Coal waves at Wren. “That’s the only format in which I will accept an official Santa portrait. Make a note of it.” Wren blinks slowly at him. And does not make a note of it.
You get to St. Patrick’s Day. Lochlann—Loch—greets you. Pictures in the foyer. You apologize—which, loved that video of the apology, by the way; I do not remember that many adjectives in your draft—then…”