped that dumpster, I was just busy admiring the new billboard out by the strip mall—the one with the cute dancing hedgehogs. And who could blame me? They truly are adorable, one in a pearl necklace and the other in a bow tie and top hat. I wonder what kind of music they’re dancing to? Those music notes floating around in the air were no help. If the mandatory recorder recital at my third grade holiday pageant taught me anything, it’s that a note’s position on a staff is what means something…though what that something was, I’d never quite grasped. Only that I always missed the F# in Silent Night.

I blinked. How long had I been humming that darn earworm? Long enough to wake up Meringue, who always loved to join in whenever she heard someone singing, albeit never with the same song. Her enthusiasm totally made up for her lack of musical ability.

While Meringue croaked out the theme to the channel eight weather report, I plugged in the wood burner to warm up. Good thing I was quick with my flourishing. I wasn’t sure where Yuri would be likely to find milk on Christmas Eve, but Pinyin Bay is hardly a sprawling metropolis. There were several gas stations or convenience stores within ten minutes of the attic we called home, so I’d better get burning, quick.

It was hard to think of a less appealing neologism than “poopourri,” but by sketching additional circles around the letter o’s and p’s, I could definitely camouflage the word. The other letters became vegetation, and the angularity in the letter r’s worked perfectly for stylized, pointy holly leaves.

As Meringue embarked on her fifth round of the weather intro—or maybe her sixth—I began to wonder if maybe I should pick something less seasonal for my design. Yuri had actually been relieved, back when I told him Scriveners weren’t big on Christmas. What if holly brought up painful memories?

I, on the other hand, primarily associated Christmas with a sense of longing. My cousin Sabina always got gifts, while I got stale Christmas cookies on sale…after New Year’s. My parents were adamant about not falling victim to the holiday commercialism and hype. But Sabina’s mom was originally Handless—at least until Sabina was born, which made things official—and Uncle Fonzo was never one to turn down an opportunity to get a present.

According to Sabina, I had nothing to be jealous about. She claimed most of the boxes under the green plastic tree contained clothes. And her parents were obligated to keep her from running around naked, so essentially, they were just boxing up something they would have given her anyway and acting like they were doing her a favor.

Even so. I’d envied the idea of decorating a tree, then waking up and finding presents underneath it Christmas morning. “Maybe Yuri and I can institute our own holiday,” I told Meringue. “Something kind of pagany-nondenominational, like Yule. Actually, that’s probably a real holiday to someone somewhere, but you get the gist.”

In reply, she whistled the first three notes of Jingle Bells…I think. Since they’re the same note, it’s hard to tell.

As I imagined what sorts of activities our bespoke holiday might entail, like gifts and food and plenty of snuggling in front of a video of a fireplace, my pencil swirled and swooped around my design as I sketched on the lid. It wasn’t exactly like Scribing—after all, there were no words—but my hand had taken on a life of its own and created something delightful.

I glanced up at the clock. Yuri’d been gone nearly twenty minutes. But the wood burner was nice and hot, and it scorched through the cedar like nobody’s business. Whorls and loops, scallops and circles. My design pulled together in an image that was both spontaneous and intricate—beautifully balanced, with zero remaining traces of poopourri.

There’d be just enough time to burn a cone of incense to cover up the cozy smell of smoldering cedar. We don’t generally like a smoky attic…but when Uncle Fonzo has a hankering for liver and onions and the cooking smells waft up through the stairwell, scented candles don’t quite cut it. “I know it was here somewhere.” I rifled through the odds-and-ends cabinet. “Unless we used the last one….”

I was head and shoulders inside the cabinet when Meringue shrilled her imitation of the smoke detector. It wasn’t a very good imitation—you can totally tell it’s a bird—but it’s darn near as loud. While her mimicry left something to be desired, it was interesting how she’d picked up on my desire to light incense. Then again, ever since she’d gifted me with her quill, the two of us shared a tangible bond. Maybe that’s why all her singing and squawking never bothers me. Even the smoke detector routine.

Which suddenly became twice as loud, when the actual smoke detector joined in.

I spun around to find something to knock out the batteries—bonking my head on the cabinet door in the process—and was baffled to find that although the cooling wood burner was nowhere near it, the poopourri box was smoking. And not just tiny little wisps and tendrils from the wood burner, either. Smoke billowed from the seam of the lid. Thick, dark smoke.

