The Winter Riddle Read online

  “I need a favor,” Volgha said. “You asked ‘to what do I owe the pleasure,’ and that’s the answer. I’ve come to collect my favor.”

  Smiling, Santa nodded. “Happy to be free of my debt. What will it be?”

  “I’m planning to cast a very important spell,” Volgha explained, “and one of the components is out of my reach. You will help me procure it.”

  “And what is it that you need?”

  “Pearls,” said Volgha. “A dozen of them.”

  Santa stroked his beard. “That’s a tall order. I don’t have any, and that’s not something that the elves can hammer out in the shop.”

  “I know,” said Volgha. “Fortunately, I know where we can find some … but you have to swear never to breathe a word of what I’m about to tell you to anyone.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “Good.” Volgha loved keeping secrets, and telling them meant they weren’t hers anymore. They were no longer secrets, for that matter. They were just little-known facts. Those were all right, but not as good as secrets.

  I already know it, if that makes it easier to say.

  “My sister has some pearls,” said Volgha, ignoring Osgrey.

  “Oh …” Santa paused. “Sorry, but that’s not much of a secret.”

  “There’s more,” she said, still working out how best to say it.

  When in doubt, blurt it out!

  “My sister is the White Queen.”

  Respect for your elders, that’s new.

  Volgha momentarily cleared her mind of everything except a particularly ominous peal of thunder. She hoped Osgrey was capable of gleaning a warning from the subtext.

  “No kidding?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “So that makes you …”

  “The Winter Witch.”

  “To be sure,” said Santa, “but if the queen is your sister, that makes you … what, a princess?”

  “By birth,” Volgha replied with a sigh, “but I’ve renounced it.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because I like being left alone,” Volgha snapped.

  Well said, Osgrey concurred. That’s good hermitry there.

  Santa nodded, apparently understanding that further inquiry would be fruitless. Introverts are particularly adept at shutting down subsequent “whys.” They’re most likely to answer with, “I knew that talking to you was a bad idea,” but only using swear words to say it.

  “And Her Majesty won’t give them to you?” asked Santa.

  “She’ll ask a thousand questions, and she’ll want a thousand things in return. She’s an intolerable debutante. It would be far easier to steal them.”

  “Easier to steal treasure from a queen than to have a conversation,” said Santa. “We live in interesting times.”

  “Indeed we do. Are you up for it?”

  “I owe a witch a favor. Does it matter if I’m ready?”

  “No, I was just being polite. Can you dress like a noble?”

  10

  “Tell me everything,” said the White Queen. Her face was inches from Volgha’s, her manic expression so taught that Volgha could hear the blood pumping through the giant vein in her forehead.

  “Very old money,” said Volgha.

  One of the things that their parents had tried to instill in them was an appreciation for the age of a person’s wealth. New money was vulgar. The faces stamped on it belonged to people who were still alive in some cases! Who could say whether those people would even be remembered in a hundred years? The White Queen would sooner die than spend unfashionable money.

  Of course, Her Majesty’s treasury was actively coining money with her face on it, but that was different. That was for the common people to spend. Her money was old, and every face on it belonged to someone who was both renowned for something and long since dead.

  “Fabulous,” the queen exclaimed. “And how did you meet him?”

  “Er, in the Innisdown market. He was trying to buy—”

  “The whole market?” The queen was fanning herself, despite the chill in the room.

  “Um … yes. Why not?”

  “He sounds like quite the entrepreneur!”

  “That much is true,” said Volgha, glad to finally inject a bit of truth into the story. The best lies were always rooted in the truth, and this was the only bit of the story thus far that had so much as touched the ground.

  “And he’s coming here?”

  “Well, he was talking about his collection of money piles, so naturally I started going on and on about how big and old your money piles are, and he said that you sounded like a very beautiful and intelligent person that he simply had to meet.”

  She really is your parents’ child, remarked Osgrey. I often wondered how you managed to escape the madness.

