Page 13 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“Here, lad. Take mine.” Jake taps the kid on the shoulder and gives up his candle, tipping his head towards me. “I’ll share hers.”

Dr Selby starts to hand out paper cups to everyone, filling each with something pungently alcoholic from an ancient-looking insulated flask.

“What’s this?” A sip of the wine makes me cough. It’s awful. “And is this even legal?”

“Meant to be mulled wine. I think? And yes, it’s legal. You’re in London now, love.”

Selby tells us about Nell Gwyn, lover of Charles II and the namesake of the pub. He half-heartedly points to one of the windows and says, “Look, the window there.” By the time we all glance in that direction, he’s turned to walk away. “You must pay closer attention if you’re to see behind the veil.”

The group scurries after him like children on a school field trip. “I get it now. He’s trying to get us drunk so we don’t realize how bad this is going to be.”

At the Theatre Royal across the street, Selby tells us of its ghosts. An incontinent pantomime dame (Jake explains British pantomime to me in a whisper that gives me full-body goosebumps), a beheaded clown (because a ghost clown with an intact head isn’t terrifying enough, I guess), and, apparently, a man who murdered a fellow actor during a fight over a wig.

“Hardly seems fair for the murderer to get to haunt the place instead of the victim,” Jake says, just loud enough for me to hear. I pinch my lips tight to keep from laughing.

“… and finally, we have the Man in Grey,” Selby says. “Spotted in a tricorn hat and grey cloak, he paces the Grand Circle before vanishing. During renovations in the nineteenth century, a skeleton with a knife in its ribs was found in the wall where the Man in Grey disappears. Imagine being bricked up for nearly two centuries—”

I turn my back to the group so Selby doesn’t see me giggling.

Jake still faces forward, but he cuts his eyes over at me. “Are you laughing about that poor man’s demise?”

“No, I’m so sorry—” I pull the collar of my coat over my mouth.

“What’s funny?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

“Tell me,” Jake laughs. He nudges his hip into mine.

“You didn’t hear what he said? Bricked up for nearly two centuries?”

Selby boosts up on his toes to glare at us over the rest of our group. “If you insist on mucking about, I shall have to ask you to leave.”

Lips pinched tight, Jake and I cut our eyes at each other like scolded schoolkids. When the group starts moving again, I whisper to him, “Google it.” I typically wait until I’ve known someone for at least a week before I teach them new slang for erections.

Our next stop is the Covent Garden Underground station, where the ghost of a famous actor named William Terriss was regularly seen on the platforms, despite meeting his end nearly ten years before the station was built.

“… countless reports of an apparition in a three-piece suit and a formal felt hat …”

Jake tilts towards me to whisper, “Sounds like he was dying to haunt the place.”

My laugh is loud and abrupt, echoing down the tunnel. Selby pauses to make aggressive eye contact with me before he drones on, “… a strange chill that overcomes them in this very spot …”

“It’s bloody winter, mate,” Jake mutters.

I bite my lips together and close my eyes. He’s trying to make me laugh. It feels good. I can’t remember the last time I got to be silly with someone. And there’s something different about laughing with someone you’re attracted to.

Selby’s words echo off the concrete walls. “… Terriss frequented a bakery that once stood near the station …”

When I lean close to Jake, the outer curve of my breast presses against his arm. Maybe I’m doing it on purpose? “Relatable,” I mutter. “If I become a ghost with unfinished business, it will be because of all the pastries I didn’t get to eat.”

Jake laughs through his nose.

“… but Terriss must have found what he was looking for, because his last documented appearance here in the station was in 1972.”

Jake glances down at me with an eyebrow raised. “Perhaps he finally got smart and started taking a black cab.”

I roll my eyes and step past him to follow the group out of the station. My knuckles brush against Jake’s as I do, and it makes me wish there weren’t barriers of gloves between us.