Page 115 of Christmas Magic

Digging into her purse again, Roberta withdrew a small glass vial. “These sprinkles are magic. That’s what Cora used on the cookies she gave Lucian.”

Molly took the vial. She’d make sure the sprinkles were either locked away in the antique store’s special collection or destroyed. “Where did Cora get them? Did she tell you?”

The gray-haired woman nodded. “A vendor at the craft fair gave them to her.”

Gave them? That definitely sounded suspicious—and also reinforced what Julius had said about Cora being manipulated.

“You and Lucian are perfect for each other. You deserve a lifetime together.” Roberta shook her head. “I don’t want anyone else’s relationship threatened because of these stupid sprinkles.”

Men’s shouts came from down the street.

One of the voices sounded like Lucian’s.

“Oh, dear,” Roberta moaned.

Oh, dear was right.

Molly shoved the vial into her pocket. “Will you be all right here?”

“Yes. Go. Hurry!”

“Stop running! Face me,” Lucian bellowed.

The crowd’s cheers rose in volume. Ahead, Santa, stumbling now and again in his heavy boots, hurried down the street. He still clutched the pathetic wooden sword.

“Come on. Face me!” Lucian yelled.

The folk along the street shrieked and laughed. The noise, their excitement, fueled Lucian’s resolve. The local people were voicing their support. He was right to pursue Santa; to demand an apology for his lady love. No one—even the mighty Santa, Lord of the Elves—was exempt from the obligations of chivalry.

Movement at the edge of the crowd caught Lucian’s gaze. A boy had spilled a bag of small marshmallows. As the lad cried, the marshmallows scattered on the street and mingled with other white blobs: packing peanuts from an overturned box.

Santa staggered to a halt. He wavered, as though struggling to catch his breath.

“Face me,” Lucian cried.

“Santa. Santa!” the crowd chanted in unison.

Lucian slashed his sword through the air. More cheers. He thrust his arms in the air, a promise of impending victory, and the noise soared.

“Santa. Santa!” the crowd said.

Old Saint Nick wobbled. Packing peanuts crunched under his boots as he turned to face Lucian.

“At last,” Lucian shouted.

“I am not apologizing!”

Lucian scowled. “You, of all folk, should do what’s right.”

The older Santa mopped his face with his sleeve. “I’ve always tried to do the right thing.”

“And yet, tonight, you refuse to do just that.”

Santa roared, a sound of indignation. “What’s really going on here? What is the historical society getting out of your performance?”

“Performance?” How could Santa possibly believe Lucian wasn’t sincere?

With a ferocious growl, Lucian pointed his sword at Santa’s chest.