Page 24 of A Spell for Midwinter’s Heart

When the tearful reunion had concluded and Liliana Midwinter had comforted everyone with hot cider and cookies laden with hearth magic, Kel arrived to release Rowan from her festival obligations.

“Enjoy your night,” mumbled her cousin as they took her place.

As she stepped out of the booth and into the snow, she spied Gavin, still lingering nearby.

He was a dark slit against the snowy backdrop of the festival, studying one of the crafting tables in the geodesic ice dome that housed the crafting area, where children were putting various wintery items inside glass balls and velvet pouches.

The instruction sign was clear: To be given away as a gift.

Despite the initial urge to sneak past him, she found herself taking a few steps closer. “They’re making Yule charms.”

He glanced her way, unsurprised by her approach. “Oh? Looks like ornaments to me.”

“That’s probably what most of them think too…But…”

Rowan leaned down to pick up a pouch in one hand, stealing a pinch of fragrant brown spice with the other.

“Cinnamon.” She released the cinnamon into the pouch and then went down the line of ingredients and picked up a fir branch.

Fingers running against its grain, she released a pinch of needles, wiping her hands on her jeans to gummy the sap. “Fir.”

With the needles added, she picked up a handful of red berries. “Holly berries.”

She hesitated before the next pot, but then picked up a small green leafy bunch. “Mistletoe,” she murmured, trying not to meet him in the eye as she did.

Finally, she tied the whole thing closed with a gold ribbon and murmured a blessing.

“But whether or not we intend it,” she finished finally, “there’s always magic in gift giving.” After a moment’s hesitation, she thrust the pouch his way. He arched an eyebrow.

After a moment, he accepted it, fingers brushing hers as he took it in hand. Her body shivered at the touch—why couldn’t it get the memo? This wasn’t a thing.

He was Hayleigh’s.

“Thank you…” Gavin said, slipping it into his jacket pocket. Then, after a moment of silence, he continued in a serious tone, “We need to talk.”

“Talk?” she asked, her voice coming out in a squeak. Was it possible the spell had failed? Had Hayleigh told him what had happened? Or was this about the Ferris wheel? Had he sensed what she’d done?

He nodded, giving no hints. “Yes, is now a good time?”

With no excuse to offer, she nodded. “As good as any.”

Gavin led them out of the festival grounds and into the dark but still-busy streets.

For a while, he said nothing, and Rowan did her best to dampen her anxiety.

It was no use spinning out until she knew exactly what it was he planned to say—but then, the pointlessness of anxious speculation had never stopped her before.

Perhaps he had simply noticed her refusal to engage with him and wanted to clear the air?

“Did you want to talk now?” she ventured.

With a glance at the surrounding crowds, he shook his head. “Maybe we should find somewhere…more private?”

“Oh…Um…” Not far down the road, she spotted a white Craftsman house squatting stubbornly between two much larger and more formal-looking brick buildings.

“How about the Nutcracker Museum?” she said. “There’s hardly ever anyone there this late.”

“Perfect.”

“And we can check out some nuss-knockers while we chat.”

“Pardon?” he asked, eyebrows retreating to the top of his forehead.

She flushed, realizing that the goofy way her father pronounced the word could be dreadfully misinterpreted.

“Sorry, um, nussknackers …nutcrackers.”

“Oh…Right.” He gave a casual shrug and swept a hand toward the building, but she could swear there was a spot of pink in his cheeks.

A massive nutcracker guarded the entrance of the museum, at least twenty feet in height.

A placard indicated it had once been a part of a prestigious production of the ballet.

It was a grinning soldier wielding a curved sword and a handlebar mustache.

Time had bleached the once-vibrant red and yellow of his uniform to more of a pink and off-white, but children still stood before him in awe, gaping at his sheer size, while parents snapped identical photos to post to their social media feeds.

“I’ll be inside in a second,” said Gavin, apologetically glancing at his phone.

“Okay, I’ll grab tickets.”

Inside, a television droned as a spindly old man wearing a knit Christmas sweater two sizes too big dozed behind a desk, nose hairs fluttering with every gentle exhale.

A talking head on a small TV ranted about smuggling rings under the Denver airport.

The “lobby” was actually the sun porch of a house belonging to the sleeping old man, Norman.

The museum was more of a passion project than a true museum, but it had been a fixture of the community for as long as Rowan could remember.

