The portraits rattled in their frames, knocking against the plaster as the chandelier swayed harder. Shadows careened over the table. The wrapping paper fluttered. My hair lifted from myshoulders.
“Enough!” I thrust out my hand, calling up the faint pulse of magic still clinging to my veins. A shimmer sparked at my fingertips, then flickered outward in a wave of light that rippled through the air. For a moment, the room obeyed.
Then the light sputtered.
“Stupid heartstones,” I grumbled as my magic fizzled completely.
The chandelier jerked violently, harder than before, swinging like a pendulum. The portraits slammed against the wall. One of the bulbs burst with a violent pop, glass scattering across the floor. Another followed, and another.
I stumbled back a step, panic clawing at my throat. “I can’t—” My breath hitched. “I’m out. I can’t do this anymore.”
They’d find me running down the drive in my socks. That other agent wasluckyshe had amnesia.
The noise rose to a fever pitch, as if the whole inn was shaking itself awake. My magic was gone, completely drained.
I whirled toward the door, then stopped, swallowing quick, shallow breaths. Grant wouldn’t bolt. He’d crack a terrible joke, tell the ghost he planned to set up fake coffins and hire actors, then sell tickets to the latest haunted attraction. He’d auction off the broken bulbs and donate the proceeds to kids with night terrors, and if there wasn’t already an organization, he’d start one.
That was what he did. He turned disasters into fundraisers. He made the absurd feel survivable.
If he could stand his ground, I could too.
“I bought my husband a tie for Christmas!” I shouted over the noise.
Everything stopped. The stillness hit like an impact that left me on edge.
The chandelier stilled mid-sway. The wind died, and the portraits hung motionless on the wall.
I swallowed, adjusting my grip on the scissors, then crept toward the roll of wrapping paper and sliced a length clean through.
“Tell me,” I continued, my voice quieter now, “is that as bad as buying a blender? Should I have gone for his-and-hers monogrammed towels? I don’t think I’m very good at this whole wife thing.”
My hands trembled as I folded the edges of the foil around the box. The bow levitated again, but this time it drifted through the air, landing perfectly atop the wrapped gift.
“Thanks,” I said, because it felt rude not to. “We’re playing a game,” I went on, my pulse slowing as I looped red ribbon around the box and slid the scissors’ edge down the length to make curls. “To see who can buy the most thoughtful gift on a very modest budget. I’m definitely going to win—obviously—but it’s kind of fun too.”
One of the ribbon curls jiggled, then in a blink, a sprig of mistletoe drifted out of nowhere. It slid on a cool draft and peeked beneath the bow.
I smiled despite the goosebumps prickling along my arms. “That’s… festive of you. But truthfully, I doubt we’ll be standing under the mistletoe anytime soon, or ever.”
I slumped in the chair; the scissors clinking softly against the table as I warmed to my topic. “We got married by accident. I had a busted ankle, he had a swollen finger, and I looked like a sweaty elf in muddy shorts. Not exactly mydream wedding.”
The chandelier flickered once more, as if in sympathy. The mistletoe wobbled, and a single pale berry rolled loose, bumping against my wrist.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “You get it. The thing is, I just want someone to love me, you know? Not because we wandered into someone else’s fairytale with a strange couples-therapy clause, but because they love the whole package—every overthinking, oversharing, overdecorating inch. My aunt used to say women like us were ‘a lot’ as if that was something to apologize for. I want someone who doesn’t look away. Someone who likes my morning hair, tolerates my Christmas playlists all year long, and still leaves the light on when I get scared.”
I waved a hand. “The light’s a whole ghost thing. You understand.”
The air in front of me shimmered like heat rising off snow. Then, a shape took form near the fallen portrait. I held my breath, my hand carefully sliding toward the scissors. I paused.
He looked the same as before: tall, husky, with that faint glow along the edges of his thick coat, snow still swirling around his legs. But he wasn’t terrifying this time. He just looked… sad.
“You’re not stuck here because you’re angry, are you? You’re stuck because you lost someone.”
His outline wavered, head cocking as if he was listening.
“Was it Natalie?” I asked.
The chandelier flickered once, bright enough to catch the softening of his expression.
