Chapter 18
Marigold
“You’re here! And you’ve brought a friend. Wunderbar!” Uncle Uzzi exclaims, arms flung wide like a Broadway conductor welcoming us to the grand finale of his enchanted matchmaking opera.
His sprawling estate glows like the cover of a Christmas card—pillars wrapped in garland, icicle lights twinkling with actual stardust, and snow drifting lazily down despite the fact that it’s not snowing anywhere else in the county. Typical.
I take a deep breath, my hands smoothing the front of my deep emerald dress.
“Uncle Uzzi, this is Emery,” I say, gesturing to my best friend, who’s currently trying not to gape at a trio of floating wreaths singing O Holy Night in tight three-part harmony.
He claps his hands. “Of course she is! Come in, come in!”
We follow him inside, the air thick with cinnamon, pine, and something older—ancient magic humming in the walls like a second heartbeat. I should be enchanted.
But I’m not.
Not entirely.
Because even as I admire the floating candlelight, the ice sculptures that refill champagne flutes, the glittering chandeliers with enchanted snowflakes dancing beneath them—my stomach is in knots.
I don’t ask him what I really want to ask him.
Not as we pass a group of shifter socialites comparing enchanted nail charms.
Not as we wind through a forest of crystal Christmas trees, each one glowing in a different color of the aurora borealis.
Not even when we stop in front of a hot cocoa bar staffed by literal sugar sprites.
Each one of them is outfitted in the most beautiful Christmas regalia with peppermint-striped wings as they zip around behind the bar, dusting cinnamon in midair, seemingly heating mugs with a flick of their fingers, and spreading joy in that way only magical creatures can.
One of them winks at Emery and makes her cocoa foam swirl into a heart shape.
Show-off.
Seriously, Uncle Uzzi has outdone himself.
As if the enchanted, snow-globe-of-an-estate wasn’t already festive enough, this cocoa bar is next-level.
The waitstaff is beyond five-star—more like five-conjured-stars-and-a-moon.
A tall, older man dressed head to toe in red and green, with an elf hat tilted jauntily to one side, stirs cocoa with dramatic flourishes like a Broadway bartender.
He distributes whipped cream, chocolate curls, and sprinkles with the same grace I use when icing cookies at warp speed.
Where was this guy when I was knee-deep in powdered sugar and fighting off carpal tunnel trying to frost ten thousand gingerbread men for this very party?
There are other drink offerings, of course. It’s Uncle Uzzi.
Nothing is ever just cocoa.
There’s a cauldron of spiced cider that steams in festive patterns—currently snowflakes and reindeer.
A sleek mirrored tray with fizzy cranberry mimosas that refill themselves.
Glasses of wine that hover on tall tables politely beside their drinkers like loyal familiars.
And naturally, a row of Shifter friendly hot toddies labeled guaranteed not to interfere with healing factors. Because obviously.
I should be ordering something hot and sweet.
Something to soothe my nerves.
Maybe even a stiff toddy to pair with my emotional unraveling.
But instead, I’m too busy dying inside.
I don’t say Ebenezer’s name.
Not as I smile politely at the cocoa elf and grin while he dusts a twelve inch mug of spiked cocoa with edible gold glitter.
Not as Emery oohs over the floating marshmallow snowmen doing synchronized backstrokes in her mug.
Not as I feel the memory of Eb’s hands on my hips, his voice growling my name, his laugh vibrating through me like a favorite carol.
No, I don’t say his name out loud.
Because if I do?
I’ll fall apart.
Instead, I smile and nod and pretend being here without him doesn’t feel like heartache and what-if.
But I think it hard enough that Uzzi—being the nosey old goat he is—turns to me with that look.
The one that sees too much.
He offers me a glass of mulled wine. I take it.
And then, because I’m clearly a glutton for punishment, I blurt, “Why do men like him make strong, independent women like me feel like weak, whiny, clingy nincompoops?”
Uzzi’s lips twitch.
“Ah. So we are talking about Ebenezer.”
“I didn’t say his name,” I mutter.
“You didn’t have to. Your aura is practically screaming it in seven languages. Loudest in German, oddly.”
I huff and sip the wine. “I hate this. I hate feeling this much. I was fine before him. I had my bakery, my peace, my perfectly curated little life. Then he shows up and boom—I’m baking love cookies and having magical orgasms and feeling hopeful and now I’m just—ugh!”
“Scared,” Uzzi finishes gently.
“Angry,” I say at the same time.
He nods.
“Both are allowed. Both are real. But may I offer you a bit of witchy wisdom, my dear?”
“Please.”
He leans closer, lowering his voice.
“Being open-hearted does not make you weak. It makes you brave. There is nothing more powerful than a woman who chooses to feel it all and love anyway.”
I swallow hard.
“It still hurts,” I whisper.
“Yes,” he agrees. “But you’re still here. In your best dress. In full glam. With perfect eyeliner, no less.”
He smiles gently.
“Because you’re not weak, Marigold. You’re just in it. And no amount of magic can save you from the messiness of love. All we can do is show up with our hearts in our hands and hope the other person does the same.”
I blink back the sudden sting in my eyes and nod.
“Now,” Uzzi continues, taking my glass. “Let’s go inside. The party’s just beginning. And if the man in question does show up tonight, he’d better come with good explanations and better intentions—or I shall turn him into a Badger and make him clean chimneys.”
“He is a Badger.”
Uzzi grins. “Then the chimney part stands.”
Emery returns to my side with two sparkling punch glasses and a snowflake sticker stuck to her cheek.
“You good?” she asks, eyes sharp, taking me in.
“I will be,” I say, glancing around the glittering ballroom.
Because tonight?
I’m not running.
If Eb wants to explain himself—he can find me.
And if not?
Well, I’ll leave with a new sense of power, and maybe a peppermint truffle or two.