“Norman,” she said. When he didn’t stir, she repeated, “ Norman! ”

The old man started and unwrapped his arms from his chest, blinking through thick lenses. “Wh-wha…?” His face soured in recognition. “The Midwinter girl.”

“Yep, it’s me,” she said, her voice strained.

Norman was one of the town’s oldest residents, making him one of the last remnants of the time when the prevailing attitude toward the witches was “Throw ’em in the river and hang ’em if they don’t sink.

” It was an attitude he’d needed to keep to himself after the success of the winter festival, and Liliana’s position as a key member of the community had shifted sentiment in the witches’ favor, but it was clear his mind had not actually changed.

“How are you, Norman?” she said, through a forced smile.

“I was better before you brought Satan into my home.” Rowan’s cheeks burned with anger and embarrassment. It was at that moment she noticed a flyer behind his shoulder. It bore the unmistakable logo of the Goshen Group.

GET MERRY FOR

“CHRISTMASTOWN!”

Below it was the address to a website and the Goshen Group’s branding. Her heart rate spiked.

“Norman!” The voice was sharp. Gavin had stepped up beside her, and he frowned down at the old man.

“Gavin McCreery?” Norman blinked, glancing between them. “Don’t tell me you’ve gotten yourself ensorcelled by one of them.”

“Just give us two tickets,” said Gavin, rolling his eyes.

“Fine, fine,” said Norman, but then he looked Rowan’s way and gave a low chuckle. A shiver passed down her spine as she glanced at the Christmastown flyer one more time.

As predicted, they were the only people inside the museum at this hour, and their footsteps echoed off the stripped pine floors. Her anxiety at the Christmastown flyer lingered. It wasn’t surprising that Norman was in favor of it. But was anyone else?

She thought back to Hayleigh’s accusation. Were they standing in the way of what most people wanted for Elk Ridge?

“Which is your favorite?” Gavin’s distinct timbre suddenly interrupted her thoughts.

“Oh,” she said. “Um…”

The question successfully moved her thoughts on from the Goshen Group, and Christmastown, as she strolled through the museum.

Solid wood cabinets lined the walls, filled with an array of nutcrackers.

It might have only been one man’s collection, but that didn’t mean it was small.

An article about the museum had gone viral more than a decade back, and since then, donations had poured in from all over the world.

A few of his pieces were over two hundred years old. While most were made of wood, others were ivory or porcelain. Norman might have been a narrow-minded curmudgeon, but that didn’t change the fact that he’d created something beautiful.

She stopped in front of a Drosselmeyer featuring a big bushy beard, a velvet eye patch, and a devilish grin. A petite Clara stood beside him with her blush pink dress and chestnut hair in tight sausage curls.

“I’ve got two,” she said. “This one’s the first. I had a bit of a Nutcracker phase—danced to the score over and over and over. My dad even drove me to Seattle to see it.”

“I didn’t realize you studied ballet.”

Rowan snorted. “A ballerina? Me? Not with this center of balance.”

A crooked smile upturned one end of his mouth. “You know how to dance.”

When had he ever seen her dance? She supposed they’d attended the same dances in high school, where she, simply by virtue of being willing to dance unself-consciously, might have come off as knowing how, but they’d occupied distinctly separate territories.

“My version was…interpretive dance,” she said. “But I loved the story.”

“Isn’t the story just a string of nonsense to justify the dances?”

With a shrug, she said, “I’m a fan of beautiful nonsense that makes you feel things.”

“Hmm,” he said, face sticking in the half smile.

She led him into a narrow side room, where more displays were stuffed cheek by jowl. A rounded cherrywood cabinet contained a nutcracker wearing a crown of holly and a flowing robe, clearly fashioned after the Holly King.

“This is my other one.” She stared at it. The nutcracker’s resemblance to the Holly King impersonator she’d met at SeaTac was uncanny, and she recalled their conversation, the way he had challenged her, with a shiver.

Was it possible that he hadn’t been an impersonator? And if he wasn’t, did that mean that one of the season’s most powerful spirits had taken a stake in the future of Elk Ridge?

A tremor of possibility ran down the length of her spine. What all magics were at play here?

Gavin wandered over to another cabinet, admiring a highly polished single-tone wooden nutcracker—one of the oldest in the collection, explained a placard.

It was bare of paint and didn’t have the distinctive stylistic appearance of most commercial nutcrackers.

Instead, it was a highly realistic old man’s head.

His beard swept out in front of him in a fork to form the base, providing the foundation for the “cracker,” and a tall, pointed cap extended above his head dramatically.