Page 37 of Jingle Spells

“You got it in one, Professor.” He brought the oregano over to the counter and began portioning it out, wrapping each bit in damp paper towels. “I could have left with him. We did talk about it. Sometimes I still wonder what would have happened to me in the outside world. Hell, I watch Top Chef and know I could run circles around those nudnicks. But the Melroses are the only family I’ve got left. And this place . . . it’s home. The only home I know. Plus I’ve got the pub to look after now, and my people, too.” His eyes met Jasper’s. “I have my people to look after.”

Oh. I see. Suddenly Jasper understood this speech wasn’t about Zahir’s past, not really.

“So the thing is, yes, relationships with outsiders do work out from time to time. Like this couple in town: Dayo and Aphra? Me and Dayo run a pub downtown—I do all the food, and Dayo does pretty much everything else. Dayo is not a witch. But Aphra is. The two of them met at Burning Man a few years back, fell in love, and Dayo gave up everything to come live here. But that’s the exception.”

“You’re saying it does happen, though. Relationships between Oak Haven witches and outsiders do work out sometimes?”

“I mean, yeah, I guess Aphra and Dayo are evidence that it does work out. But, again, that’s the kind of crazy shit that happens at Burning Man. That’s not normal. It’s not what usually happens.”

“Well, what would you reckon . . .” Jasper asked hopefully. “Maybe one time out of a hundred?”

“Try one out of a million.”

“So you’re telling me there’s a chance.”

Zahir sighed. “Look, I like you, man. You’re a good guy—I can tell. But Delilah? She’s basically my sister.” He went to the fridge to fetch another container, this one filled with perfectly julienned parsnips and turnips. “And she’s been through enough without some county clerk striding into her life, making her care, and then just . . .” He mimicked something disappearing into thin air.

“But I’d never want to do that!”

“I know. Nobody wants to. But here’s the thing about Oak Haven: sooner or later, everybody has to choose. And I’ve watched enough people choose the outside world to know how that ends.”

Jasper thought about his carefully arranged office in the basement at the county clerk’s office. About his perfectly organized sweaters and his calendar of dental appointments stretching years into the future. About his parents in Hartford, his sister and her family in Providence . . . about how his entire life was out there, waiting for him to come home.

“I wouldn’t hurt Delilah.” But it sounded lame even to his own ears.

And Zahir could certainly recognize a weak sauce when he heard it. “You might, though. And if this goes too far? You definitely will. And then . . .” He sighed dramatically. “And then Nate and I will have to bury you in the woods, which is just such a hassle, you know? The shoveling, the alibis, the argument about whether we should’ve sprung for a better-quality tarp . . .” Then he smiled, slightly scarily.

Jasper thought, oof.

“I’m totally kidding, of course. Just a joke. Anyway, enough about that! We better get back to work. If we don’t get these mushrooms taken care of, Kelly’s going to try peeling them herself, and I am not explaining another missing finger to the paramedics.”

At last, the men had completed every bit of prep Zahir could conceive of, and it was time to go. On their way out, the newly transformed dining room stopped Jasper in his tracks. “What the—” He gaped at the sheer impossibility before his very eyes. “This was a completely different room when I walked in here.”

Where there had once been a typical bed-and-breakfast dining room, with heavy oak tables, colonial-style chairs, and walls adorned with New England memorabilia, there now stood a grand banquet hall that would make the Windsors blush. The ceiling soared some thirty feet overhead, supported by marble columns wrapped in evergreen garlands and twinkling lights. Crystal chandeliers bigger than bicycles dangled like frozen fireworks, each dripping with red and gold ornaments. Massive tables of polished mahogany stretched the length of the hall, enough to seat hundreds, each place set with gold-trimmed china and more silverware than Jasper knew how to use. At the far end of the hall was a small stage, dominated by an enormous glittering Christmas tree.

“But . . . this room is at least five times larger than the original,” Jasper said. He took a cautious step forward onto what certainly looked like genuine Italian marble flooring. “The structure of the building shouldn’t . . . I mean, how is this even physically possible?”

“Not a sci-fi guy, huh? Unfamiliar with rooms that are bigger on the inside?”

“Trust me, if I found myself standing in the TARDIS, I’d be just as baffled as I am right now.”

“Kelly is one of the most powerful witches in town,” Zahir said with a shrug. “Frankly the chandeliers are a little much, in my opinion, but . . .”

“Well . . .” Jasper ran his hand along one of the marble columns. “It’s one hell of a trick.”

Zahir’s eyes widened in horror. He glanced around quickly as if expecting lightning to strike. “Don’t ever, ever call it a ‘magic trick’ in front of the witches,” he whispered urgently. “Not if you value your current physical form. Magic tricks are what those buffoons at the casino do. You call this a spell.”

“But I thought the witches gave up their powers for Saturnalia?”

“They do, as of midnight. This—” Zahir gestured to the grandeur all around “—is Kelly’s grand finale before surrendering her magic. Speaking of which, we need to get moving if we’re going to see the ritual.”

Jasper nodded, though part of him still believed this banquet hall must be an elaborate hallucination. But then again, nothing about his current situation made any sense whatsoever. Why should the dining room be different?

The path to the grove wound upward through winter-bare fields, strips of old snow hiding in the shadows of the stone walls. As Jasper and Zahir climbed, their shoes already regretting the muddy ground, the excited chatter of the crowd ahead gradually softened to something more reverent. The air felt different here—sharper, more alert, as though the atmosphere itself understood the significance of what was about to take place.

The oak grove emerged from the twilight like a cathedral built by nature itself. Ancient branches reached toward the darkening sky, their bare limbs black against deep purple. These trees had sheltered Oak Haven’s first refugees, had witnessed countless rituals, had grown strong on centuries of magical energy. Even Jasper, who couldn’t sense magic directly, felt something profound. For him it was like standing in the Sistine Chapel, or holding a document signed by Thomas Jefferson. It was history, but alive. Breathing.

The crowd moved with quiet purpose now; their footsteps hushed against the frozen ground. Here and there, witches reached out to brush their fingers against the rough bark of the oaks as they passed, like parishioners dipping their hands in holy water.