Luckily for us, we inherited a few aquatic tanks from Precious Greetings, and we keep a full bucket of tap water beside the sink so the chlorine can evaporate before we top everything off. I grabbed the bucket and flung the water toward the smoking cedar box. It struck with a giant hiss, knocking the box right off the table—and knocking Meringue off her nearby perch on the back of the chair. She fluttered up into the rafters, muttering, “Dirty Scrivener.”

I grabbed a tea towel and rounded the table, swatting at a final few stubborn smoldering bits of poopouri. “Of all the luck!” Distraught, I picked up the steaming box, expecting it to be a hunk of smoking charcoal. But weirdly enough, the box didn’t look too bad.

It was the contents that had caught fire, not the box itself! The fragrance oils and resins must’ve been phenomenally flammable, not to mention the dried flower petals and orange peels. The box might have survived intact (a bit blackened inside), but the innards were smoldering ash that disintegrated the moment they were hit by the towel. As far as I could figure, some tiny ventilation holes in the cover must’ve allowed the wood burner to touch the highly volatile plant matter, and thanks to the smell of the tool on the cedar, I didn’t notice…not until it was way too late.

“What am I gonna do?” I asked Meringue. “Yuri will be back any minute. There’s gotta be something around here that’ll pass for potpourri.” Meringue answered with another smoke alarm chirp—probably because I was really warming to my new idea. “Maybe Sticky the stick insect won’t mind me borrowing some of his wood chips. And if I toss them with a little aftershave and a bag or two of chamomile tea, I bet they’ll seem pretty darn potpourri-ish.”

Before I went through the trouble of assembling the filling, I gave the cedar box a good once-over to make sure it was still holding together. Luckily, the inside had faired pretty well. Once I wiped out the soot, you’d hardly know that mere moments ago it was on fire. Unfortunately, when I’d doused the flames, I’d made a pretty big mess of the room. I triaged the disaster, then tossed out the burnt remains, cracked the window to let the smoke out, and scrambled to swab up all the water. It was such a wreck, I was sure Yuri would walk in on me any second. But the longer I worked, the more it seemed as if I might get everything set to rights before he came home.

No clue why it might take him so long to find milk, but I wasn’t about to look a gift delay in the mouth.

Instead of just hiding the evidence of the fire, I was able to blow out all the smoke and really clean up the kitchen. Though Yuri is a minimalist, he’s not exactly a neatnik. And while I might envision living in a trendy apartment plucked right from the pages of a home decorating magazine, in reality, I tend to get distracted and leave half-done projects gathering dust on most horizontal surfaces. Mopping up all that water forced me to admit that I had no intention of finishing the used jigsaw puzzle, the dusty string-art, or misshapen crocheted potholder. So, into the trash they went.

By the time I was done wiping things down and mopping things up, I’d really spruced up the place. I was admiring my work when I heard the rattle of Yuri’s truck pulling up outside.

All that remained of my escapade in wood burning was the cardboard box I’d rescued from my parents’ basement—my favorite box, which fortunately made it through the ordeal unscathed. Or so I thought. When I picked it up to move it out of sight, the bottom disintegrated.

My heart broke a little as shop towels dropped to my shoes. I told myself to stop being ridiculous. It was silly to be so attached to a box, even one that was the perfect size and shape. Not too big. Not too small. Not too flimsy and not too thick. Surely I could find another one just as good. I was wondering exactly where one might trace a cardboard box’s origins when my gaze fell on another box—the cedar potpourri holder in the middle of the card table. And as Yuri’s quiet footfalls approached from the stairwell, I realized with sudden dismay that I’d been so focused on cleaning up the fire…I’d forgotten to replace the potpourri.

4

YURI

Since drinking milk anytime after lunch has been digested has the potential to put Dixon in a coma, with any luck, he’d have fallen asleep the moment I walked out the door. That’s what I was hoping, anyhow, when I realized how difficult it was to find a fitting gift for my vozljublennyj on Christmas Eve. Frankly, I couldn’t find anything I’d even give to an acquaintance, let alone my beloved. Cheap baseball hats. Tacky bumper stickers. Shot glasses printed with lewd slogans. It seemed I would have no luck shopping at gas stations…but nothing else was open.

