Page 88 of Her Royal Christmas

“How do you know?” he argued. “You don’t remember last time.”

“You cried at the end,” she said. “You always cry when you go first.”

“I do not?—”

“Children,” Alex said mildly. “Don’t make me invoke Royal Authority.”

“Can you do that?” Florence asked, eyes wide.

“Yes,” Alex said solemnly. “But only when it comes to board games and bedtime.”

Erin leaned in, murmured, “And occasionally minority government crises.”

“Less fun,” Alex murmured back.

In the armchair, Mrs. MacLeod rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Just pick someone and stick a card on them. We’ll all be collecting a pension before we get through a single round at this rate.”

So they did.

Vic shuffled the little stack of cards with exaggerated flourish. “Right. Eyes closed, all of you.”

The children squeezed their eyes shut, some more convincingly than others. Erin watched them through half-shut lids, ready to intervene if anyone cheated too brazenly. Old habits.

Vic plucked a card, stepped behind Frank, and stuck it to his forehead with a bit of blu-tack. She repeated the process for Matilda, Florence, and Hyz, then paused.

“Do the grownups get to play?” Matilda asked.

“Absolutely,” Alex said.

Erin blinked. “Do we?”

“We’re terrible at saying no to you lot,” Alex replied.

“It’s your greatest weakness,” Hyz said kindly.

Vic gave Alex a card, then one to Erin, one to Julia, and finally, with theatrical reluctance, stuck one to her own forehead.

“We’re all ridiculous now,” she said. “Excellent.”

The game began.

Frank was a snowman.

He did not take this well.

“Am I a superhero?” he demanded, ten questions in.

“No,” chorused the circle.

“A dragon?”

“No.”

“A racing car driver?”

“Ask something that isn’t about explosions,” Matilda said, exasperated.

Florence, who was Father Christmas, took precisely three questions to guess herself.