1
December 20
The Day Before Yule
It had been eight years since she cast her last spell, and though Rowan Midwinter considered herself done with magic, that didn't mean magic was done with Rowan Midwinter. After all, magic was not something you could walk away from. It ran in currents through all things, binding space and time and charging those places where particles entangled. Ever there, thrumming at the edge of awareness, tempting her when things got hard.
And there was no harder time of year than Yule.
The makings of holiday magic were everywhere at Yuletide, harvested from tradition and turned into decor. Rowan plucked a piece of mistletoe off her fundraising booth and spun it in her fingers.
Wrap the sprig in a red cloth, bind it with cords of gold and silver, say the words, and so long as she kept it in her pocket, people would feel extra generous in her presence.
"Could use some of that right now," said Rowan, flipping her gaze to the empty donation jar at her side with a sigh.
The thrumming she had been doing her best to ignore intensified, like waves receding over a pebbled strand. Familiar words formed in her mind's eye.
A Spell to Open a Heart
White-hot anxiety shot down her spine, and her stomach bucked.
"No," she said, pitching the mistletoe back to the table where it belonged. The thrumming abated in a huff that left Rowan with the distinct feeling someone was disappointed in her.
"What's new?" she muttered, turning her attention back to "Christmas Cheer for the Climate!" and the crowd of potential donors she so desperately needed to woo.
Clad in sequins and silk and one hundred percent Italian wool, the fundraiser's wealthy attendees strolled through drifts of fake snow as they traveled from booth to booth, judging the worthiness of participating nonprofits. A jazzy remix of "Carol of the Bells" filled the hall, and drinks flowed from bars hidden inside the trunks of faux evergreen trees wound with tinsel. The synthetic winter wonderland was in stark contrast with the world outside, where the Santa Ana winds blew hot mischief through the concrete shell of city over desert.
Every detail had been designed to get donors in the holiday mood, but either it wasn't working, or all those year-end donations were ending up in other jars, supporting other causes.
What was she doing wrong? How could she fix this? It had seemed gauche to bring swag to an environmental fundraiser, since it would all end up in the trash, but everyone else had swag.
"Rowan!"
A statuesque woman glowing in yellow taffeta slid into her field of view, pulling her from her thoughts. It took her a moment to match the woman's face with those she'd gotten to know on a screen, as she'd spent her year with the SunlightCorps, a community solar nonprofit, working almost entirely from the corner of her studio apartment. When it registered that she was looking at Lorena Perez, chief of staff, Rowan straightened and adjusted her glasses, as if their slight tilt betrayed her inattention.
"You've got the main stage in twenty," said her boss. "Which means you need to be backstage in fifteen."
The reminder sent sparks through Rowan's nervous system. She was on the hook to give a presentation about the SunlightCorps' next big endeavor, a project she'd personally championed. She'd been pushing to expand beyond solar retrofits of apartment buildings to helping fund and install full community-owned solar grids.
It was a big swing. An expensive swing. While they'd secured federal grants, they still needed a boatload of private donations if they were going to succeed.
And they weren't even at a cupful.
Lorena's eyes slid to her back. "You know your zipper isn't all the way up, right?"
Heat flushed Rowan's cheeks. Her peaches-and-cream complexion could always be counted on to give her away.
"I couldn't reach the whole way."
Lorena studied her for a moment, eyes flicking to the other staff members milling around the booth. With a tip of the chin, she asked, "You want me to . . . ?"
"Please," said Rowan, pulling aside her mass of auburn curls to give Lorena access.
The forest green velveteen gown she'd rented for the fundraiser strained across her chest as her boss tugged the gaping seam closed before jerking up the zipper. Lorena's rich alto vibrated in her ear. "You live alone, right?"
"Mmm. No one'll know when I die till the smell sets in."
Her boss released her with a pat. "Oh, I'm sure the rats'll figure it out sooner."
"Well, at least I won't go to waste." The banter slowed the ripples of anxiety beneath Rowan's skin but did not still them entirely. She smoothed her hands down her front, enjoying the delicate silvery ribs of embroidered ivy beneath her palms, then fished out her notecards from a discreet pocket in the gown's folds. "Thank you, by the way."
"Of course," said Lorena. "Can't have any wardrobe malfunctions. We need you to smash this." Lorena eyed her. "You're going to smash this, right?"
"Just call me 'the hammer'!" said Rowan, with a weak swing of her arm.
The joke went down as poorly as it deserved. Lorena's smile was too bright as she said, "Why don't you go ahead and get yourself ready? Grab a drink, if you drink. Grab some air, if you don't." And then, with a squeeze of her shoulder, "We're all counting on you."
It was not what Rowan needed to hear.
Members of the SunlightCorps staffed the nearest bar. Rowan wrapped her knuckle against the plaster-and-wire backing of the faux tree and pulled out her phone as she waited for someone to have a free moment.
A reminder to leave for the airport blared front and center. She'd have to dash as soon as her speech was over, but there'd been no avoiding it. This was the last flight that would deliver her on time to spend the twelve days of Yule with her family in Elk Ridge, Washington.
It would be her first time home for the winter holidays in years. Normally she begged it off, but her mother hadn't let her get away with it this time. She'd been there on Mabon-the autumnal equinox, the day the Oak King surrendered dominion to the Holly King for the darkening half of the year. Also the day when, three months ago, the Midwinters had gathered to scatter the ashes of Rowan's maternal grandmother, Madeleine.
Bonfires burned a haze in the sky, and everything smelled of overripe apples crushed underfoot, the atmosphere thick with grief and mead. Though Rowan had been in town for less than a day, her mother had cornered her and made her promise to come back for a proper visit at Yule, and to arrive by Solstice. And even though the thought had made a hardened knot of anxiety pulse in her chest, she'd agreed.
How much would she hate me if I just . . . missed my flight?
She didn't have time to give the thought serious consideration, because the door flew open and out popped the last person she'd hoped to see.
Copyright © 2025 by Morgan Lockhart. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
