Page 78 of Jingle Spells

As they watched from behind the trees, the wide double doors of the barn swung open. Out stumbled a group of people dressed in somber Puritan clothing: men in dark coats and wide-brimmed hats, women in long dresses with white caps and aprons, children clinging to their parents’ hands. They looked dazed, peering around at the forest and up at the night sky as if unsure where they were.

“One of my ancestors must be over there . . . Virigina Melrose. She was one of the founders. I wonder which one she is?”

An uncommonly tall woman emerged from the barn, her bearing regal despite her simple costume. In her hands, she clutched what appeared to be a large leather-bound book. For a moment, Delilah wondered if perhaps that was Virginia, but then the woman turned in a slow circle, surveying the area with a critical eye. When Delilah got a clear view of the woman’s face, she gasped. The portrait from the inn’s library had come to life before her eyes. Same stern features, same penetrating gaze. Agnes Bartlett.

Agnes held up one hand, and the murmuring crowd fell silent. “It is done.” Her voice carried clearly through the night air. “We have escaped the trials of Salem. Here shall we build our haven, protected by oak and stone and magic unending.”

The refugees gathered closer, their faces reflecting a mixture of fear and hope.

“The portal is closed,” Agnes continued, “and with it, our connection to that place of death. But we are not without resources.” She gestured to the barn behind her. “We have brought what we need to begin anew. Tomorrow, we build. Tonight, we give thanks.”

As if on cue, the clouds above parted, revealing a sky blazing with more stars than Delilah had ever seen, untainted by centuries of light pollution. She felt Jasper’s hand find hers in the darkness, their fingers intertwining. Her heart pounded with the realization of what they were witnessing. It was the moment that had set her family’s destiny in motion.

They had just seen the birth of Oak Haven.

Chapter 22

To Certain Poor Jaspers

Jasper woke with a crick in his neck, an uncomfortable lump against his back, and an unfamiliar weight on his chest. He quickly realized the crick and the lump were explained by the fact that he’d been sleeping upright, propped against a tree. Then he looked down to find Delilah slumbering in his arms, her breathing deep and steady.

He didn’t mind. Not in the slightest. It was without doubt the most pleasant crick he’d ever had.

They’d kept vigil out in the woods that night, watching the barn from a safe distance. But once the settlers retired inside, they didn’t come back out, leaving nothing to observe but dim candlelight escaping the walls and the occasional bleat, cluck, or whinny of an unhappy farm animal inside. Eventually exhaustion had claimed them both. Delilah curled against him, her head tucked perfectly into the hollow of his shoulder as if the space had been designed for her.

Now, as dawn arrived, Jasper was able to take a moment and simply observe. The landscape was pristine and untouched by the “improvements” of humans. Dew glistened on wildflowers that would be extinct by his time, while birdsong filled the air with melodies that had likely remained unchanged for thousands of years. The trees surrounding them weren’t the carefully managed specimens of modern parks and nature preserves, but sovereign beings that had grown unchallenged for centuries.

Jasper found it bittersweet, that this wilderness would eventually give way to the cobblestone streets and buildings of Oak Haven. Progress always came at a price, he supposed. Of course, without those developments, there would be no history for him to preserve, no Stargazer Inn to welcome travelers, and no witches like the one currently drooling gently on his shirt.

Clearly, when this was all over, he was going to have a difficult choice to make: Delilah or the world. On the one hand there was magic, mystery, and this magnificent woman beside him, and on the other . . . what? Municipal records and fluorescent lighting? Didn’t seem like much of a choice at all. What if I just don’t go home? Could I do that? Could I just stay? The idea bloomed in his mind like a highly dangerous flower.

But before the fantasy could truly take shape, cold reality arrived. Who would he be, in this town of magic? A nebbishy archivist with no archives? Zahir seemed to be flourishing in Oak Haven without magic. But he’s a chef; he has a genuine calling. Jasper had a calling, too, just not in Oak Haven. Without his job, who was he really? Just some guy with too-strong opinions on document storage.

No, Oak Haven was Delilah’s world. Jasper knew deep down that ultimately he was just a tourist, just a stranger on the strangest vacation there ever was. And the thing about vacations is, they all end.

The thought left a hollow feeling in his chest, right beneath where Delilah laid her head.

His melancholy was interrupted by the sound of a door creaking open. Jasper tensed, peering around the massive oak trunk that had sheltered them through the night. The door to the barn swung wide, and a solitary figure emerged.

Agnes Bartlett.

Even from a distance, she was unmistakable—straight-backed, with the kind of purposeful movement indicating a woman who never wasted a single step. Her dress was simple but impeccably maintained, her hair tucked neatly beneath a linen cap. She carried a small book in one hand—perhaps a journal or a bible?—and moved with quiet determination toward the woods.

Jasper gently shook Delilah’s shoulder. “Del,” he whispered. “Time to wake up. She left the barn.”

Delilah stirred. She sat up quickly, swiping at a bit of drool on her chin that Jasper pretended not to notice.

“Who? . . . Oh . . . you mean Agnes?” she asked, voice still rough with sleep.

“Heading into the woods alone. This might be our only chance.”

Together, they rose and crept after the retreating figure, always keeping hidden among the trees. They caught up with Agnes beside a stream. She had settled herself on a large flat rock. Her book lay open in her lap, though she seemed more intent on watching the water flow past than on reading.

Delilah whispered to Jasper this waterway would eventually be called Bonfire Creek. “I can practically see the covered bridge that will span this someday. Luna fell in once and came up covered in pond scum—she looked like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. And one time Scarlett jumped off the roof of the bridge, but that’s a very long story . . .” Delilah’s expression turned wistful. “It’s so weird—my past is currently the distant future.”

“What should we do?” Jasper asked uncertainly. “Do we approach her?” His historian’s instinct warned against interfering with the past. What if they changed something crucial?

“Of course we approach her. She’s the one person who can help us.”