Page 95 of Blood and Bells

Brilliant.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he says.

“I’m trying not to ruin Christmas.”

“You won’t.”

He doesn’t budge. That’s the thing I keep coming back to. When everything else tilts, Nick doesn’t. He just…holds.

And I relax.

The glass doesn’t so much shatter as sigh. It softens into light, lifts like a glittering snowfall, and drifts through our hair and coats without a single cut. When it clears, the globe is gone—and in its place stands a real tree, full and green, spruce and not pine, hung with warm white stars. The crooked topper turns, thinks better of it, and sets itself straight.

The wrongness is gone.

Warmth rolls through the square—not so much the air, but the people in it.

The cheer rises, but it doesn’t scatter. It settles. Arms link, lights are straightened, cups passed hand to hand. A note lifts, holds. For a moment, the whole town seems to realize what it’s done—together—and the glow belongs to them as much as the tree.

I glance at Nick.

He’s smiling, really smiling, and when he looks at me, it feels like I’ve finally stopped bracing for the next thing to go wrong.

We did it.

When I look around, reality refuses to be ignored.

The square is littered with broken crates, smashed Christmas decorations, and snowbanks turned into slushy obstacles. Snowballs lie abandoned, candy canes are shattered, and the inflatable snowman is as deflated as he was when the rogue elves stole the tree.

Right.

Time to get to work.

“Okay, everyone,” I say, clapping once like a headmistress you do not cross. “Teams of ten. Lights, litter, ladders. Cocoa breaks on the half hour. Choir, sing something brisk, nothing by Bach.”

A cheer goes up. Brooms appear from nowhere. Someone already has a spreadsheet. Willow Creek has pivoted from battle to tidy-up without even pausing for breath.

“And after that?” someone calls. “We’ve still got a square to rebuild and three miles of tinsel in knots.”

“Then we follow Holly’s list,” Marcy calls back. “She points, we sparkle.”

I scan the square, already slotting pieces into place—what goes where, what can be salvaged, what needs replacing. Candy canes lie in pieces. Tinsel is tied in knots. It’s a mess, but it’s a fixable mess.

“You still want to put the gala on tomorrow, don’t you?” Nick sighs, lacing his fingers through mine. “You’re not letting this go, are you, Frost?”

“I’m not giving up on Christmas,” I reply, shaking my head.

Nick squeezes my hand. “Good. If anyone can pull this off, it’s you.”

I look out over the square—my town, our town—already moving, already rebuilding.

Hope feels less like a wish and much more like a plan.

It’s time to get to work.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I’m wearing overalls.