Chapter 1
Emory
TheroadintoMercuryRidge looks like the opening shot of a Christmas movie, with snow-dusted pines, twinkling lights strung across the lampposts, and a giant wreath on the Welcome sign.
It should feel magical.
It would… if I weren't fishtailing up the mountain in a compact rental car that definitely wasn't built for icy switchbacks.
"My editor owes me hazard pay," I mutter, gripping the steering wheel with frozen fingers. "And possibly new underwear."
This is what I get for being the only journalist on staff who loves Christmasandis foolish enough to drive into the mountains alone during a blizzard warning.
Find the Glass Ghost, Emory.
Get the story, Emory.
Don't come back without an interview, Emory.
Right. Easy. Except the mystical, elusive glassblower who's become a Christmas sensation apparently hates people, avoids cameras, and operates in secret.
His art can only be purchased through a third-party art dealer… except for the ornaments he leaves in random locations in towns throughout the Appalachian Mountains. Sometimes he puts them directly on Christmas trees. Other times, he leaves them out in plain sight on park benches or in mailboxes. And no one ever sees him do it.
The man is basically a festive Bigfoot.
I ease into town and spot a tiny general store glowing with warm yellow light.Bingo.Locals always know everything. If the Glass Ghost sneezed in 2017, someone here probably remembers the exact pitch and volume.
A jingle bell chimes when I step inside, releasing the scent of coffee and fresh cinnamon rolls. Warmth envelops me immediately, thawing my frozen cheeks. My eyes instantly find the Christmas tree in the corner, adorned with the most breathtaking glass ornaments. My pulse kicks into high gear.
The Glass Ghost has beenhere.
A woman behind the counter looks up, gray hair in a loose braid, eyes kind but curious. Andcautious.
"Morning, sweetheart," she says. "Storm's coming in fast. You headed somewhere specific?"
Her tone implies she already knows the answer.
I give her my brightest reporter smile. "Actually, I'm looking for someone. A glassblower? People around here call him—"
"The Glass Ghost," she finishes, folding her arms. "Mm-hmm. Kinda figured. The closer we get to Christmas, the more of you seem to show up."
I blink.Maybe this will be easier than I thought."So, you know where to find him?"
"Even if I did, he wouldn't appreciate me telling you."
Before I can protest, she softens. "He's a private man. The mountain suits him. Folks go up looking for him all the time, and they never come back with much."
"Are we sure he actually exists?" I joke.
She snorts. "Oh, he exists. Hard to miss a man built like a redwood tree."
A spark of triumph flares in my chest. So, he's real.Redwood treeisn’t much of a description, but it’s a lead. She just confirmed the Glass Ghost is a man… and a big one. So, I can probably rule out anyone under six feet.
“I’m going to find him,” I say with confidence.
The woman looks me over, like she's trying to decide whether I'm stubborn or stupid.Actually, lady, I’m a little of both.
“The weather’s going to get nasty today,” she says. “Is there any chance I can convince you to go home?”
