Page 13 of Go Luck Yourself (Royals and Romance #2)

I’m writing again. 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 words Kiss 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.

I toss my coat on a chair in the foyer and head for the office. Is it Loch’s office, or is it Malachy’s? I can’t imagine Malachy does any work here. But if the joy meter is anywhere, it’s gotta be there.

The halls wind around me, silent and chilly, and I shiver, arms pricking with cold.

The office door is shut. I stop in front of it, warring with whether there’d be any magical protection. Knowing Malachy’s stinginess, doubtful.

So I grab the knob.

It’s unlocked.

Huh. That’s… lucky.

I look around like a physical manifestation of Loch’s magic is going to pop up and give me a mischievous wink.

Why would Loch’s magic be helping me ? Unless it’d somehow help him.

This is a dumb coincidence. Loch didn’t lock the office because we left this room in a hurry last night, so he probably forgot.

Yeah. That has to be it.

I’ve never been so glad Christmas’s magic is straightforward. A few days in St. Patrick’s Day, and I’m a conspiracy nut.

I slip inside and shut the door behind me. My heart thunders for a solid five seconds as I stand inside, waiting for something to happen.

Nothing does, and I exhale, long and slow.

I have no shame left at this point, so I dive right into snooping. Maybe there’s an agenda on the desk that says Malachy’s Calendar: 1 o’clock, be an ass; 2 o’clock, steal Christmas’s joy.

But the first thing I see is a notebook with a bunch of stapled business cards next to notes in Loch’s handwriting that say things like fifth generation lace maker and on a music scholarship—watch senior capstone show.

There are several notebooks like it. And schedules for festivals happening across the isle, performers in attendance, who needs assistance, if Loch’s able to help.

I glare down at the books.

This is why I’m all jumbled up inside. He had to go and be this honorable, infectious, passionate son of a bitch with soft, full lips and abs that put me on my knees.

“You’re a goddamn dumbass, Claus,” I mutter.

The drawers hold office supplies, files about updates to the castle and money transfers between Malachy and Loch for minor upkeep and school tuition.

Hands in fists, I head to the nearest bookshelf. This is an old-as-shit castle; they’d have hidden passages, right?

A tremor of excitement scuttles up my spine as I search along the bookcases for cranks or anything telling.

Please have a hidden passage.

Please be something cool to help this day not feel like such a disaster.

The books are old and decorative, fancy versions of classics like the Odyssey and Frankenstein. There are framed pictures of Loch, Finn, and Siobhán way younger, smiling with two older people—their mom and dad.

I linger over one picture, a gap-toothed Loch with Siobhán on his shoulders in front of the castle, both dressed like they’d come from an Irish dance, outfits as green as the hills with intricate gold threaded designs. Their mom is next to them, arm around them both, all smiles.

He looks so innocent in that picture. Weightless.

I don’t have a single picture with my parents like that. The best is a family photo right before Mom left. Coal’s making a weird face because Dad yelled at him, and I’m trying not to cry because I hated when they fought. But Mom looks perfect, she always did, put together and not a hair out of place, even if we were falling apart.

I shake the emotion away and keep searching.

A few feet down, a gust of air catches me off guard.

It slips through two of the bookcase panels, and I stop, feeling the crack. There’s definitely space here, along with a hinge three feet to the right for a door to swing open.

Even though there’s no one else in the room, I resist doing a fist pump.

Hidden passage.

I move along the shelf, try a few books or random items that might be levers. Nothing.

Should I push on it? It wouldn’t be that easy—

It is.

I shove on the edge, and something clicks, the door rebounding and swinging open as a magnetic latch releases.

Now is when my guilt chooses to rear up and go, This is a bit invasive.

But if I can get proof that it is Malachy stealing from us, then Loch can use the scandal to push out his uncle. It benefits him, too.

No. If I can get proof, I’ll use it to help Christmas. We’ll force Malachy to give back what he stole.

Don’t think about Loch.

Don’t think about what I can do for him, who I can be, to get him to want me.

I push open the door until light from the window on the opposite side of the office shows a space barely big enough to be considered a closet.

At first I think I found an air conditioner or heater. It’s no taller than I am, a hodgepodge of iron fixings and gears, more functional looking than the Merry Measure in all its steampunk grandness.

But there’s a familiar series of gauges across the front, tracking inputs, outputs.

I bend closer. The input needle swivels to the max; the output needle is in a state of drain. Malachy, pulling joy to feed his business’s success. That asshole.