I was staring at an automotive display considering how much damage Dixon might do with a tire pressure gauge when the gas station door whisked open with a whirl of snow. A Handless man strode in carrying a very festive looking gift. A pair of ruddy, whining children trailed him, one on either side, a boy and a girl. The boy whined, “I don’t wa-a-ant a Game Buddy, I want a Tech Box. Nobody thinks Game Buddies are cool. Except Adeline.”

“Nuh-uh!” Adeline whined even louder. “If Aiden gets a Tech Box, then I want a Tech Box.”

Aiden said, “The only reason we’re getting Game Buddies at all is because they don’t make your stupid horse game for the Tech Box.”

Adeline drew such a deep breath, she bypassed red and turned a shade of mottled violet. “Joyful Pony Farm is not stupid! You’re stupid!”

“And you’re stupid times two!”

“You’re stupid times two…plus infinity!” Adeline declared.

Aiden grinned triumphantly. “I know you are, but what am I?”

A high-pitched whine escaped Adeline as tears sprang to her eyes and wobbled on her lower lashes. Were American children really that sensitive? Probably. Or maybe they were just strung out on sugar. And it didn’t help that the dynamic between these two played out as though it had been developing for years.

The father’s response had been building up, as well. Probably for just as long. “If you two spoiled brats don’t shut up, then once we bring Uncle Bob his present, Christmas is cancelled—and neither of you gets a Tech Tock or a Bling Buddy or whatever the heck it was you wanted.”

Aiden and Adeline stopped squabbling, and immediately shifted from enemies to allies. “Nuh-uh!” Adeline said.

Her brother added, “You don’t have the guts to tear down the tree and take back all our presents.”

Never would I have dreamed of taunting my own father in such a way. Not only would he have done as he threatened, but he would have swatted me with the dismantled tree to put me in my place. This was a different country—and a different generation—so the man who’d sired Adeline and Aiden was unlikely to get away with the same type of parenting my father doled out. No matter how sorely he might wish to put his foot down.

Though maybe I could use his frustration to my advantage.

The children deployed to grab handfuls of overpriced candy from the shelves, fighting now about whether caramel was better than nougat. I took their father aside and said, “Are you prepared to listen to them arguing all night?”

“What choice have I got? If I ditch ’em on the side of the road, the missus is bound to notice.”

“Abandoning them might feel good now,” I agreed, “but you’d pay for it later. But what if you could prove to them you were dead serious about cancelling Christmas?”

“How do I manage that? Their mother is bonkers about Christmas, so she’d never go for it. And besides, all the presents are wrapped and waiting to go under the tree once the little darlings are asleep.”

I cut my eyes to the box. “All but this one. What’s inside?”

The man’s brow furrowed. “I dunno, my wife does all the shopping. Some Christmasy thing for her brother. We’re just on our way to drop it off.”

“Sell it to me. You can replace it with a gift card when you pay for your gas and the children will be none the wiser.”

It was a harebrained idea…which didn’t stop the man from palming the twenty-dollar bill I slipped him. And the look on the kids’ faces when he shoved the gift into my arms and announced that Christmas was officially off? No doubt it would be one of his fondest holiday memories for years to come.

I hurried back home. As I pulled up to the curb, I was startled by a rap on the window—Dixon’s cousin Sabina. She crammed her hand back into her pocket and huddled in her winter coat with her shoulders up around her ears. My driver side window was temperamental to open—sometimes it rolled back up, sometimes not—so I opened the door instead. “Sabinochka—how long have you been outside? Are you locked out?”

“No, I can get in, all right. After I sacrificed my door-opening Spellcraft, I figured I needed a new contingency plan. So I strung a spare key on a necklace and I’ve been wearing it ever since.” She shivered. “I’m just waiting for the house to air out.”

That didn’t sound good. I motioned for her to join me in the truck, and she hopped in gratefully. “Did your father make liver and onions again?”

“Even worse. He used Christmas Eve as an excuse to smoke a big, nasty cigar in the house.”

“Is this…an American tradition?”

