Page 14 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

Selby makes at least three more stops with the group, but I linger so far behind with Jake, I can’t hear most of it. As we walk, Jake has his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat and I’ve got mine crossed over my belly, but we brush and bump into each other like two ships docked in a harbor. Calvin usually walked slightly in front of me, tugging me along by the hand. Like he was a minder instead of a partner. Jake, though? He walks with me, and the fleeting contact feels like an invitation rather than a request or a claim. There’s no reason for us to walk this close, but I feel like I’m caught in his gravity.

Jake glances down at me as we head towards our final stop. “You’ve got compoface.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t know what compoface is?” When I shake my head, he continues. “Right. Compoface happens when a newspaper runs a story about someone’s grievance. Like,” he waves his hands in a flourish like he’s reading a headline, “American tourist haunted by the lack of favorable refund policy finds Covent Garden ghost tour to be a grave disappointment.”

I nod. “I see what you did there.”

“And then there would be a photo of you below the headline, looking petty and cross, clutching your little battery-operated candle like a consolation prize.”

I’ve always thought I have a pretty good poker face. It’s surprising to be read so accurately by someone I’ve spent so little time with, even though he can’t know my sour expression is about Calvin, not the tour. Young woman spends two years in relationship with emotionally and ethically bankrupt dickhead, now investing in herself instead.

Jake ducks his head a bit, bending at the waist to catch my eye as we walk. There’s a little wrinkle of concern between his brows. “Really, though—are you all right?”

I give him a quick smile. “Yes, yes. It’s nothing. Jet lag, I think.”

We turn onto Cecil Court, an intimate, distinctly Dickensian street with gas-powered lanterns. Overhead, faux chandeliers sparkle, suspended between the buildings. Dim golden light spills from shop windows and galleries to reflect on the damp pavement outside.

“We conclude our tour in one of the West End’s most famous passageways.” Now Selby is like a horse spotting its stable after a long ride, walking fast towards the bookshop where the tour concludes. “Dating back to the 1700s, this is now what we call Bookseller’s Row. Who knows what manner of ghosts from the last three centuries walk beside us at this very moment.”

Jake mutters, “Thought we were meant to learn about them from you, mate.”

I breathe a quiet laugh through my nose.

Inside the bookshop, it smells like aged leather and paper, and a smoky trace of incense. Herbs, resin, spice. I think if I bought a book from here, the pages inside would be permanently perfumed with it.

Jake nudges me, nodding to a display of books to the right of the door. Dr Burgess Selby’s newest release of paranormal tales sits in stacks on a table draped with black cloth. A few surprisingly realistic human skulls perch on the books. Arms crossed, Selby scowls from a framed photo in the center.

I lean closer to Jake. “Would that be compoface?”

Jake nods and whispers, “Paranormal London author haunted by frighteningly low book sales.”

“London author disappointed to discover new readers to be as elusive as the ghosts on his tour,” I whisper back.

Jake chuckles. “You’re a fast learner.”

The tour’s pièce de résistance is a one-card-pull tarot reading. Jake and I are invited to a private room first. It’s lit by two tabletop candelabras with real flame rather than batteries. I expect a campy older woman with craggy features and a mess of gray hair held in a bun by carved bone pins. When my eyes adjust to the dim light, I see a young woman sitting behind the table instead. She can’t be more than twenty, but there’s something about her that feels ancient. She greets us with, “Do ye invite the wisdom of the cosmos tae flow through these cards?”

“Of course.” Jake sits on one of the small stools in front of the table. “Nothing like a bit of dabbling in the occult during this holy season.”

“Winter’s been weaving magic long before the church declared December holy, lad.” She quirks a brow, but doesn’t smile. “Now hold your question in your mind. And when it’s clear, you may draw.”

Jake doesn’t hesitate at all. He flips the card on the top of the shuffled deck. Then he straightens to sit tall on the stool with knees braced wide, arms crossed over his chest. “All right, cosmos. What do you have for me?”

“The Ace of Cups,” the woman says. “This is a powerful card. You have a thirsty soul, and life has just handed you a fresh, empty cup—”

“Sounds like an invitation to hit up the pub after this.” Jake frowns, but his tone is light.

“You’ve been cracking wise all night, haven’t you?” The reader pauses. “Nothing paranormal here. Simply an invitation to fill your cup, and let it overflow with something real.” Then she cuts her eyes over to me. “Come. Draw.” She shuffles the cards and sets the stack back on the table.

A knot of tension pulls tight under my breastbone as I sit on the stool next to Jake. The card I draw depicts a nude man and woman, and what looks like an angel above them.

“The Lovers,” the reader says. “A card about choice, about union. There’s something real in front of you, but you must choose to open and meet it. With your whole, imperfect self—”

“You put that card on top, didn’t you? Some sleight-of-hand trick?”

“No. The cards speak for themselves. I’m simply the interpreter.” She stays in character so well that I almost believe she’s legitimate.