  “Splendid!” The queen’s fingers were drumming against each other just below her chin. That move meant that a scheme was imminent.

  “Chamberlain!”

  “Yes, Your Majesty?” He’d been standing just behind her, as usual.

  “Plan a reception for this Baron Klaus of North Uptonshire.”

  “North Uptonshire, Your Majesty?” Chamberlain’s eyebrow was raised. “Are we familiar with such a place?”

  The Queen’s face tightened into a rare moment of thoughtfulness. Her eyes went all squinty and started moving toward the ceiling. It was obvious that the exertion didn’t agree with her.

  “It’s southern,” Volgha blurted. Both the queen and Chamberlain turned slowly to look at her, noses wrinkled in distaste. “But still far enough to the north to be credible,” she said, wishing that she’d come up with a different sort of lie.

  “How far north?” inquired Chamberlain.

  “Well, they don’t wear short pants or anything,” said Volgha. “And we all know that people too far south don’t respect old money enough to maintain piles of it.”

  “That’s true,” said the queen. “And borders shift all the time, don’t they? Just because North Uptonshire isn’t an Aurorian province today, doesn’t mean it can’t be one tomorrow?”

  “Very true.” Volgha was relieved that she’d managed to move the conversation back on track.

  “Well, that’s settled then,” said the Queen. “We’ll have a reception for the Baron of North Uptonshire as befits his piles!”

  “At once, Your Majesty. And how much fanfare and pomp will the baron require?”

  “Trumpets,” answered the White Queen. “But no doves.”

  “Very good, Your Majesty. The usual amount.”

  “Maybe just a few doves,” Volgha suggested. Distracting her sister with trivial details would keep her from thinking about important things that might foil her plan.

  The queen appeared to think about it for a moment. “Yes, of course. Old money expects doves, doesn’t it? But we still want to seem aloof.”

  “Your Majesty’s most standoffish doves, then.” Lord Chamberlain’s face was unreadable.

  Did he just make a joke? Osgrey seemed surprised. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him joke before.

  “Marvelous!” exclaimed the queen, who stood abruptly and started walking from the room. Lord Chamberlain hurried to follow her because that was his job. Volgha did as well because her sister might throw a tantrum otherwise.

  “When will he arrive?” The queen stopped briefly in her brisk walk down the hall to sneer at a vase on a pillar. She pushed it over and smiled as it shattered before continuing on.

  “He’s already on his way,” answered Volgha. “I don’t believe he’ll make it for supper, so he’ll rest at the inn’s most posh suite before he comes to the castle.”

  “A brunch reception then, Your Majesty?”

  “Obviously.” The queen rolled her eyes. Then, apparently having had a thought, she spun around to face them with a wide-eyed smile.

  “Where is Loki?” she practically screamed. “Is he here?”

  “I’m afraid not, Your Majesty,” said Lord Chamb
erlain. “He’s not been seen since we dropped him in Innisdown, following his second sip of the potion.”

  “Aww,” muttered the queen, sulking and kicking a puppy that wasn’t there.

  “But we can have jugglers.” Chamberlain drew the last word out in a sing-song way.

  “Flaming jugglers!” The queen’s face was instantly manic again.

  “Very good,” said Chamberlain.

  She means jugglers with flaming pins, doesn’t she?

  “Who knows?” said Volgha.

  “I do!” said the queen. “Come, Volgha, we’ll need to sort out our gowns and hairstyles for the brunch!”

  Volgha had seen this coming but had to suppress the urge to retch nonetheless. She hated playing dress-up with Alexia, partially due to the general silliness of the exercise, but mostly due to the tantrums that would inevitably erupt when her sister thought that Volgha looked better in a dress than she did, failed to compliment her accessories frequently enough, or dared to wear a different shoe size.

  Just think about the pearls, she thought.

  That’s the spirit, said Osgrey.

  The jugglers were not on fire, to Osgrey’s relief, and to the relief of the jugglers as well, no doubt. Chamberlain assured Her Majesty that they would juggle some flaming things later, after the baron had arrived. Her Majesty seemed placated and proceeded to spend all of her time fussing with Volgha’s gown.

