Page 4 of Jingle Spells

“Why not Tokyo? Luna traipses all over the world; nobody ever says a thing about it.”

“Yeah,” Scarlett said gently. “That’s Luna. That’s not you. What are you trying to prove, staying so far away for so long?” She slipped one arm around her sister’s waist, squeezing her in an affectionate side-hug. “And at Christmas, no less?”

“I hate Christmas. I don’t believe in Christmas.”

“I know you don’t, kid. But Christmas believes in you.”

Delilah sighed, staring at her sister in the mirror. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. But I won’t go home. There is nothing you can say that will make me return to Oak Haven right now. Absolutely nothing in the world that would⁠—”

“The magicians are back.”

Delilah spun around to face Scarlett directly. “What?”

Scarlett nodded. “And it’s worse this time.”

“I’ll pack my things.”

Chapter 2

Christmas in the Drunk Tank

Jasper Hopkins was a man of solemn routine.

Every morning when he arrived for work at the county clerk’s office, his ritual was the same. First, he’d locate an EV space to plug in his little Nissan Leaf. He’d gather up the wool car coat he carried (even on summer’s hottest day), along with his insulated travel mug of super-hot Earl Grey (again, weather be damned) and his vintage leather attaché case. The case had been gifted to him by his grandfather upon Jasper’s graduation from college and, like the coat and the tea, he never left home without it, despite the vast majority of the clerk’s office having gone digital.

Once his belongings were organized, Jasper would lock his car and proceed along the buckling sidewalk and through a garden of modest government buildings—the county courthouse, the tax assessor’s office, the parks and recreation department, and so on—before arriving at his destination.

There, every morning, Jasper would pause on the weathered granite steps and tilt his head back to admire the way the morning light caught the worn cornices of the clerk’s office. The red-brick facade had darkened with age, its original color muted to a deep oxblood that spoke of nearly two hundred New England winters. Four Ionic columns flanked the entrance, their fluting still crisp despite the peeling white paint.

The building needed care, yes, but it had bones. Character. Not like the institutional nightmare of the interior. The offices themselves were a fluorescent-lit purgatory of drop ceilings and mud-colored carpet installed by 1980s bureaucrats in the name of “modernization.” The building was forever stuck in a sort of design time loop: glorious early nineteenth century outside and nausea-inducing late twentieth century inside.

Alas, Jasper’s beloved workplace was currently marred by numerous unwelcome additions: oversized wreaths clung to the columns, and a pair of Christmas trees stood sentinel on either side of the entrance. A horrible tinsel garland had been draped with bureaucratic efficiency across the entryway.

Echhh, he thought. Goddamn Christmas.

After many years of practice, Jasper was mostly able to put the so-called holiday out of his mind . . . But not when the building he loved was so determined to remind him of it.

He sighed, clutching his Earl Grey. One more minute. One more minute to drink in the symmetry of the twelve-over-twelve windows, the delicate branching of the cast-iron railings. Then with a sigh, he’d venture inside. The scene of a great crime, where progress had murdered beauty.

From behind the lobby’s expansive reception desk, Deputy Clerk Toby Hearthstone observed Jasper’s entrance with a wry smile. He reached out with one hand to mischievously turn up the volume on Mariah Carey’s Christmas album, which he knew Jasper detested.

“G’morning, Jasper. You catch the game last night?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said testily. “You know I didn’t. Anyway, the Patriots weren’t the original Massachusetts football team. They were predated by the Boston Bulldogs, who were both founded and disbanded in 1929.”

Toby blinked several times. “Excuse me? Since when do you know football trivia?”

“I, uh . . .” Jasper honestly didn’t know. “I must’ve read it somewhere.”

“Huh. Funky shit, dude. Hey, don’t forget, we’re closing early for the office party. Anita made rum balls. Aaaand I hear she’s scheming to get you under the mistletoe.”

Jasper grimaced. “Death first.”

“Hoo boy.” Toby chuckled. “Well, you brought in your Secret Santa gift at least . . . right?”

“Again, Toby, you know very well that I did not.” Jasper marched by the front desk without pausing. “Eight years working here and I have never attended that ghastly event. I certainly won’t start now.”

“Aw, c’mon!” Toby called to Jasper’s back in a tone half pleading and half joking. “Anita made her famous rum balls! And I hear Maureen and Dylan are gonna take a whack at singing ‘Fairytale of New York’ this year.”