Page 65 of Jingle Spells

“Well, shit.” Eps looked worried for the first time. “That’s significantly more important than my Tom and Jerry situation.”

Something in the clone’s concerned look (an expression so familiar from the real Zahir) made Delilah’s eyes sting. “We’ve searched the entire inn. No sign of her.”

“And you came up here because . . . ?”

“Process of elimination.” Jasper’s hand found Delilah’s almost unconsciously. She tried not to read too much into it. He was being supportive, that’s all. Just because they’d shared one kiss (okay, one mind-blowing kiss) in a moment of weakness . . . “Also, we’re avoiding the chaos downstairs.”

“Mass panic?” Eps asked knowingly.

“All the women at the feast tried to fight magicians without actual magic,” Delilah confirmed. “It went about as well as you’d expect.”

“Ah yes, the Saturnalia catch-22.” Eps nodded sagely. “Nothing like a self-imposed magical blackout during a crisis.”

“How do you even know about Saturnalia?” Jasper asked, a slight frown creasing his forehead. “If you’ve been hiding up here for⁠—”

“A month, give or take,” Eps supplied. “But I know most of what the original Zahir knows. Well, not about cooking, apparently. Also it’s pretty dull up here, so I’ve been reading. Your family keeps everything, Delilah. Really.” He gestured to a frighteningly tall stack of books beside a pile of quilts that probably hadn’t seen the light of day since the Taft administration. Next to this was a rustic side table—or actually, upon closer inspection, a repurposed steamer trunk—piled high with leather-bound volumes, loose papers, and scrapbooks. “Have you heard of that reality show, Hoarders? You should look into it.”

A fluffy white cat with mismatched eyes—one blue, one green—was currently batting at a low-hanging glass icicle ornament that dangled precariously from a half-decorated artificial tree.

“Snowball, no!” Eps lunged forward with surprising speed, catching the antique ornament before it could shatter. “Show some respect. That’s from 1932.”

“You named them all?” Delilah asked, watching in awe as yet another cat threaded itself between her feet.

“They’re cats, of course I named them—what am I, a monster? Oh, by the way, I found something you might want back.” Eps retrieved an object from behind a stack of boxes. It was the old Christmas star that Papa had insisted on using every year, despite the fact that half its lights no longer worked. “Thought it might be significant. Your father had an entire journal devoted to Christmas traditions. Way too many of them involving this particular star.”

Delilah’s throat tightened unexpectedly. She’d forgotten about that star; how she and her sisters would fight about which one of them would be lifted onto Papa’s shoulders to place it atop the tree. How Mama used to complain that the star was ugly and half broken, and how Papa insisted that Christmas stars, like real ones, didn’t need to be perfect to guide you home.

“Keep it safe for me,” she told Eps. “ I don’t know what I’d do with it right now.”

“Your father and Christmas, huh,” Jasper said quietly.

Delilah sighed sadly. “My father and Christmas. You know, he had a different ugly sweater for every day of December? Most of them played music. It was like if a Hallmark movie was a person.”

“Sure, but maybe it was a little bit wonderful too,” Jasper offered. “Just the idea of caring much about something. To share it so enthusiastically with the people you love.”

Delilah blinked rapidly. “Yes, well. That was Papa.” She looked into Jasper’s beautiful worried eyes and wondered if being in the presence of a magical clone was kind of like being alone, and was it close enough to being alone that she could maybe kiss him again.

From downstairs, a voice pierced through the floorboards, growing louder and more insistent with each passing second.

“DELILAH? JASPER? Where the hell are you two?”

Scarlett. And she sounded exactly as frazzled as you’d expect from someone whose mother had just been magically abducted during a holiday feast.

Eps visibly tensed, several nearby cats mirroring his alarm. “Please don’t tell her I’m here. She’d unmake me in a heartbeat. To her, I’m just leftover magical energy waiting to be recycled. But I’m rather attached to existing, you know? Even if existing means slowly turning into a crazy cat person.”

“Cat gentleman,” Jasper corrected, which earned him a genuine smile from the clone—the first expression that actually matched the real Zahir’s.

“I SWEAR TO ALL THAT IS HOLY, DELILAH, IF YOU’RE MAKING OUT WITH THE ARCHIVIST WHILE MAMA IS MISSING . . .”

Delilah felt heat rush to her face. Truly, making out with the archivist had been occupying a distressing percentage of her mental real estate.

“You should go,” Eps said quietly. “Your sister needs you. Just . . . please. Don’t tell her about me. I’m not ready to go yet.”

And there it was. A dilemma Delilah was absolutely not equipped to handle tonight—does a magical clone have a right to exist? Does it get to choose? The cats were watching her now, thirteen pairs of eyes somehow asking the same question. Thirteen pairs of eyes that existed because Eps was slowly but surely erasing himself to create them.

“What do you think? Do we protect them?” she asked Jasper softly.

He glanced from Eps to the cats, then back to her. “Pretty weird to meet someone who resembles someone I know, but who has no idea who I am,” he said thoughtfully. “Makes me understand how it must feel for all of you when I . . .” He trailed off, but Delilah knew what he meant. “Anyway, it’s your call,” he concluded. “Until recently I thought magic only existed at children’s birthday parties. I’m definitely not qualified to weigh in on the ethics here.”