In the castle where he grew up, two kings ruled. It was a brown stone fortress at the edge of Central Park; on rainy days their nanny would send his sister and him running up and down the back stairwell, to work off energy. That was their tower, the northeast corner of the big building. A famous musician lived on another floor, and sometimes in his tuxedo on his way to the Philharmonic he would use the back stairs, too, but they knew it was really their tower.

– You're not drunk, she said when she tasted his mouth. She seemed a little surprised. She must really like him.

He made an effort. -I'm sorry, he said. -I was just, you know, kind of wondering if, if you-

Her fingers were on his lips. -Shh. I know. I mean, I don't know, but I kind of do.

She let him fall on her, graceless and helpless. She was so warm, so alive.

He was allowed to think of them as kings. They were both golden, powerful men with strong wills and interesting work. When he was older, he'd made one joke about queens, and only one, and only once.

She wriggled around and took him in her mouth.

– Don't, he said. -Not now.

– Right. She came back up, and smooched his ear. -Full frontal?

He smiled in her hair. -Yeah.

And they were there right now, he thought, or tried not to think. There, in their castle, high above the Park, wondering when he was going to turn up to drink eggnog and light the fire and see the tree. If they were thinking of him at all. If they even had a tree this year.

He kept the last of his weight on his elbows, but he touched as much of her as he could, his front to hers, fitting her curves and pressing them down for the sense that there was something that could bear him, and she could.

They would ask his sister if she'd heard from him. They never pried, but when it came to something they both wanted, they didn't really care about privacy all that much. They didn't care that his phone was dead, or why.

"Kay doesn't let his battery run down."

"Not usually, no."

"Is he coming?"

He was. But not there.

– But we aren't Oy Vey Jews, she was explaining to him. He must have apologized for bothering her on Christmas Eve, and started her on her story: -My grandparents were, like, all Philharmonic subscription, Opera Guild, Metropolitan Museum members, and my mom went to Vassar… You know.

He knew. He hadn't cried, and that was good. He didn't, usually, but tonight he didn't trust himself. He smiled, and remembered to say, -So that's why you're home now? Waiting for stray lonely goyim to come in out of the rain?

She touched his hair. -It is my destiny. My spiritual practice, in return for killing your god. I feel I owe you something. Tomorrow I observe the ritual celebration of a movie and Chinese food, but for tonight… hot sex with a hunky blond. What about you? Your folks out of town?

He waited too long to say No, and she kept going: -Went to Aspen and forgot to book you a ticket? Gone to Vienna for the winter balls and left you to take care of the Shih Tzu?

– Nuh uh. He nuzzled her hair again. Her scalp smelt like herbs, and the ends of her hair a little like popcorn. He wasn't ready to leave, even though they were getting to the talky bit, and he should. Soon.

– It's OK, she went on; -I'm used to spending Christmas Eve with people who are depressed about their families. It's kind of a specialty. In college I had all these divorced friends -I mean, their parents were-and they were all upset, you know, spending Christmas Eve with one parent, and the Day with the other… so I'd make them come over and we'd do stupid kid stuff like painting on clown faces-you don't hate clowns, do you? Some people are really weirded out by them.

– My sister hates clowns. But I don't care. What else did you do?

– Well, we made french fries from scratch. She scrunched up her face. -Boring, huh?

– Not really. Not if the point is to get someone to feel happy and normal. Food is good that way. My dad is, like, the king of comfort food. If you like whole steamed sea bass.

– Is your dad, um, Asian?

(And a second husband? Because he himself was blond? She was so obvious.)

– Naw, he's just a foodie. When he's jetlagged, he used to go to the Fulton Fish Market to get the first catch, back when it came in there at dawn. Makes his own duck confit. You know, like that. My other dad-

– Stepfather?

– No. Two dads, no mother.

– Oh, Peter! she chortled, and rather sharply he said, -What?

– Sorry. She ran a fingertip down his arm in apology. -Peter Pan. "Haven't got a mother."

– Lost boys, he said. -That's us, all right.

– Except for your sister.

She lay waiting to listen, but he could feel her quivering with another quote.

– Spit it out, he said, and she chortled, -"Girls are far too clever to fall out of their prams."

He pinned her deliciously down. -Better stop reminding me of my sister, or things could get weird.

– How weird? she purred.

He pulled back slightly and she gasped, -God, I'm an idiot. You're not there for a reason, and I-I'm sorry, I'm just an idiot. She bunched her fingers in his curls -Sorry- and kissed him.

He had kissed his sister exactly once. They were both fifteen, and both a little drunk, and she said, OK, let's just get it over with, so they puckered up, but at the first sign of moist inner membrane they broke apart, going Eew! like six-year-olds, and Eloise said, OK, so now can we stop worrying?

And he said something blindingly original like, Yeah, I guess.

He'd still been a little scared, then, that he'd like his sister the way her dad liked his dad. It was a huge relief, so huge they never spoke of it again. He was sure his sister was back home with them tonight. Eloise got along with both of them so well. Her own dad didn't scare her, even now.

This kiss was enthralling, deep and thoughtful. He always liked the kisses that happened after, building their way back to urgency, but not there yet, not urgent, just deep. He liked the way she assumed there would be an after, too. She wouldn't kick him out before he was ready to go.

– So it's just us, she murmured into his cheek. -Just you and me, and a city full of people full of their own crazy business out there, who don't know we're even here.

– With no idea what we're up to.

– Not a clue.

Was he talking too much? She seemed to want it, but did he?

Mouths licked and pinched and sucked between words. Words dropped in between their busy lips and teeth. She said, That's nice… and he occupied her mouth with his to keep words out, to keep words in.

– Not thinking of your sister now, huh? she asked him, and he moaned, No- and so, of course, then he was.

His sister said he couldn't possibly remember the first time; they were too young. But that was her, not him. He was five whole months older. He remembered, really well.

They were in the living room high above the city, with all the glittering lights, the fire in the fireplace, the huge tree, the spread of cakes and fruit and decorated Christmas cookies-some the gifts of clients, the best ones baked by his dad-the spiced wine they each got a sip of… he could have been remembering any year, sure. The tree never seemed to get less huge, no matter how much he grew. Maybe their dads kept buying bigger ones. He wouldn't put it past them to think of that.

But he remembered seeing the book for the very first time that night. Eloise was on her own father's lap on the sofa, he was sitting on the floor next to them, and Linton reached one arm out around his little girl to show Kay the pictures. The book was little, with pale blue cloth and animals stamped on the front in gold, and the smell of the old paper rose up even through the pine and spices.