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“It’s incredible magic,” Silas said. “You really do have an eye for it.”

Liza smiled. “You know, I’ve been begging Margaret to let me do something like this for her at the pub, but she’s always pushed back.”

“You’re kidding,” Silas said, his mind already whirring. “Something like this would look great in the window. Margaret could do this, right?”

Liza sighed. “It’s not a matter of if she could. She will not decorate for Christmas.”

Silas turned to her. “What do you mean?”

“Well, she always finds excuses not to decorate,” Liza said. “Don’t ask me why. She used to be into it, as a kid. But not anymore. I’ve been begging her to put up a single light. It’s a lost cause, I’m afraid. She’s just not a Christmas person.”

Silas considered this. Perhaps if he framed it the right way. And she had to see that Fox Bar would be pulling out all the festive stops.

“I see how your brain’s turning,” Liza said. “And I’ll say this: I wouldn’t push it. Margaret’s pretty tied to keeping things status quo.”

“Sure,” Silas said, but in his head, he was already thinking up ideas of what he could do.

“Let’s go look for those books,” she said, smiling at Wyatt. “And I’ve got the perfect spot for you to study. Come on in back. And neither of you are allergic to cats, are you? Because, say the word. I’ve got a spell ready if you are. Not petting him isn’t acceptable, so you’d better be prepared.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Margaret arrived back at the pub feeling like she would be smelling like clove and ginger for at least twenty-four hours. Helping Sarah was always a dream; they’d worked together on a cookie recipe that Margaret planned to duplicate at the pub. She hadn’t meant for that to happen—she’d gone over to help Sarah—but it had happened that way just the same.

“Anything to help you stand out,” Sarah had said. “You know we’ve all got your back here.”

Margaret did know. Ever since word had gotten around about Patrick Kerrigan’s appearance at the Toasty Owl, shopkeepers had been showing up letting Margaret know they were there for whatever she needed. Norma had filled the place with flowers, Mr. Weatherby had begrudgingly offered to help Silas with the items he needed, and Sarah and Priya had been helping bolster the pastry and food offerings.

And then there was Silas, helping with whatever she needed. And not just helping. When Silas was there at the pub, Margaret felt grounded. She felt like she could endure. After all, she didn’t want to believe Patrick Kerrigan could steal people away with his flashy magic, but she also didn’t want to leave anything to chance. Her pub was a mainstay of Hex Hollow, and her regulars weren’t about to be won over by fancy spell work and some updated fixtures.

Or so they promised her.

So, she washed and rewashed the glassware, dusted the bottles, swept and polished the floors. She shined the new windowpane and the old ones while Bernie zoomed around her head, blowing fire to light the candles around the room. She fluffed the pillows on the armchairs more than necessary, then sat in one to nibble at her cuticle, then fluffed the pillow again after she stood up.

It looked perfect. There was nothing more to do. So she went upstairs to change and get herself ready for the night. She combed out her hair, then misted her curls, then scrunched them with a crème that Liza had gifted her last Christmas. It smelled like honeysuckle and jasmine flowers and made Margaret wonder why she didn’t use it all the time. This, naturally, made her wonder what had possessed her to grab it tonight. But she shrugged off that thought, even when Bernie zoomed in and landed on her dresser and gave her a pointed stare. A very pointed stare, for a dragon.

“What?” Margaret asked. “I can’t want to look good? I’ve spent all week making this place look great. Can a girl not simply want a change a pace?”

Bernie flicked her tongue out.

“It’s not because of him,” she said, but the dragon huffed.

“Truly,” Margaret continued. But also . . . it wasn’t not because of him. These weeks had felt like a blur, him always nearby, always ready to jump to her aid.

As a friend, she reminded herself. Something she’d made certain of and clarified beyond a reasonable doubt.

And yet . . . sometimes, there were moments when they were working together. He’d be fixing a chair and she’d be mixing a new drink, trying out one of her new recipes. Like last night. She’d been testing the right amount of nectar to add. She’d been swirling the nectar into the glass, and when she pulled her spoon out, the sticky liquid clung to her fingertip. She’d popped it into her mouth without a thought . . . and then she’d looked up and found his eyes on her.

They flitted away before either of them could acknowledge the moment, but Margaret had felt the decidedly not-friendly heat of his gaze. And unlike before, when she might’ve brushed it aside, now . . . as much as she worried about the Toasty Owl and Fox Bar and everything else, she knew that she’d enjoyed Silas’s eyes on her. She wanted him to want her.

And so, she decided to give in to the instinct that sent her digging out some old lipstick from her drawer—a rich, dark red that reminded Margaret of a vampire who visited the pub on occasion—and swiped it on. It also meant wearing a deep plum skirt and matching top that Margaret usually kept firmly at the back of her closet because it dipped slightly lower and less comfortably than all her other tops.

She didn’t, however, change one particular thing about her appearance: Her boots were the same ones she always wore, rich, supple leather that had long ago molded to her feet. If she was going to be running around all night, she needed at least one part of her to be comfortable.

She checked her watch, which now read just about time. She nodded. So it was. She held out her arm for Bernie to fly over, and the dragon did without hesitation. Her claws were sharp against her bare skin, but she noticed Bernie made sure not to dig. She appreciated that.

“You’re feeling generous,” she said. “Perhaps you won’t be breaking any of my bowls tonight, either?”

The dragon made no such promises but flicked her forked tongue out to touch Margaret’s cheek as they descended down the stairs.