Carefully, I search around the joy meter, looking for—I don’t even know what. One of those attachments similar to the one on the Merry Measure? They’d have to have put a gadget on this one to act as a receiver for the one in Christmas.

Ah.

Wedged in at the back is a little box exactly like the one left in Christmas, brass and about the size of my fist. There’s a readout display on this one, a date and time stamp. The last draw was yesterday. Or… it’s not shut off, is it? The light on the one in Christmas was green, but this one has a red light on top.

I reach for it. I can unplug it and take it back with me.

But then whoever installed it will be alerted that we know, and nothing about this tells me the who.

I pull my phone out and shoot off a picture of it to Coal, asking him to check that it matches the one in Christmas, but I’m almost certain they’re identical.

There’s a switch on top next to the red light. I bend closer— On/Off. It’s in the Off position.

Malachy could have turned it off when he met me yesterday; he could’ve been worried I was getting close to realizing what he’s doing. Maybe he’s intending to turn it back on once I leave.

Or maybe it’s Loch.

I scrub at my face, giving myself a beat to feel how that fits in with everything that’s happened.

It could still be Loch stealing from us. His uncle refuses to let him have magic for what he needs to do, so he’s taking some from Christmas to bridge the gap. He funnels it into their joy meter and draws it out before it can get sucked up into Malachy’s pull, and he uses these small amounts to do what he can to spread joy during his Holiday. I’ve only seen him use magic once, though. But he would be doing it sneakily, wouldn’t he? If he’s stealing from us, and his uncle would flip shit again.

Shouldn’t I feel, I don’t know, betrayed if it’s him?

All I really feel, staring down at that device, is grief. For the notebooks on Loch’s desk full of how he’s fighting to make up for what Malachy lacks. For the distraught look on his face when he said I deserved better than him.

I found proof that St. Patrick’s Day is, in fact, stealing from us, regardless of who exactly is the culprit. I’ve given the paparazzi plenty of material to counter that tinsel incident, so I can leave now, and not have to deal with any of these terrifying, too-massive-too-fast feelings. Coal can decide how to proceed with confronting St. Patrick’s Day and getting our stolen joy back, and I can burrow into my duty-laden existence of following him around like a purposeless, sulking shadow.

Or.

Or.

I check the hall for Colm, then slip out and shut the office door behind me.

COAL

COAL

got the pic you sent, and while i’m hella impressed by your grade-a sneaking skills, CALL ME. dude. fuck this magic shit for a second. we need to talk about mom.

No, we absolutely do not.

I’m still not sure whether it’s Malachy or Loch, so I’m going to hang around and see what evidence I can drum up.

COAL

how are things with loch?

That being his response makes my chest sink.

Not great.

COAL

what?? since when??

okay i’m putting pause on my suspicion of him cuz i was beginning to think that he was fucking you over while he was fucking you over just to throw you off

Ew, Jesus, Coal

So, wait, now you’re not suspicious of him?

COAL

well yeah because if it is loch then he’d still be messing around with you to keep you busy, right? has there been more kissing? so maybe it is the uncle

You’re saying that the only possible reason Loch would be into me is to distract me from figuring out his evil master plan? Wow, thanks.

COAL

you know what i mean asshole

wait HAS there been more kissing?

kris

you’re not responding.

i’m going to kick his ass tomorrow

tell me what happened or all i’ll be able to focus on is flipping his face inside out and wearing it like a halloween mask

Hex is right. No more Hannibal for you.

I jog down the stairs and stop outside the library.

Do I want Coal to come raging in here tomorrow all defensive? No. Definitely not.

So I lie through my teeth. Er, fingers, as it were.

There has been no more kissing because it literally happened last night and we’ve been busy since then. He’s at a music festival. I fucked off to go investigating.

I don’t know how I’ll get proof of who it is though. Malachy doesn’t have any of his private stuff in this castle. I think his setup is in some swanky office in Dublin.

COAL

due to personal reasons i’m gonna have to ask you not to go breaking into an office in dublin

I wasn’t suggesting I do. I just don’t know how to get proof that it was him so we can bring him down.

COAL

i’m worried about you.

i’m worried that mom rattled you.

I’m fine. We’re not going to their vow renewal. I should block her number.

COAL

YES YOU SHOULD.

don’t hate me but i think you’re doing exactly what we talked about last night. that you’re on the verge of sacrificing pieces of yourself for what you think loch needs from you. that you’re hoping to find proof that it’s his uncle stealing so you can bring him down for loch.

