“You anything like Nurse Ratched here, girly?” I don’t get the chance to answer as Lady Adelaide grabs the remote from the arm of his chair and shuts the television off. “Behave, Pop.” “Or what?” he challenges, raising his bushy gray eyebrows behind his glasses. “Are you going to sell me off to whittle toys in the North Pole?” Lady Adelaide mirrors his eyebrow lift. Based on how she easily mimics his exact expression, she has to be his daughter. “The North Pole wouldn’t take you. I already checked with Santa. He said, ‘hell no.’ I’ll do worse: I’ll take away dessert.” Unfazed, he plucks the
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