Page 49 of Blood and Bells

“You and Draven get the tree back,” he says. “You get the gala back on track and deal with the rogue elves.”

“So everything.”

“Yup. That’s the gig, kiddo. If events were all sunshine and order, we wouldn’t need event planners, would we?”

“I can’t tell if that’s profound or idiocy.”

“That’s how you know it’s right.”

The grin he flashes me would make Nick jealous.

I look up at him. “No more surprises?”

“No more unnecessary ones.”

I let that sit, then nod once. It’s not perfect, but it’s something.

“Why can’t you fix it?” I ask. “You know—” I make a vague circling motion with my hand.

“Because magic has a habit of attracting more of itself,” he says. “And not always the kind you want. If I step in directly, there’s a good chance I make things worse, not better.”

“That feels like a fundamental flaw.”

“It’s a feature,” he says mildly.

“Great.”

He picks up his scarf from the back of the couch and wraps it loosely around his neck.

“You’re doing exactly what you need to be doing,” he says. “Even if you don’t like how it feels.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s not meant to be.”

Frank opens the door and cold air slips into the room. Then he pauses, glancing back at me.

“And Holly?”

I look up.

“Try doing this your way,” he says. “If I wanted Celeste, I’d have hired Celeste.”

He steps out into the night, and the door closes softly behind him.

I lean against it for a moment, letting the quiet settle. The living room is cast in the soft glow of the fairy lights strung from the bookcases, their light catching in the frost on the windowpanes. The air feels heavier than it should, like the house is waiting for something to shift. My crooked little Christmas tree stands in the corner, its mismatched ornaments glinting in the faint light, but even it seems weary, as if it knows the weight of the season has fallen squarely on my shoulders.

The throw blanket catches under my fingers as I drag my hand along the arm of my couch and let the frayed edge ground me. My sitting room now feels crowded with half-finished things—the presents waiting on the coffee table, the empty stocking, the photographs on the mantle.

Mom’s smile is bright and certain. Dad’s softer, steadier. Together, they look like they already know how everything turns out.

I look away first.

The room gets smaller as I stand here, like it’s closing in on all sides.

My keys are in my hands before I’ve quite decided to move. Before I can stop myself, I’ve headed out, searching for clarity or distraction, or maybe a little more space. The drive to Nick’s is quick, the streets empty save for the occasional shimmer of Christmas lights reflecting off the snow.

My brain lists all the perfectly reasonable excuses it can think of for this trip. I can ask about Ronan. About Crinkshaw. About whatever’s happening next. We’re working together—this is practical. Necessary.