I almost text back that that’s not what I’m doing. Or that nothing happened, everything’s great, don’t worry, tomorrow in Belfast will be fun, all of us together.

I started writing again. Just a little. But I’m going to do more.

COAL

HELL YES KRIS!!

that’s great dude

be careful. if you wanna come home now, we’ve got enough to work with. you don’t have to stay.

i don’t want you getting hurt

I know. I appreciate it. I’ll be careful.

I step into the library and… think.

I have no idea how to find proof that Malachy did this. If he did this.

Do I need proof? If it is him, he has to suspect my real reason for being here. So maybe I lie?

When I see him at the Dublin parade in a few days, I can let him know that I have proof. That I found something while I was poking around the castle, and trap him into admitting that it was him. I’ll try to record it so I can have his documented confession. And if it isn’t him, then he’ll think I’m odd and pushy, no harm done.

Which would mean, then, that it is Loch stealing from us.

I could skip all this elaborate scheming and confront Loch instead.

These thoughts are a Ferris wheel. I need to know who is stealing from us—I could ask Loch—I don’t want to know if it’s him—I want it to be Malachy—I can’t investigate Malachy from here—I could ask Loch—and around we go.

An ache thuds across my forehead, burrows deep into my temples.

In another act of selfishness, I mentally table all this and go in search of Colm.

About an hour later, I’m back in the library, now bent over a notebook I got from Colm, when Loch storms in.

“The fuck did ya think you were doing, leaving without a word like that?” he shouts.

I don’t look up from where I’m seated on the floor at a coffee table, head in one hand. My other fingers are fully cramped around a pen. I’ve been writing pretty much nonstop, stream of consciousness bullshit, the same type of stuff I’d typed on my phone while walking back from the festival.

I wrote about how mad I am for the way I’ve conformed to limitations I put on myself.

I wrote about how hurt I am for what my mother has done to me.

I wrote about what it would feel like to be alone, to be truly left.

I wrote, and I’m rusty. Most of it sucks.

But I’m writing again.

I cross out a word. “I asked Colm to let Siobhán know.”

“That was forty minutes after I realized you were gone, Kris. I nearly tore apart the festival searching for you.”

“Why were you searching for me?”

“I—” He stops. Stammers over his rampage, and it makes me look up at him.

Seeing him is the final nail in my I’m confused bullshit.

I’m not confused.

I’m a mess, and I’ve got shit to work out, but about him? I’m sure.

His anger, though, is confusing, infuriatingly so. He walked away. He was the one to put a stop to this, so he has no right, no fucking right, to reprimand me.

But I stay calm and refocus on my notebook. The words blur, so I pretend to write something. “I can’t imagine what else you needed me for. The paparazzi got what they wanted, didn’t they? My role was fulfilled.”

“Your role ?”

I shut the notebook and climb to my feet. “Yeah. My role. You don’t get to—”

Siobhán rushes in. “See! I told ya he’d be in here. Kris?” She clocks my posture, Loch’s, the tang of our fight on the air.

God, we do fight all the time, don’t we? No wonder it was so obvious to Coal.

“I’m sorry I worried you,” I say. To his sister.

Siobhán frowns. “You two are being fucking weird.”

“Here.” I scrawl my number on a sheet of notebook paper, rip it off, cross around Loch, and slap it into Siobhán’s hand. “In case I wander off again.”

“Kris.” Loch snaps my name like a dressing-down.

“I’m tired.” I flip absently through the notebook. “I’ll be in my room. Still haven’t recovered from yesterday.”

My eyes go to his.

I don’t want him to see how much each of his rejections has hurt. I don’t want him to think I’ve been holed up here entirely because of him. I’m not sure what he sees though, what I’m showing him.

I’m headed for the door when my gaze catches on something.

“Ah.” I tuck the notebook under my arm and swipe up the stack of books from a side table.

Loch grunts as I slam them into his chest.

“Pulled these out of your vast collection,” I say. “I was happy to find that your library wasn’t all dry-ass classics. You said you can’t give me what I need, but maybe I can give you what you need. Some actual joy. ”

They’re books I loved when I was younger. Books I read when I was at the peak of my writing obsession, when I was so certain all these happy endings could be mine if I… if I was more. And yeah, this is what started me off on my fucked-up belief system, but at the time, I was so innocent in my joy, and that’s what I miss more than anything. To be happy and not analyze why.

Loch fumbles the books in his hands, eyes fastened on me, not a shred of anger left now.

“Kris,” he tries. “I—”

But I leave, and get two feet out of the library when Siobhán yells something at him in Irish.

