Page 98 of Jingle Spells

“Check in the back. There should be something there.”

Jasper turned the portrait around, expecting to find nothing but dust and perhaps some faded label. Instead, a piece of yellowed parchment, its edges crumbling with age, was attached to the back. How had he never noticed this before? He’d personally rescued Agnes’s portrait from a dumpster; surely he would have seen this before.

With careful hands, he extracted the parchment and returned Agnes’s portrait to the wall. “This is remarkable,” he breathed, his historian soul momentarily overriding his confusion. “The parchment itself looks to be late seventeenth century, possibly early eighteenth? But I have no idea what language this is.”

“Yes, it’s exactly what we’re looking for,” Delilah said, reaching for it. “I should take this with me . . . for . . . um . . . proper preservation.”

Jasper instinctively pulled it back. “I’m sorry. I can’t just let you take this. It could be of significant historical value. There are protocols, procedures for handling artifacts of this age.”

“Jasper.” Delilah’s voice was gentle but firm. “That’s exactly why you called me, don’t you remember? My expertise is in document preservation. This is precisely why you asked me to be here.”

He hesitated, looking from the parchment to Delilah and back again. Her story was plausible, more or less. And yet . . .

“I don’t remember calling you,” he admitted. “I don’t remember this parchment. I don’t remember the past week at all.”

Her expression softened. “The doctor said memory loss was normal after a concussion. It’ll come back eventually.”

Would it, though? Jasper wasn’t convinced. But he also couldn’t think of a better explanation for what was happening. And if he had specifically reached out to this specialist for help, refusing her now would be quite the dick move. Reluctantly, he handed over the parchment.

“Thank you,” Delilah said, carefully placing it in the inside pocket of her coat. “This means more than you know.”

She lingered, looking at him with an expression that made him deeply uncomfortable. Studying him, almost.

“Was there something else?” he asked when the silence stretched too long.

Delilah blinked rapidly. To Jasper’s horror, he realized there were tears in her eyes.

“I just want you to know,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “that the time we spent together was . . . important to me.”

Jasper stood frozen, utterly at a loss. What in hell am I supposed to say to that? “Time we spent . . . What, in the car?”

A small, sad smile. “Yes. In the car.”

“I’m sorry,” he said inadequately. “I wish I could remember more.”

“It’s okay.” She straightened her shoulders, visibly composing herself. “I should go.”

“Do you need a ride somewhere? I could⁠—”

“No.” The word came out sharper than either of them expected. “No, thank you. I’ll manage.”

Before he could respond, she was gone, her footsteps echoing up the stairs, leaving Jasper alone in his office with a gaping hole in his memory and a week’s worth of unfiled paperwork on his desk. He gazed at the catastrophe his unattended office had become and let out a deep sigh. “Merry Christmas to me.”

Delilah made it exactly three-tenths of a mile from the county clerk’s office before sobs overwhelmed her. She leaned against a maple tree, its bare branches offering no shelter from the winter sky.

He didn’t know her. After everything they’d shared—the kisses, the conversations, the night wrapped in each other’s arms—Jasper had looked at her with nothing but confusion and embarrassment.

Of course, she’d known this would happen from the moment she’d understood Agnes’s plan. No, much earlier. From the moment he’d first smiled at her, she’d known. But the knowing hadn’t prepared her for the reality. That blank look in his eyes, the careful politeness of a man dealing with a stranger’s inexplicable emotional outburst.

“Such a damn cliché . . .” She wiped angrily at her tears. “Crying by the side of the road like I’m in some goddamn Nicholas Sparks novel.”

Making things even worse? She had no ride back to town. In their rush to secure the spell, they hadn’t bothered to think through the logistics. Now she was stranded. Magicless, miles from home, with no way back except her own feet.

She pushed off from the tree, determined to at least start walking. Maybe some physical exertion would help distract from the ache in her chest. One foot in front of the other. Left, right, left, right. Basic stuff, really. Even a heartbroken witch could manage that much.

A crackle of energy in the air made her pause. A familiar shimmer of a portal materializing rippled the winter air, and then Luna stepped through, her wild hair catching the light.

“Del!” Luna rushed forward, enveloping her big sister in a fierce hug. “Oh God, you’re crying . . .”