  “I look ridiculous,” Volgha murmured.

  I wish I could argue, said Osgrey. Volgha could hear him smiling.

  “Oh, shut up.”

  Following the tantrum that largely consumed the entire wardrobe planning fiasco, Her Majesty had settled on a flamboyant white-and-gold gown for herself, and a ridiculous green-and-pink one for Volgha. It was Volgha’s fault for looking too good in everything, of course. This was simply the equalizing solution. While Her Majesty’s coiffure created a truly regal plinth for her crown, Volgha’s head looked like a tousled family of weasels who’d been cursed with ringlets.

  She’d considered astral projection, thinking that literally escaping her body would be a suitable coping mechanism for this particular brand of humiliation; however, being in her body was the one vantage from which she couldn’t see herself. Plus, Osgrey had insisted that she not leave him alone in there.

  The standard courtiers and sycophants were all in attendance, most notably the Viscount of North Downyhedge, who’d had so much to drink just standing in line to enter the castle that he’d fallen asleep, and was pressed into service as Her Majesty’s footstool.

  The court musicians had yet to make it through an entire song without Her Majesty commanding them to stop and play something else. Just as she was in the middle of ordering them to play, “The one that goes dum-dee-dum-DEE-dum-dum,” the really long trumpets in the gallery went up to toot the arrival of their special guest.

  The enormous doors at the end of the hall opened and in strode Santa, wearing an outfit that overshadowed Volgha’s for insanity.

  Before she’d left Santa’s Village to come to the castle, she’d had a long discussion with Krespo about what all of the most fashionable hangers-on at court were wearing, so that he could stitch up something for Santa. Osgrey had tried to point out that Volgha didn’t pay attention to fashion, but was dismissed as lacking authority on the subject himself. She could see now that he may have been onto something.

  It was a bright red suit with extremely tight breeches and a coat with long tails. It was trimmed in white fur. That much might have passed for respectable, but Volgha cringed when she realized that she’d provided too much detail, especially pertaining to what the ladies of the court were wearing. As a result, it had great poofs at the shoulders, a tightly-laced corset, insatiable high heels, and a matching handbag. The cumulative effect certainly turned heads, whatever else could be said about it.

  Whether Santa was wearing too much rouge or was simply mortified was impossible to tell.

  “Baron Klaus,” announced Lord Chamberlain, “of North Uptonshire.”

  The musicians took up the prearranged fanfare. The lackadaisical doves were released and promptly flew to the nearest places to perch and look bored. Santa walked slowly, awkwardly down the long, red carpet while trying to ignore how closely he matched it. He was followed by Krespo, who was dressed in an equally ghastly green velvet waistcoat and matching skirt. Krespo had less trouble walking in the heels.

  The courtiers gawked in silence. They’ll certainly have plenty to say to one another later, Volgha thought, though they were undoubtedly waiting—with baited breath—to see how Her Majesty would react before displaying any opinion of their own.

  Volgha didn’t move. In addition to the shock of Santa’s ridiculous appearance, she was frozen with fear at the possibility that the jig was up. The whole caper was on the verge of going horribly, horribly wrong, and she was going to have to run to the belfry in a dress that was wider than she was tall.

  Does he really look more ridiculous than everyone else here? asked Osgrey. I’ve never understood fashion.

  Santa stopped in front of the high table and wobbled on his heels. The fate of their entire venture teetered on that scrumptious come-hither footwear. Fortunately, Santa remained afoot.

  “Your Majesty,” said Santa, who then removed his wide-brimmed hat, crouch low with one toe pointed forward, and delivered the most furiously formal bow that Volgha had ever seen.

  That was saying something. She’d been a princess once.

  It was magnificent, the sort of maneuver that doctors advised against performing without a significant amount of stretching beforehand. Volgha looked to her sister, who appeared to be just as impressed as she was. It was helpful that the queen lacked the capacity to hide her emotions, the will to do so, or both.

