Page 92 of Jingle Spells

Delilah had always appreciated Dayo’s calm amusement at Oak Haven’s perpetual chaos. As a non-witch who’d voluntarily chosen to stay in town, Dayo was living proof that some connections were worth sacrificing for.

“How do you do it?” Delilah blurted out, surprising herself.

“Do what, hon?” Dayo asked.

“Choose to leave your old life. Knowing you could never go back.”

Dayo’s warm smile turned thoughtful. She glanced over at Aphra, who was nervously adjusting the microphone. “When you know where you belong, it’s not about leaving. It’s about coming home.”

Jasper’s hand found Delilah’s under the table. Could it really be that simple? To just choose each other, consequences be damned?

Aphra’s rendition of “Silent Night” was anything but. Her untrained voice wavered painfully on the high notes, causing undisguised wincing in the audience. Still, Delilah felt a surge of unexpected hope. Maybe they didn’t need perfection. Maybe being together, broken spells and all, was enough.

“It doesn’t have to be you,” she whispered to Jasper.

“What?”

“The spell. Maybe Agnes was wrong, or maybe we’re interpreting her words wrong. We could try again, get someone else to⁠—”

“The Earls tried,” Jasper reminded her. “Your friends tried. Nate has burns on his hands because he tried to do something that I should have done from the beginning. I think we have to accept that Agnes meant what she said.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Anyway, the forgetting spell is clearly breaking down,” Delilah argued, keeping her voice low. “Maybe it wouldn’t affect you anymore.”

“Well yeah, that would be good. But there’s only one way we’re going to find out. Which is, I have to go.”

The evening progressed with each performance more entertainingly terrible than the last. Jerusha, who’d been sprung from the senior center, delivered a spoken-word interpretation of “Frosty the Snowman,” turning that cheerful tale into an existential meditation on impermanence. Then came Zahir’s turn, clutching the microphone with the determination of a man facing execution.

“On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me . . .” he began confidently enough, but then his expression clouded. “One pound of butter, unsalted.” The audience tittered as he continued. “On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me . . . two cups of flour, and one pound of butter, unsalted.” Before long he was listing: “Seven sprigs of rosemary, six cloves of garlic . . . fiiiiiive golden egg yolks.” Dayo was wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, and Aphra had her face buried in her hands.

“He forgot the lyrics,” Jasper whispered.

“Oh come on,” Delilah objected. “That’s a joke. He was clearly doing a bit.”

“What about when Nine introduced him as ‘whatshisname, that tall fellow’? Was that comedy, too?”

“Maybe they’re just drunk. Nine is an old pirate, and this is a party . . . What do you expect?” But Delilah had to admit, something was off. The forgetting seemed to be accelerating, even among people like Zahir, who’d lived in Oak Haven his whole life. Small lapses cascading into larger ones as the night wore on.

But why is this my damn problem to fix? Resentment sparked up in Delilah’s chest. After all, Scarlett had ended up living as a bird for an entire year because it fell to her to save the town. Now Delilah had to give up Jasper? Why was it always a Melrose who had to sacrifice? Why couldn’t someone else take the hit this time?

“I believe our next performer is . . .” Ten squinted at his card, then looked up with a triumphant smile. “Jasper Hopkins! Come on up, young man!”

Delilah’s head whipped around. “You signed up?”

Jasper adjusted his glasses nervously. “I may have. When in Rome, right?”

“What are you going to sing?”

“You’ll see,” he said with surprising confidence. He gave her hand a quick squeeze before making his way to the stage.

Jasper cleared his throat, looking slightly terrified as he faced the crowd. “So, I’m not much of a singer,” he began, “and I’m definitely not a fan of Christmas music.”

A good-natured boo rippled through the audience.

“But,” he continued, “sometimes you meet someone who changes how you feel about . . . well, everything.” His eyes found Delilah’s across the dim pub. “This is for you.”

The oddly mournful opening notes of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” filled the room, and Jasper began to sing. His voice wasn’t spectacular. A little thin, a little “pitchy,” as they say at singing competitions. But his earnestness mattered more than the notes. When he reached the part about all of us being together that strongly implied we would never be together again, Delilah felt tears pricking at her eyes.

When Jasper finished, the applause was genuine and warm. Jasper made his way back to their table, his face flushed with embarrassment.