I don’t bother using magic to translate. I get up to my room and drop into the desk and keep writing.

And it turns into writing about him.

The same vein as the shit I used to wax on about over Iris. Only it’s more pointed, and the places where I’d get stuck over her, they flow now—like the framework was in place, but it’d refused to congeal because it was waiting for that final piece. For him.

For that stubborn prick.

I should send it to the reporters. An exposé on Lochlann Patrick from the inside, who he really is. I’d have to tone it down rather significantly; this is opulent, flowery writing, words I haven’t gotten to use in years because there’s no room for them in academic papers or political documents for Christmas. Words like diaphanous and graze and ephemeral and ravage and even sloppy, because there is poetry in mess, too.

I write, and write, sculpting reality into something imperfect and beautiful.

I don’t come out of my fugue state for a long, long time, breaking back to the surface with a gasp. My back screams from being bent over, stomach roiling with hunger and eyes going slightly crossed. They burn when I grab for my phone to check the time.

After midnight.

A smile rises.

In spite of the pain, I feel good.

There are missed texts from Coal and Iris about tomorrow’s details for Belfast. They’re planning off of Wren’s original schedule, so I give a thumbs-up at the where and when we’re meeting, then scan the rest of my notifications.

There’s a text from a number I don’t recognize.

UNKNOWN

You didn’t tell me those books you gave me were so fucking sad

I launch to my feet, good feeling evaporating.

That asshole.

This number was for your sister. For emergencies.

UNKNOWN

This is an emergency. Look outside your door.

Frowning, I open the door to see a dinner tray on the hall’s carpet. My stomach rumbles at the smell of braised meat and potatoes.

Next to it, in a neat stack, are four leather notebooks under an unopened package of cushion-grip pens.

Heat burns up my face.

Fuck him.

I juggle the tray and writing supplies, nudge the door shut with my hip, and set everything next to the notebook Colm gave me.

Then I stare at my phone for a few seconds, aggressively beating my fingers on the desk.

He can text me, fine. He can leave me food and… unnecessarily thoughtful gifts.

But he doesn’t get to choose how I save his number in my phone.

THE ACTUAL DEVIL

I’m not even hungry.

THE ACTUAL DEVIL

Yeah you are, boyo.

What did you mean the books were sad? Which one did you start with?

I know before he even has to say it.

Most of the books I found were ones that spurred my happy ever after bullshit. A collection of fairy tales, a few longer novels.

But there was one.

One book I found in his library’s shelves, and I included it in that stack, buried it down at the bottom, because while it broke me as a kid, that break is a part of my foundation.

THE ACTUAL DEVIL

Bridge to Terabithia.

If I had any doubt about his magic being based in luck, good or bad, I don’t anymore.

Mom started reading that book to me before she left. Part of my childish beliefs once she was gone involved she has to come back, she didn’t finish the book.

Once it was clear she wasn’t coming back, I went ahead and read it myself.

Two kids create a fantasy world in the forest behind their houses. Two kids, full of hope and imagination, driven by wonder and freedom and belief.

One of them dies.

And yeah, sure, there’s a lot of deep literary discussions that came from this book, but as a young kid whose mom had left in the middle of reading a book I hadn’t known would end tragically, it was a one-two punch of grief.

My eyes sting again. I’ve been staring at the notebook too long, that’s all.

THE ACTUAL DEVIL

I started to suspect how it would end, so I skipped ahead and I cannot believe you would give someone that book without warning them.

First of all, YOU SKIPPED AHEAD? Sacrilege. Sentence: a painful, public flogging.

Second, how did you suspect the ending?

THE ACTUAL DEVIL

The book had a vibe about it. I dunno.

A vibe? You guessed that Leslie dies based on a vibe?

Where the fuck were you when I was seven, your vibe could’ve saved me a lot of heartache.

THE ACTUAL DEVIL

You read this when you were seven?? Christ, that explains a lot.

You have no idea.

And stop texting me. We’re staying away from each other, remember? I wasn’t starting a book club with you.

THE ACTUAL DEVIL

You should be so lucky to have me in your book club.

Eat your dinner, maggot, I’ve got reading to do.

It’s a clear sign-off, but I stare at his text far longer than I should, my heart in a suspended state of racing.

All the words I wrote today roll around and around in my head.

It’s easier to write. Always is.

So I send one last text.

You were right earlier. I am a mess. But you said you are too. It wouldn’t be easy, and I don’t think you want easy. Neither do I.