“That’s the thing about adopting a Handless holiday. You can get away with doing basically anything and claiming it’s a unique spin on a time-honored tradition. And I dunno why, but this year, it’s extra smoky.”

She gave her shirt a sniff, shuddered, and only then noticed my gift. “What’s that?”

I would have thought it was evident. “A present.”

“For who? Everyone you know is a Scrivener.”

“Florica told me it would make Dixon happy.”

“True, he’s never one to turn down a present. What is it?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “But I suppose I had better find out.” By the dull glow of the dome light, I unwrapped the gift, taking care to keep the tape and paper intact. And inside the box was…a cookie jar.

A Santa Claus cookie jar.

While I had no great desire to endure the cookie jar staring at me, at least it would reside in the kitchenette, not the bedroom. Unless Dixon got some truly creative ideas for bedroom antics.

“Oh no!” Sabina cried.

Had she read my mind? “What is it?”

“You can’t give this to Dixon—Santa totally freaks him out.”

Dixon’s cousin is a self-assured girl, and I admire her vehemence. But that does not mean she has always got her facts straight. “But his mother made it sound like was a big fan of Santa Claus.”

“He was! Until the time we snuck off together to see Santa for ourselves. Aunt Florica and Uncle Johnny had always been so strict about their no-Christmas rule that Dixon must’ve been at least eleven or twelve—way too big to believe in Santa—but old enough to take the bus to the Christmas parade on Main Street. If it were anywhere else, word would’ve gotten back to our folks about us wandering around out there on our own. But there wasn’t a Scrivener in sight, so no one said a word. Once the official tree was lit and a bunch of showoffs sang some carols, we got in line with all the Handless kids to sit on Santa’s lap to tell him what we wanted.”

“When Dixon was twelve?”

“That’s right! He was the tallest kid in line. I told him Santa wasn’t real—and so did the girl in front of him, and the kid in front of her. I thought we had him convinced…until he climbed up on that darn lap, and Santa took one look at him and said, ‘Dixon Penn? Do your parents know you’re here?’”

“So, he knew the man.”

“Sure, we both did. Ladin Silver was always coming around on poker nights…and apparently other nights too, when my dad wasn’t home. But I was too young to understand what that meant. Anyway, the thought that Santa Claus knew exactly who he was startled Dixon so badly, he was off like a shot. He vaulted over a pile of Christmas presents—they were really just empty boxes wrapped up in paper, so they scattered like snowflakes—and he took off into the crowd. It took me nearly an hour to find him again. Especially with all the weird Handless and their, ‘little girl, where are your parents?’ Honestly, you think they’d never seen an unattended child before.”

She took the cookie jar from my unresisting hands.

I sighed. “And now I have nothing.”

“But that’s better than giving Dixon something that reminds him of his humiliation at the hands of a freaky Santa! Listen, Yuri. Before my cousin met you, he was in this weird, in-between place. His living arrangements were temporary. His job was temporary. He didn’t even know he could Scribe! And then you came into his life, and he’s happier than I’ve ever seen him.”

Had I come into Dixon’s life, or had he come into mine? I supposed an argument could be made either way. I still recall seeing him march through the doors of Precious Greetings, bright-eyed and full of hope. And yet, after all we’d been through together, he had ended up in the city of his birth, in the home of his family, doing the very task he had trained his whole life to do. And I was the one who had somehow found myself in the middle of it all.

“Look at it this way,” Sabina said. “If Dixon did get you a gift, just act really surprised and appreciative and let him bask in the gift-giving glory. That’s what presents are supposed to be about anyhow, right? Not getting stuff…but giving it.”

Well, when she put it that way….

“I’ll get rid of Santa.” She hopped out of the truck and tucked the cookie jar under her arm like a football. “You go upstairs and slip into bed, and when Dixon rolls out his Christmas present tomorrow morning, just act really surprised.”

Acting surprised would hardly be difficult. I had always thought myself wary of surprises. Too tough, too brittle. But Dixon was constantly surprising me…and (surprisingly enough) I’d actually grown to enjoy it.

I crept up the stairwell, lost in the improbability of Dixon and me finding one another…and wondering exactly how many cigars Fonzo had smoked. It was late—and Dixon had drunk a significant amount of milk—so I must have presumed he would be asleep. When I found him there, standing in our kitchenette with a look on his face I couldn’t quite find the words to describe, I was surprised. And he hadn’t even given me a gift yet.

