"More than that." I touched my pocket where the cherry wood rested warm against my hip. "I've found where I belong."
Harrison's smile was unexpectedly kind. "Some roles choose us, Alex. And sometimes they're not the ones we originally auditioned for."
He paused. "For what it's worth, you could have had a remarkable career. But I suspect you're going to build something more important. Something real."
"Thank you." My voice came out thick. "For giving me a second chance. Even if I didn't use it the way you expected."
"Perhaps especially because you didn't." He glanced at something off-screen. "I need to finish packing for London. Good luck, Alex."
The call ended. I stood alone on the stage where I'd played Santa, directed children, and slowly let go of the person I'd thought I needed to be.
The workshop door opened. Ben's footsteps crossed the stage—not rushing, but not hesitant either.
"I heard," he said quietly. "Not the words. Just your voice through the door."
"I sang 'All Through the Night.'"
His breath caught. "Your grandmother's song."
"I couldn't do it. Couldn't sing 'Music of the Night' and pretend it mattered more than what I have here." I turned to face him, letting him see the tears I hadn't bothered to wipe away. "Harrison said I failed the audition."
"Alex—"
"He also said it was authentic." I laughed. "So I guess I failed successfully."
Ben crossed the remaining distance between us.
"You're staying." Not a question.
"I'm staying. Not because Broadway doesn't want me—Harrison made it clear I could have had the tour if I'd played by the rules. I'm staying because this is where I belong." I pressed my hand over his heart. "This is who I want to become. The person who sings Cole Porter in an empty theater and means every word."
The kiss was different from any we'd shared before. Softer. More certain. When we broke apart, Ben smiled.
"Tomorrow," he said. "The show."
"I know. And after the show—Marcus. I promised."
"We promised." He reached out to gather me into his arms. "I'll go with you. We can bring the dragon nightlight together."
Something unknotted in my chest. "Ryan's going to be thrilled."
"Ryan's going to cry and pretend it's allergies. He's eight, he's got an image to maintain."
I laughed—really laughed—and the sound echoed through the empty theater.
Through the high windows, the stars were brighter than usual. Maybe it was the clear winter sky. Perhaps it was the magic that ran through Yuletide Valley like water through stone, ancient, patient, and sure.
Ben led me back to the workshop. On his bench, the tools he'd inherited from five generations of Blitzens gleamed in the lamplight. Beside them, my grandmother's music box sat in its place of honor, the mysterious marks on its base catching the glow.
"Your grandmother knew," Ben said quietly. "About us. About magic. About what you'd find if you came home."
"She always did see more than she let on." I touched the music box, feeling the wood warm beneath my fingers. "I think she'd be happy. Knowing I finally stopped performing long enough to listen."
"To what?"
"To what the wood wanted to become."
His smile was slow, warm, and full of recognition. "Spoken like a true craftsman."
