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“Disappointing,” Liza said. “But the day is just starting.”

Margaret shook her head. “I don’t want you to get too . . . attached to the idea of him. We barely know him.”

“Yet, in the brief time I have known him, I like him quite a lot for you.”

“Yes,” Margaret said. “I know you do. But . . . well, if he’s helping more at the pub, he’s going to find out at some point—he’s going to learn that I’m not magical.”

“Margaret, he isn’t magical,” Liza said.

“Yes, but don’t you think he’s expecting me to be a witch?”

Liza wrinkled her nose. “You’re acting like he’s some witch fetishist or something. He really doesn’t seem like that kind of guy.”

Margaret rolled her eyes. “I’m just saying. If he’s even sort of into me—which I’m not saying he is—”

“—oh, he is—”

“—because he thinks I’m a witch, then it’ll be a letdown when I’m not,” Margaret finished.

“You know what I think?”

Margaret puffed out a breath. Liza would tell her whether she wanted to hear it or not.

“I think you like to find reasons for why you don’t deserve things,” Liza said. “I think that you tried your ‘I can’t afford distractions’ excuse, and I showed you why it was bullshit, and now you’re trying a new one: ‘I’m tragically without magic, so no one will love me.’ Well, this one is also bullshit.”

Margaret glared at her. “I’m just trying to be practical. Besides, we agreed that we’re—”

“—keeping it platonic,” Liza finished with a roll of her eyes. “Yes, I know. Let’s say I mean friend-love, all right? Because I swear, I do.”

And Margaret swore that it looked like she was crossing her fingers behind her back.

“I have a lot on my plate,” Margaret argued, switching tack. “Mom and Grandma would kill me if I ran this place into the ground.”

“You are physically incapable of doing such a thing,” Liza said, grabbing her by the hands and shaking them once. “Now, speaking of having a lot on their plate . . . how about you help me get these romance books on the shelves? And while you’re at it, you can take a peek at some of the chapters and get some ideas for the good professor. Friendly ideas only, I promise. Very, very friendly.”

She waggled her eyebrows, flakes of pastry clinging to her mouth and making Margaret bark out a laugh.

Liza put Margaret to work organizing the shelves and adding new stock while she worked on spelling the front window. From her place near the shelves, Margaret watched Liza bustle around the bookstore. It was effortless, as if Liza’s wand was a mere extension of her hands, and magic careened out of her like water from a faucet.

When they were kids and they thought that Liza’s magic had simply materialized first, the way curves might, Margaret had asked Liza what it felt like.

“Like everything in you is finally right,” she’d said. “Like you’re glowing from the inside out.”

Margaret tried to shake off that particular memory. It wasn’t helpful to dwell. It made her think of the letter at home, now stuffed back in its drawer, that had brought her the realization that she would never be “right.”

“Well,” Liza said, drawing her back. “That about does it for now, at least. Shall we head back to the pub?”

“Yes, please,” Margaret said.

Liza gave Charles a kiss on the head, then grabbed her coat. Outside, the snow had stopped falling and had left Hex Hollow looking as if it were dipped in frosting. Carolers were now out in force with birds they’d bewitched to flit around the village, singing old Christmas songs to the holiday shoppers. Margaret would’ve avoided them, but Liza linked her arm in Margaret’s and sang along to a bluebird all the way to the pub.

Maybe if she hadn’t been hearing “Jingle Bells” so close to her ear canal, she might’ve heard the hammering and pounding before she saw it. Maybe she would’ve had some sensory heads-up about what she was about to find at her pub.

As it was, by the time she looked up and saw the figure standing on her roof, she was entirely unprepared and nearly tripped in the snow at the sight of him. Indeed, it was only because she was holding on to Liza that she stayed upright at all.

“Oh my,” Liza said, following Margaret’s gaze.

For there was Silas, walking along her roof as easily as if he was striding through town. He was wearing a cream-colored thermal shirt that accentuated the broadness of his shoulders and the general . . . fitness of him.