Page 23 of Jingle Spells

“Nothing, I’m afraid,” said Mama. “I don’t think errant casinos were top of mind in colonial times.”

Outside, snow began to fall. Delilah went to the window to look. Real snow this time, not the enchanted flurries that sometimes decorated Oak Haven’s winter nights. Through the office window, they could see the casino’s lights reflecting off the flakes, turning them strange colors that nature never intended.

Delilah thought about weight of choices, and about the things people tell themselves to sleep at night. She thought about her father, about Christmas, about all the things this visit home was forcing her to remember. And she thought about a county archivist who believed in preserving everything, even the hard parts. Even the parts that hurt.

From the lobby came the sound of Jasper realizing that the lobby baseboards were original to the building’s construction in 1832, when the witches had turned the remains of an old barn into the Stargazer Inn. His cry of joy would have been goofy if it wasn’t so . . . what was the word? Genuine. That was it. The man was genuinely, unabashedly excited about historical woodwork.

“Adorable,” she said without thinking.

“Oh, big sis.” Scarlett joined her sister at the window. “You are in so much trouble.”

Chapter 8

Mint Leaves and Fruit Cleaves and Infinite Diyas

Back at his apartment, Jasper’s sock drawer was arranged by color, pattern, and thickness. His spice rack was alphabetized by name and cross-referenced by type of cuisine. He had an alarm on his phone, notifying him to change his toothbrush every ninety days. (A wholly unnecessary alarm, as it happened, because he changed it every eighty-five days with no reminder required.) And yet here he was, standing in a strange hotel room in an even stranger town, with nothing but the clothes on his back and eighteen dollars in his wallet.

“This is fine,” he told his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “This is reasonable. People spontaneously abandon their lives to stay in magical hotels all the time.”

His reflection gazed back skeptically.

“What’s more, the county clerk’s office will barely notice I’m gone. They’ll be relieved, most likely.”

His reflection allowed that this much was probably true. And what did he have to lose, really? It wasn’t as if there was anyone waiting for him back in that little apartment.

The guest room was amazing, of course. Dominating the space was a four-poster bed with hand-carved acanthus leaves that had been enchanted to slowly unfurl and curl back up again. A Yuletide wreath of evergreen hung above the fireplace, tiny golden lights dancing among its branches like captive stars. The walls were lined with bookshelves, all overstuffed with leather-bound treasures that could easily occupy Jasper for weeks.

On the other hand, his phone was at twelve percent battery and dying fast. His dress shirt was not the freshest. And he had absolutely no explanation for why he’d decided to stay, beyond the way Delilah Melrose’s eyes had flashed when she’d threatened to turn that top-hat lady into a newt.

His stomach growled, reminding Jasper that he hadn’t eaten since this morning. Hadn’t he seen a dining room off to the side of the hotel reservation desk? Yes, he was certain he had.

Good plan, he thought. Let’s hunt for food. Far preferable to standing here, contemplating why I’ve done this crazy thing in the first place.

The hallway was decorated for both Christmas and what appeared to be a significantly more ancient holiday. Silver and gold garlands shared space with bundles of wheat and ivy wreaths that definitely pre-dated Christianity. Guarding the hallway was the carved stone bust of a severe-looking man with a long beard. Was it Roman? Greek? Jasper wasn’t certain. All he knew for sure was that statue seemed to glare at him when he paused to study it. And then— Wait, did that thing just blink at me?

Jasper decided to be on his way.

The air was scented with a complicated potpourri of holiday smells, along with something else . . . Was that fresh bread? He followed his nose down to the first floor. The dining room was empty, but peeking into the kitchen, Jasper saw a harried-looking man in chef’s whites. He was simultaneously kneading three different kinds of dough while muttering under his breath.

“Oh!” The chef looked up. “You must be the newcomer that the gals were talking about. I’d shake your hand but . . .” He gestured at his flour-covered fingers. “I’m Zahir. And you’re just in time to witness my annual descent into madness. Well, no, on second thoughts, you can’t descend to a place you already live in. My annual in-depth exploration of madness, how about that?”

“I don’t mean to interrupt⁠—”

“Nonsense. Sit. You’re hungry, a cook can always tell. I’ll make you something. Just bear with me one sec.” He glanced around the kitchen conspiratorially. “And don’t tell Kelly I’m using the dried pasta. I’m way behind here, and I am NOT hand-rolling noodles until three in the morning just because it’s Saturnalia.”

“Saturnalia? You mean . . . no, you can’t mean Saturnalia. The Roman festival?”

“The very same. You’ve picked a wonderful time to visit, actually. Oak Haven comes to a complete halt for three days of all sorts of shenanigans. Poetry readings at Spellbound Books, live music at the pub every night. Oh, and a weaving competition at the yarn store, Sometimes a Great Notion. And it all kicks off with a massive feast here at the hotel, which supposedly the witches prepare but let’s not kid ourselves. It’s me. Don’t rat me out, though.”

“Your secret’s safe. Why all the skullduggery, though?”

“Ah yes. Well.” Zahir kept working as he talked. Kneading, rolling, punching multiple batches of dough. “Historically, a big aspect of Saturnalia was this sort of social inversion: servants being waited on by their masters, et cetera, et cetera. Our interpretation of that here in Oak Haven means no magic is allowed for the whole five days. Tomorrow at midnight, there’s a ceremony where the witches willingly put their powers into containment. And then for the remainder of Saturnalia, witches use no magic whatsoever, and the town’s non-magical residents get to lord it over them.”

“Oh, wait!” Jasper exclaimed. “That grouchy-looking stone bust upstairs. That’s the god Saturn, isn’t it?”

“None other.”

“He was, um. He was glaring at me? Possibly? Am I nuts?”