Page 79 of Jingle Spells

“But what about the timeline? What if we accidentally interfere somehow? Aren’t we forbidden from talking to people in different time periods?”

“Forbidden by whom? H.G. Wells? Marty McFly?” She rolled her eyes. “Definitely don’t say Doctor Who, because he interferes with different timelines in literally every episode. Or she does, depending on the series. Whatever, you know what I mean.”

“Okay, but don’t reveal anything that could change the future.”

“Yeah yeah yeah . . .” Delilah stepped out of their hiding place and strode confidently toward Agnes. Jasper had no choice but to follow, feeling like a man walking into an exam three hundred years too early.

Agnes looked up, startled by their approach. Her hand immediately went to a small pouch at her waist—Jasper guessed it must contain some form of protective magic. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Good morrow,” Delilah said. She stopped a respectful distance away and did her best to sound historical, whatever that meant. “Please, um, be not alarmed. My name hath be Delilah Melrose, and this—” she gestured toward Jasper, who was trying very hard not to hyperventilate “—is Jasper Hopkins. We, um, cometh from yon distant future.”

Oh sure, just lead with that, Jasper thought. Very subtle.

Agnes’s expression remained guarded, but she didn’t immediately flee or attack, which seemed promising. “What manner of beings claim such impossible origins?” Her voice was clear and precise, with a hint of an accent that Jasper couldn’t quite place—somewhere between English and something older.

“We’re from Oak Haven,” Delilah continued, “though in our time, it’s centuries old. We were sent back by a time witch named Louise Demain.”

“A time witch,” Agnes repeated, her posture relaxing slightly. “I have heard tell of such practitioners, though I have not had the occasion to meet one. Their powers are said to be most unsettling.”

“You said a mouthful, sister.”

Meanwhile Jasper stood frozen, staring at Agnes Bartlett—the Agnes Bartlett!—with the helpless awe of a teenage boy unexpectedly meeting his favorite rock star. This was the woman whose portrait he saw every morning. The woman whose founding principles had shaped the entire county archive system, whose meticulous preservation techniques had saved countless documents from being lost to time. And here she was. In the flesh. Breathing the same ancient air as he.

Agnes turned her attention to Jasper, clearly noting his slack-jawed admiration. “Does thy companion speak, or is he afflicted in some manner?”

Delilah nudged him sharply with her elbow.

“I, um, yes, I speak,” Jasper managed. “It’s an honor to meet you, Goodwife Bartlett. Truly. I’ve—well, I’ve admired your work for a great many years. Or . . . I will admire it. I will have admired it?” He winced. “Grammar is, um, not my friend at the moment.”

A flicker of amusement crossed Agnes’s stern features. “What work of mine hath earned such esteem from a man not yet born?”

“The county archives,” Jasper blurted, unable to contain his enthusiasm. “You’re its founder. Er, will be its founder. The organizational system you’ll create is so effective that it’s still in use hundreds of years later. Your preservation techniques saved countless historical records that would otherwise have been lost.”

Delilah muttered, “I’m glad you’re not revealing anything that could influence the future . . .”

“The archive building itself is remarkable. The load-bearing columns preserve the original eighteenth-century design while accommodating modern needs. Though, if I’m being completely honest, the electrical wiring is problematic. There’s this horrible fluorescent lighting that buzzes constantly and makes everything look like it’s underwater. I’ve submitted seven formal requests to have it updated, but apparently non-migraine-inducing lighting doesn’t fit into the county budget.”

Agnes blinked at him, clearly trying to process this babbling brook of information. “I know not what ‘fluorescent’ might be, but thy passion is most evident.” A slight smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Though methinks it borders on unhealthy fervor.”

Delilah snorted.

“Your portrait hangs in my office! I look at it every day. I mean . . . not in a weird way,” he hastened to add. “Just with, you know, professional respect.”

“That’s enough, fan boy,” Delilah muttered, patting his arm. “Let’s not terrify the nice Puritan lady.”

Agnes studied them both with shrewd eyes. “If thou truly art from days yet to come, tell me: will our efforts to establish a sanctuary bear fruit? Does Oak Haven endure?”

“Oh, we’re still around,” Delilah assured her. “Still hidden from the outside world, still home to witches. The Stargazer Inn, which is what your barn will become, has been in my family for generations.”

Relief washed over Agnes’s face. “These are most welcome tidings. We have sacrificed much to create this haven. And the poor souls we left behind . . . they weigh heavily upon my heart. Can you tell me what fate befell them?”

Jasper and Delilah glanced at one another, then down at their feet, uncertain what to say.

“Ah,” Agnes said sadly. “I see the answer writ upon thy faces.”

Jasper nodded reluctantly. “They um, they didn’t make it.”

Agnes closed her eyes briefly. “Lord, receive their innocent souls,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Forgive us who fled while they remained.” She opened her eyes. “So great a punishment for so small an offense.”