As she followed him to the door, watching as he pulled his coat back on, Grace hugged herself tightly. “Out the door already?”
“I’ve gotta get going to work.” Bryant turned to face her, his lip curling into a smile. “Will you be at the tree lighting ceremony tonight?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. I’ll be going with the girls, but if you –”
Bryant sighed. “I’m afraid this won’t be an ‘all play and no work’ situation for me. I’ll still see you, just as the Deputy.”
She nodded as he started to reach for the doorknob, her eyes holding onto his hand. For some reason, each time he went to leave in the mornings only grew harder with every passing day. It had only been a month and a few weeks, and yet Grace found herself growing more and more attached to his presence.
“Grace.”
Her eyes raised to see his brow knitted together thoughtfully. “Hm?”
“It was that vision again, wasn’t it?”
Though her knee-jerk reaction was to brush it off, the look in his eyes seemed to say that he knew the answer even without asking. Grace lifted her shoulders in a tired shrug. “Yeah,” she murmured. “It was.”
Bryant watched her closely for a quiet moment. His hand left the doorknob for a split second, inching closer before slowly pulling back. Even though he was still leaning toward the door, still leaving to go about his day, his worried expression had no intent of fading away anytime soon. Even when he murmured a goodbye and disappeared into the pearly white, crisp morning, Grace could still feel his frown.
And as the silence settled in around her, Grace let her eyes flutter shut, replaying the haunting vision for another time.
2
Grace crossed the threshold of Lavender Locks behind Caroline and was immediately wrapped in the scent of pine, vanilla, and fresh-brewed espresso. Someone had threaded the entire entryway with fir boughs—Grace could practically taste the sap in the air—and hung them with fairy lights, which glimmered even in daylight. The effect was both over-the-top and perfect, as if the shop itself had thrown on an ugly Christmas sweater and preened in the mirror until it liked the look.
The salon buzzed with the white-noise chatter of women in various stages of beauty metamorphosis, punctuated by the muted snips of shears and the mechanical sigh of hairdryers. Stylist chairs circled the floor like Christmas village displays, each surrounded by a flurry of foil wraps and mirrored reflections. Grace caught sight of herself in one of the full-length mirrors by the front desk and saw that her cheeks were pink from the wind, and her brown hair static-charged and a bit too long since her last trim. She tugged at the sleeve of her wool coat, suddenly self-conscious, and tried not to look like someone who had almost cancelled this appointment twice.
"Melissa!" Caroline called, waving to a young stylist folding towels behind the counter. "Start the kettle, will you? And tellthe girls the Queen of England’s here for her weekly grooming." She gave Grace a wicked sideways grin. "Or at least, the Queen of Sussex County."
Melissa, barely out of her teens and still green enough to flinch at Caroline’s brand of affection, nodded. "Of course, Ms. Shepard. Good morning, Ms. Baker."
Grace managed a smile. "Hi, Melissa. How’s your December so far?"
"Busy! So many people wanting festive hair for the holidays. I’ve already done three silver-blonde makeovers this week. And one poor guy who tried to dye his own beard and came out looking like a zebra."
Caroline snorted. "Did you save his dignity, or at least his ego?"
"Both," Melissa replied, brimming with pride. She vanished into the back, presumably in pursuit of Caroline’s tea.
Grace shucked her coat, letting the salon’s warmth thaw her bones. As she followed Caroline through the forest of wreaths and tinsel, her eyes adjusted to the layered light, overhead track bulbs, pink lamps on every station, and the cold shimmer of actual magic that hummed just below the surface. Grace had learned to spot it: a faint prismatic haze clinging to the walls, a subtle static charge when you brushed too close to a workstation. To most customers it would register as nothing more than a trick of the bulbs or a product of over-caffeination, but for someone with psychic sensitivity, it was as obvious as a siren.
"Have a seat, love," Caroline said, sweeping a hand toward the styling chair closest to the window. "I’m going to work a miracle, then hustle you out in time to get ready for the tree lighting. Unless you want to join me in terrorizing my other clients?"
Grace sat, smoothing the cape Caroline draped around her like a ceremonial robe. "I’m happy to be your test subject. Just nothing too drastic, okay?"
"Trust me, you need an event hairdo. Bryant is going to lose his shit."
Grace almost choked. "It’s not a date."
"That’s not what he told Rick Dalton," Caroline sing-songed, grabbing a comb and sectioning off Grace’s hair. "He said, and I quote, ‘I’m escorting Ms. Baker to the Winter Ball because she’s a danger to herself and others if left unattended.’ Which, frankly, is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard come out of a man’s mouth, but I can see how you’d take offense."
Grace tried not to blush, but her skin was traitorous. "Bryant doesn’t say things like that."
"Not around you. But around other men? Please. They’re like dogs in a park. They can’t help but piddle on every bush to mark their territory." Caroline used her comb to untangle Grace’s strands with brisk, confident tugs.
"Would you like a peppermint tea or something stronger?" Melissa asked, suddenly appearing at her shoulder.
"Tea’s perfect," Grace replied, smiling.
