Page 12 of Jingle Spells

“Records are just paper.” Eleven’s eyes twinkled. “Paper burns. Paper gets lost. Paper forgets.”

“Never! Paper absolutely never⁠—”

“And people forget,” interrupted Twelve. “Every outsider who visits Oak Haven? Ziiiip! They go all smooth-brained, the minute they leave town.”

“Which is why,” Nine continued, “we take in the folks who need forgetting. Oak Haven takes refugees, runaways . . . even retired pirates.”

“I’m sorry . . .” Jasper picked up the mug and drained it. His professional composure was hanging by a thread. “Pirates?”

“Oh sure!” Nine gestured at his boys. “Me and the boys here are all descended from the Great Sea Wolf, Earl of Anglia, Terror of Tortuga. Reformed himself, married a witch, opened this very hardware store. We’ve been helping folks start fresh ever since.”

“Let me get this straight. Oak Haven is a magical sanctuary town, protected by spells, founded by Salem witches trying to make up for abandoning their innocent neighbors?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“So tell us . . .” Twelve leaned forward like he was ready to start a conspiracy of two. “What are you running from, Jasper?”

“Nothing.” He frowned. “Unless you consider me a refugee from an office Christmas party. But I still don’t understand. If secrecy is so important to you all, why are you just . . . telling me all this? You do understand that I’m a representative of the county government, right? Aren’t I the last person you’d want to be so candid with?”

The Earls burst out laughing. Nine actually slapped his knee. “Oh, that’s a good one!”

“What’s so funny?”

“Well—” Eleven wiped a tear from his eye “—seems a bit late to worry about government oversight. Considering this is your sixth visit in as many weeks.”

The empty mug slipped from Jasper’s suddenly numb fingers. “My what?!”

Chapter 5

Happy Christmas (War Is Coming)

Delilah stepped out onto the inn’s front porch, and immediately part of her wished she hadn’t. The winter air was crisp and clean, the snow pristine and untouched, and every single goddamned thing was decorated for the holidays. She felt as though she were under the sway of some powerful Christmas bully, smashing her face into every bit of tinsel on Earth.

But despite her best efforts to maintain a proper Grinchian attitude, the simple beauty of her home still managed to take her breath away. It seemed like just yesterday she’d been in Perth, watching Aboriginal witches paint the sunset with their fingertips. Mere months ago, she’d wandered through an enchanted Bangkok market, where the merchandise floated from stall to stall without any visible means of support. She’d seen the Northern Lights dance a waltz over Iceland, watched Romanian witches race their enchanted Dacia sportscars through the mountains, and attended a rave in Sao Paolo where the DJ was a particularly musical ghost.

But none of those wonders had prepared her for the simple magic of coming home.

Even when excessively Christmas-ed, the Stargazer Inn radiated a kind of power that no amount of globetrotting could replicate. The kind of power that came from generations of witches living and loving and arguing and reconciling under one roof. The kind of power that made you feel like you belonged here, even when you were dead set on not belonging anywhere at all.

The inn sat about a mile from downtown, where properties spread out into gracious lawns and prehistoric trees. The old stone wall that lined both sides of the road dated back to the turn of the eighteenth century, when the first witches had arrived. Delilah had seen a lot of impressive stonework in her travels—the Great Wall of China, Angkor Wat, those mysterious ruins in the Belize River Valley that the local witches refused to explain—but there was something about these humble New England walls that caught Delilah’s heart. Maybe it was knowing that her ancestors had placed each stone, powered by nothing but pure determination to make a home.

The windows of neighboring houses glowed with the warm light of carefully placed candles. Garlands of evergreen draped elegantly along rooflines, and tasteful wreaths adorned every door. The kind of restrained holiday decorating that spoke of old money and good taste and⁠—

Oh, who was she kidding.

The Chatterjees had transformed their formal boxwood garden into the Island of Misfit Toys, with their gnomes dressed as Charlie-in-the-Box, the Doll for Sally, and the Bird that Swims. The Friedmans’ house, just down the way, was surrounded by a small army of inflatable dreidels that spun in perfect synchronization. Meanwhile the Adebayos had unleashed what could only be described as a fusion Christmas—their animatronic Santa wore traditional Nigerian formal attire, and his sleigh was pulled by a team of enchanted zebras who appeared deeply confused about the whole snow situation.

It was exactly the sort of cheerful holiday chaos Papa would have loved.

The thought stabbed through her like an icicle. Edward Melrose had been the one who brought Christmas to Oak Haven in the first place. Before him, the witches had focused solely on celebrating the winter solstice—none of this business with mangers and reindeer and jolly old elves. But Papa, raised in a typical human family in Bedford, Massachusetts, had refused to give up his beloved holiday traditions just because he’d married a pagan. Instead, he’d infected the entire town with his enthusiasm for the secular pleasures of the season. Under his influence, the entire town eventually gave itself over to the many nonreligious delights of the holiday: to fanciful decorated trees and elaborately wrapped presents, to wassailing and cookie making, to Bing Crosby and Jolly Old St Nick.

For Delilah, every single Christmas decoration was on some level a reminder of Papa. And every single one jabbed her in the heart just a little.

Worst of all, she was clearly the only one who felt this way.

The first Christmas after Papa’s death had been very grim indeed. Scarlett had run off to San Francisco by that point, so it was only Delilah, Luna, and Mama that year. And since they had the hotel to run, there had been no time for sleeping till four or drinking at noon or any of those so-called self-care measures that people go on about. They had no choice but to set their jaws and keep going.

The Melrose women had hated every minute of the holiday that year, and they’d done so together, as a team. They decorated only the most minimal amount possible. They’d steered well clear of the pageant and the snowman-building contest and all the rest. And holiday carolers would inspire nothing but irritated glances and rolled eyes. The only song they could tolerate that year was Otis Redding’s version of “White Christmas”; the natural anguish in his voice made it clear Otis had no expectation that his days would be merry or bright, and he certainly wouldn’t judge if your days weren’t, either.