Page 115 of Jingle Spells

Neither do you, a small voice in his head responded.

Jasper slumped into his chair, surveying his domain. Perfectly ordinary records of births, marriages, property transfers, and business licenses. The mundane machinery of county government, waiting to be filed by the county’s most reliable employee. An employee who, apparently, had experienced some kind of unfortunate psychotic break.

That had to be it, right? Otherwise, how could he explain his behavior? What could have possibly pulled him away from his responsibilities? More importantly, how could he promise it wouldn’t happen again, if he didn’t understand why it had happened in the first place? Something else nagged at him too: a persistent ache, a sort of internal phantom limb. As if he’d lost something important but couldn’t remember what.

The phone rang, startling him from his reverie. He stared at it for a moment, then squared his shoulders and picked up the receiver.

“Archives Department, Jasper Hopkins speaking.”

“Mr. Hopkins,” said a woman’s voice that was somehow both warm and terrifying in equal measure. “This is Kelly Melrose.”

“Uh, okay? And you are?”

“I am the anonymous patron.”

Jasper nearly dropped the phone. He’d been searching fruitlessly for this individual for years and now she was just . . . calling him. “Wow, I . . . I don’t know what to say. It’s so nice to hear from you. Thank you so much for⁠—”

“I understand you’ve been absent from your post recently.”

He swallowed hard. “Yes, ma’am. I apologize for that. It won’t happen again.”

“Mr. Hopkins, I devote considerable time, energy, and personal funds to a wide variety of philanthropic efforts. One of these is the preservation of the history of the northwest corner of our state.”

“It’s a fascinating region,” Jasper offered weakly.

“I am deeply committed to these projects, and I only work with people who are equally committed. People I can rely on.”

“I am committed,” Jasper insisted. “What happened was . . . an anomaly. I’ve never missed a day of work before this.”

“Hmm.” The sound was neither agreement nor disagreement. “That’s as may be. Nevertheless, I believe it would be prudent to implement some safeguards.”

“Safeguards?”

“Yes. You will take on an assistant. Someone you can train to maintain the archives in your absence, should you decide to wander off again.”

Jasper’s heart sank. An assistant. Someone strange in his carefully curated workspace. Someone talking, breathing, existing in his private sanctuary. He loathed those moments when other clerks stopped by for five minutes; how was he going to share this space all day every day? “Is that really necessary?” He tried to keep the desperation from his voice.

“It is. The arrangements have been made. Your new assistant will arrive shortly.”

Jasper wanted to argue. He truly, desperately wanted to argue. But what could he say? Kelly Melrose was the only one who made it possible for him to do the work he adored so much.

“I understand,” he said finally.

“Good.” There was a pause, then she added, “Don’t fuck this up, Hopkins.”

The line went dead.

Jasper just sat there, staring at the receiver as if it might somehow spring to life and explain what the hell had just happened. His mysterious, uncompromising patron was forcing Jasper to take on an assistant. Presumably it was a form of punishment for his unexplained absence.

This was a nightmare. An assistant. Someone invading his space, disrupting his routine. What if they were chatty? What if they were messy? What if they ate tuna sandwiches at their desk or played the radio or, God forbid, wanted to discuss sports? A horror movie of potential scenarios flashed through Jasper’s mind: sticky notes plastered everywhere, pens without caps, coffee rings on historical documents. Someone asking him question after question, forcing him to explain and re-explain processes that should be as natural as breathing. Someone watching him, judging him . . .

Someone reporting back to Kelly freaking Melrose.

The sound of the door opening at the top of the stairs made him freeze. Already? The nightmare begins today?

“Hello?” A voice drifted down. Female, with a slight huskiness that stirred something in Jasper’s memory.

He stood up, straightening his tie and brushing imaginary lint from his sweater vest. Professional. He needed to be professional.

Footsteps descended the stairs, and then she appeared: a woman in a crisp blazer, with dark hair cut in a sharp bob. Her eyes found his immediately. “I’m Delilah Melrose. Your new assistant. We drove here together once . . . Do you remember that?”

“We’ve met?”

“Yes, you brought me here to inspect a document you found. Inside that portrait of Agnes Bartlett.”

Ohhh. Yes. That part was coming back now. She’d been with him, right at the conclusion of his Lost Week. This woman, this achingly beautiful woman, had somehow appeared in his car. And they’d driven here, and Toby had made rude comments . . . and then she’d left, just as mysteriously as she’d arrived. “Hang on, do you . . . by any chance . . . know what happened to me recently? I had a concussion or something and . . . You were there. Weren’t you? I think you were there.”

A small smile played at the corners of her mouth. “I, um . . . Gosh, I’m not sure how to respond to that one. I don’t want to get ahead of myself. How about this—” She extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m looking forward to working together.”

He accepted her handshake, and the moment their skin touched, Jasper felt a jolt of . . . something. Recognition? Déjà vu? Or just static electricity from the carpet? “Welcome to the archives, Ms. Melrose.”

“Please.” Her grip was confident and firm. “Call me Delilah.”

As he looked into her dark, soulful eyes, Jasper had the strangest thought: Maybe an assistant won’t be so bad after all.