Page 106 of Blood and Bells

I glance at Nick, still smiling, still here, and feel it settle properly this time⁠—

Not a miracle.

A choice.

One we’ll keep making.

“Ours,” I say, half to him, half to the night.

“Dangerous word,” he replies lightly.

“An accurate one.”

I smile.

“Also,” I add, “I’m fairly certain someone’s left a thermos on the sleigh.”

He follows my gaze. Nods.

“Then, clearly,” he says, offering me his arm again, “this evening continues to improve.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

January has draped itself over Willow Creek like a knitted blanket that smells faintly of frankincense, smoke, and road salt—comforting, provided you don’t ask too many questions. The lights on the square are still up after Holly decreed they can stay until the last thermos of cocoa is empty and the final casserole dish is returned to its rightful, faintly passive-aggressive owner.

Which means February. Possibly March.

The town has agreed, without discussion, that this is now a tradition.

My coven is content too.

Ronan runs wood to anyone who so much as thinks about being cold. He calls it the ‘War on Chill.’ He has a roster and has begun referring to himself as a one-man logistics division. Ranu has taken over Tuesday Story Hour at the library and reads ancient epics to children who don’t blink at the word sacrifice and clap enthusiastically for dragons, which bodes…interestingly. Wes has discovered the intoxicating combination of fairy lights and a staple gun and is daydreaming about expanding Hemoglow. Even Crinkshaw—who would deny enjoyment under oath—consults for one of the beignet bakeries twice a week and has developed a gingerbread recipe that does not bake so much as judge. It scowls when you open the oven. Customers find this reassuring.

As for me, I am wearing an Aran sweater.

It isn’t black.

Midnight blue, which Holly insists counts as growth. It is warm, indecently soft, and cable-knit within an inch of its life. She gave it to me as a belated Christmas present, handed over with a look that said she would keep handing me colors until one of us broke. I didn’t argue. I put it on and discovered a new and terrible weakness: I like the shade. I refuse to tell my coven. They will orchestrate matching knits, and I will retreat to a pressing appointment with meaning.

“You’re staring at it again,” Holly says from the sofa.

“I’m assessing it.”

“You’re petting your own sleeve.”

“It’s a tactile assessment.”

She snorts without looking up from her phone. “You love that sweater.”

“I tolerate it with distinction.”

“That’s not a phrase.”

“It is now.”

She twists a strand of hair around her finger.

“You’ve worn it two days in a row,” she adds.