  “Baron Klaus,” said the queen, “won’t you come and sit between my sister and me?”

  Santa nodded. Volgha muttered a swear word under her breath and moved over a seat. She’d hoped to keep herself between them, the better to maintain the ruse. She didn’t know if Santa was as good an actor as he was a bad neighbor.

  Making his way up onto the dais was a challenge. Santa’s ensemble included a cane of polished ebony, to which he clung for dear life. His eyes burned with hatred for the bizarre and unnatural footwear.

  Those shoes have to be a cruel joke, said Osgrey, obviously invented by someone who’d never personally had to wear them.

  Volgha hated high heels as well, and actually found them easier to walk in after a few glasses of wine. Or at least she minded falling down less.

  He finally found his seat, though Krespo was left standing by without one. He caught Volgha’s eyes with a panicked glance, and she jerked her head toward a line of valets standing behind the high table. He scurried with remarkable speed, given the height of his heels.

  “It’s such a … unique pleasure to meet you,” said the queen, her eyes constantly scanning his ensemble. “And how do you find our castle?”

  “Easily,” replied Santa. “It’s enormous.”

  The queen laughed, and then Volgha, and then everyone sitting next to them, and so on in concentric rings until the laughter reached the dregs of the aristocracy at the tables near the walls.

  “You make quite an entrance,” the queen remarked. “This season, everyone here is doing the Turning Goose or the Capitulating Yeti. What do you call that move with the toe?”

  “Oh that,” said Santa. “Very new, that bow. It’s called the … Plausible … Hello?”

  “Interesting,” said the queen. “And that’s popular in North Uptonshire, which is where, exactly?”

  “South of here,” said Santa.

  “Yes,” said the queen, still staring at Santa’s outfit with a mixture of confusion and curiosity.

  “But not too far south,” added Volgha.

  “Of course not,” Santa hastened to reply. “Not so far south that the day falls out of step with the year.” His sneer at the thought was rather convin
cing.

  “Of course,” said the queen. “Now tell me about your ensemble.”

  “He designed it himself,” said Volgha. “He told me that he designs all of his own clothing.”

  The queen’s eyes widened. “Really?”

  Santa gave a one-shouldered shrug, which looked very awkward given the poofs on his shirt. “Why not? That sounds like something I’d do. Er, when I’m not counting my money, of course.”

  The queen laughed again, sending another concentric wave toward the walls.

  Nice touch, said Osgrey.

  “How unique!” said the queen. “A noble who designs his own clothes! Tell me, is that typical in North Uptonshire?”

  “Oh yes,” said Santa. “Obviously, we have a different sort of fashion there. It’s almost as if someone who had no idea what they were talking about tried to explain royal fashion to us, and we got it embarrassingly wrong!”

  The room erupted again into concentric laughter. Volgha glared at the back of Santa’s head.

  I told you so, said Osgrey.

  “Like you know any better,” hissed Volgha.

  I know what I don’t know, Osgrey replied. At least I’m tree enough to admit it.

  Dozens of white-gloved waiters descended on the room, filling the tables with silver-domed trays that brimmed with fragrant meats, adorned with oddly-arranged vegetables that were obviously not for eating. Their food was locked in a battle with modern art.

  Half of the assembled nobility left the food alone entirely, either due to fad diets or utter confusion regarding whether they were meant to eat it or simply discuss it with the gallery owner over a glass of chardonnay. Santa, on the other hand, had knocked the strange vegetables aside without hesitation and was waving at a wine bearer while he chewed a hunk of beef.

  The queen’s face was slowly growing more manic as she watched Santa break with nearly every fashionable custom of the court, shifting the bulk of his utensils away from his plate in favor of the dinner fork and steak knife.

  “Sensational,” growled the queen, who then grabbed her silverware by the handful and threw it onto the floor. In a fierce display of one-upmanship, she grabbed the steak from her plate with both hands and started gnawing on it.