“Yuri. You’re home.”

As he said the words, a cuckoo clock on the far wall struck midnight. I’d plucked out the noisemaking parts months ago, but the fake bird still made twelve small clicks when it popped from its lair, while Meringue roused herself for a single, sleepy, “Cuckoo.”

Dixon glanced at the clock and said, “Merry Christmas.” The words were soft, with an edge that skirted on poignance. Hopefully he wasn’t having any Santa Claus flashbacks. He cut his eyes to the box I hadn’t realized I was still carrying, and said, “Say, Yuri, is that a whole box of milk?”

“It is nothing.” Wait. This was what Americans said all the time to convey a false modesty. “Really—nothing. It is empty.”

He didn’t seem to believe me, even when he came forward, took it from my hands, and tested its weight for himself. He had that same bright-eyed look about him I’d first seen at Precious Greetings—a look which never gets old. Enthusiasm and optimism, eagerness and wonder.

“Dixon—”

He opened the top, peered inside, proved to himself it was empty…and said, “What a great box.”

“What?”

“Not too big. Not too small. Lightweight, but sturdy. And look, there’s a little origami-type catch on the top flap to keep it shut. It’s just like my mom always says: Stop complaining, you big baby. Your luck is bound to turn around if you just give it half a chance.” He sighed happily. “I just managed to annihilate my old favorite box—and before you know it, an even better box shows up!”

Normally, I would presume he was trying to spare my feelings—but if ever there was a man who would take pleasure in something as simple as a cardboard box, it was Dixon. Relief washed over me, and my knees went rubbery as the day caught up with me. I had been so carried away about this whole gift exchange that I lost sight of what I knew to be true. Somehow, I managed to make Dixon Penn happy. And somehow, against all odds, I had found happiness in him.

I sank gratefully into a kitchen chair, and only then did I get a good look around me and realize how clean and spacious everything looked. While I scoured Pinyin Bay for a gift, Dixon had not been sleeping a milk-induced sleep, but instead, he’d tidied up the flat…and burned incense, too. Or maybe made himself a few slices of toast. Or maybe Fonzo’s cigars truly were as pervasive as Sabina mentioned. No doubt the smell of char would dissipate soon enough. But what interested me the most, in the center of the cleared kitchen table, was a beautifully crafted wooden case.

Dixon became flustered as he noticed me noticing it. “Ignore that, Yuri. It’s nothing.”

I presume he meant American-nothing. I pulled the case toward me and admired the design scorched into the top, drew off my gloves, and ran my fingertip along the texture. “This reminds me of your calligraphy.”

“Oh. Right. Makes a lot of sense, since that is my original design—and nothing more. You know how I love to keep up with my calligraphy. I was just practicing my cartouches. Late at night. With a wood burner. On a cedar box that was most definitely empty…a box I did not set on fire. You can have it, if you like—though if you’d rather just toss it out when trash day rolls around, I’ll understand.”

I opened the cedar box, drew my travel paint set from my pocket, and placed it inside. “It’s a perfect fit.” I met his eyes and tried to convey the words, just like us…because some things are simply too sentimental to utter aloud. Dixon’s eyes brightened as he smiled a tentative smile—he knew me well enough by now that I didn’t need to spell it out. His smile broadened as he leaned over, looped his arms around my neck, and drew me into a tender, slightly smoky kiss.

“Dumb hack,” Meringue murmured from her perch in the rafters, then tucked her head beneath her wing and settled in for a long winter’s nap.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JORDAN CASTILLO PRICE has never bought into the existence of Santa Claus, though she’s pretty keen on Christmas lights. She is also excited to run across a really good box.

Connect with Jordan:

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Blog - http://jordancastilloprice.com

And explore her other stories at http://jcpbooks.com

www.jcpbooks.com/merchandise

The ABCs of Spellcraft Series

1. Quill Me Now

1.5 All that Glitters

2. Trouble in Taco Town

3. Something Stinks at the Spa

4. Dead Man’s Quill

5. Last but not Lease

6. Don’t Rock the Boardwalk

7. What the Frack?

8. Present Tense (A Spellcraft Christmas Short Story)

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