Page 107 of Blood and Bells

“That was strategic.”

“For what?”

“I wanted the town to adjust gradually.”

She lowers her phone, looks at me over the top of it. “Nick. They know you fought a gingerbread dragon.”

“Which behaved with considerably more dignity than the things Crinkshaw baked.”

Her mouth twitches. “The wheezing ones?”

“I will not be judged by confectionery. Not now. Not ever. Not even during the Grand Sugar Covenant of 1672.”

“It’s insane that you have an opinion on that.”

“I’ve been alive a very long time,” I say.

I move the mug within reach and place a kiss on the crown of her head because I can. She shifts under the blanket, glancing toward the window as if she can still see the square from here.

“I’m sure this Christmas will become a cautionary tale in your ever-expanding collection of arcane historical references no one understands.”

“Just look at it,” I say, glancing toward the window. “The town is intact, no one has been permanently caramelized, and Willow Creek appears to have become famous for its cocoa. By most metrics, the Winter Wonderland was a success.”

“High bar,” she says, but there’s pride in it. “We pulled it off.”

“We did.”

It settles between us, that fact—no fanfare, just there, like it’s decided to stay.

A light flickers outside, followed by the distant sound of a man discovering that electricity is not, in fact, optional.

Tonight there is frost on the windows and stew on the stove. Holly has curled up on one of my sofas in socks with little trees on them. I cannot tell if they are spruce or pine, which feels like a test I am failing on principle. She is reading messages on her phone and humming the way she does when a problem is a puzzle instead of a headache. Every now and then, she looks at me, finds me looking, and does that scrunch with her nose that would, in an earlier time, have ended empires.

I make a show of reorganizing my bookshelves, but I am really just orbiting. Medieval Botany does not belong beside Eldritch Geography, but I leave it there anyway, distracted by the way her braid has come loose and the small tilt of her mouth when someone sends a photo of Meribel leading a surprise singalong in the grocer’s frozen aisle.

I have seen stranger things.

This may be my favorite.

“You’re staring,” she says without looking up.

“Only with both eyes,” I say.

She smiles into her phone. “Flatterer.”

“The stew will be done in five minutes, the way you like it. With reckless amounts of thyme.”

“Is this domestic bliss?” she asks, still smiling. “Or your latest campaign to distract me from the fact you rearranged the mugs by height again instead of category?”

“Both can be true.”

Her laugh runs across the room like a string of lights finding the outlet. She tucks her feet under her and glances past me toward the mantle. On it sits the most contentious compromise of the season: a miniature snow globe we never speak about. It is non-magical. Not too tacky. Progress.

I wander back to the kitchen and stir the stew because it is satisfying to do so. At least eighty percent of the therapeutic value of stew comes from the stirring. In the distance, a pair of teenagers slides across the ice while pretending they are not holding hands. They are failing admirably.

There is a feeling in Willow Creek that I have not tasted in a very long time.

The taste of after.