The wassail bowl sits at the end of the lane, waiting. If I could replay the look on Elsie’s face when I pulled it from under the teatowels, I would. She looked at me like she hated that I was a step ahead—but also like she might trust me for it.
I liked that look.
Around us, the crowd is settling: wool coats, breath puffing in small storms, a hundred low voices softening toward the part where we hush, and the trees listen. I’d call it superstition if I didn’t already know better.
The magic here is real, and it’s everywhere.
I spot a head of chestnut curls near the table. Isla has tied a silver ribbon at Elsie’s wrist and is talking to her with wild, earnest hands. Elsie listens, chin tipped down, eyes up.
“Lanterns first,” Isla calls. “Then toast. Then cider.” She catches my eye and points toward the far end. “Your stakes are holding well. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” I say. “Wind’s a jealous guest.”
I pass a candle to a woman who’s already lit two. She grins like I’ve handed her something better than beeswax, holds my gaze a moment too long.
I nod, polite, and move on.
It used to happen more often when I first moved here. Women testing me, seeing if I’d answer a look with something more. And I used to, rather willingly.
These days, I’m more interested in whether or not a joint will hold.
Elsie meets me in the drift between groups. “How many did you need to fix?”
“Four,” I say. “Ground’s like stone.”
“Looking good,” she says, then stumbles. “I mean the line. It looks steady.”
“Thanks.”
She lifts a slice of toast from a plate and dips it into the steaming cider. The bread soaks fast. She makes a face when it threatens to fall apart, and I slide the bowl closer.
“Lift slow,” I say. “Let it drip.”
“Do you naturally know how to do everything, or are you just making it up as you go?”
“I was born this way.”
She snorts, and something in me unwinds.
The brass band from the church starts up with something almost—but not quite—in tune. A hush passes from one end of the lane to the other. Bobby Brindle clears his throat at the head table as Isla squeezes past us, cheeks bright, hands full of matches.
“You ready?” Isla asks.
“I’m upright,” Elsie says. “I think I can talk to the crowd for a few minutes.”
“Good luck.” Isla squeezes her wrist and moves on, lighting wicks with quick, sure touches.
Elsie looks down the row. “Where do I put this?”
“Pick a tree,” I say. “First one you liked when you were little, maybe.”
“I don’t remember which was first.”
“Then pick the one that looks like it wants company.”
She studies the nearest trunk, then another two down. She walks ahead and stops at one with a low branch. There’s a scar on the east side where lightning must have kissed it.
“This one,” she says.
