I took some painkillers on the nightstand, then paced the room room for an hour, stopping occasionally to look outside the windows at the terrifying expanse of sea outside. It churned like a living thing and lapped against the ice with a sound I could hear even through the windows.

When the clock on the mantlepiece said four in the morning, I cracked the door and looked out onto a dimly lit wood-paneled hallway with crimson carpet. Lights in sconces paraded down the walls, all turned down to a dark golden glow.

Everything was quiet, and the hallway held the stillness of a sleeping house.

I slipped out and closed the door silently behind me. The words Dendrite Suite were engraved on a bronze plaque next to the door. Other plaques were next to all the other doors: Onding Suite, Skift Suite, Névé Suite, Crystalline Parlor, Floe Suite. I noted their names as I crept down the hall, listening for any sign of life.

The corridor came to a dead end, and a bronze plaque mounted on the wall politely pointed arrows in the directions of the Diamond Ballroom, Dining Hall, Observation Deck, and Lobby.

I turned left and kept following signs for the lobby.

It still felt like a hotel here, with suites and meeting rooms and sitting areas full of plush couches and coffee tables featuring holly and pinecone centerpieces. Still, I saw no one, and didn’t hear anything aside from the occasional ticking of a clock or whispering of a heater vent.

At one point, I passed a large door with the word Santa’s Workshop arching over it in glittering gold. I darted past it.

How had I gotten here? Of all the billions of people on the planet, how had I, Holly North, ended up as the single solitary one to get hit by a sleigh and abducted to the North Pole?

I could think of a dozen people off the top of my head who’d have appreciated the opportunity more. The only person I could think of who might appreciate it less was Alicia at work, and that was just because she was Jewish.

What did I know? Maybe Alicia would love it here.

A rack of pamphlets sat in a gleaming wooden rack next to a sitting area. One of them had the words Workshop Tour in big letters on the front. I slid it out and flipped it open.

I scanned it, noting colorful photos and a list of tour hours.

Who on earth came to tour the North Pole? As far as I knew, I was the only ordinary person on the planet who even knew it existed.

But there was a map.

I squinted at it in the dim light and figured out where I was, based on the position of the ballroom I’d just passed. This building was even bigger than I’d thought, and shaped like a snowflake, with six wings branching off a central hub that was marked, simply, Santa’s Workshop. My room was in the residential and convention wing, and my way out—yes, there it was, one wing over.

I sped through the hallways as quietly as I could. The silence persisted, as though the entirety of the North Pole was off dreaming of sugarplums while I crept around like the Grinch.

There was a lobby, but I ducked back down the hall as soon as I saw the front desk. Someone was sitting there, flipping through a magazine. She was probably the only other person in the building besides me who was still up. I couldn’t risk her seeing me.

Instead, I traced my steps backwards and crept up a different wing, which was marked as Facilities on the map. I didn’t know what Facilities meant, but it seemed a more likely candidate for a backdoor exit than any of the ballrooms or suites did.

The red carpeting and rich wooden doors were the same here, but everything had a slightly more worn look, and the plaques near the doors were silver instead of bronze. Near end of a long, silent, dimly lit hallway, I saw a large silver sign: Aeronautics & Transportation.

I raced quietly towards it. Santa’s sleigh might be broken, but there had to be another vehicle that could get me out of here.

My heart pounded in my chest as I reached for the doorknob. I slipped through the door and shut it behind me before letting out a deep breath.

The room was enormous and lit by bright bluish-white lights, more than half of which had been turned off for the night. I stood on a metal balcony, and stairs led down to a giant, gleaming room with cement floors and rows of metal shelves and industrial tables. In the center of everything, on a circular platform, stood the sleigh.

It probably would have been impressive on any other day. But Santa hadn’t been exaggerating: It had been through the wringer. The front was so badly dented that the navigation panel was in the shape of a V. Buttons on the silver panel were falling out of their holes or missing outright, and a large screen near the center of the panel had cracked entirely apart.

The side of the sleigh had been dented, too, and the sight made my stomach turn over. I recognized the red paint and polished wooden trim; I’d last seen them sliding toward me before everything had gone black.

There had to be another way out. This sleigh couldn’t possibly be the only vehicle capable of escaping the North Pole. What if there was an emergency? What if Santa ran out of hot cocoa or something?

I stepped quietly down the metal stairs. Maybe there were other vehicles somewhere off this main room. If there was a hangar or garage, it had to be close by.

My bottom foot landed on the cement floor, and someone cleared their throat from under the stairs. My heart stumbled over its next beat.

“I thought you were going to bed,” Santa said.