Page 102 of A Spell for Midwinter's Heart
“No,” said Rowan, insisting on watching the whole thing. By the time they watched Michael Caine’s tender weeping and the shuddering sobs of Rizzo the Rat, they were all crying along.
When it was over, Zaide ventured, “You know, that’s not you guys. The only miserly landlord short on lady love in this scenario is old Dennis McCreery.”
“The love is very much there,” agreed Naomie, running her hands through Rowan’s hair. She was busy untwisting knots left by fitful sleep. “It’s just…wounded.”
But Rowan said nothing. She didn’t even have it in her to argue, which seemed like a bad sign to the others.
“I can’t believe you were dyeing this hair,” said Naomie, letting a snow-white curl fall. “People pay good money for this color.”
Rowan ignored the compliment, rapt as the cheerful laughter of the Ghost of Christmas Present echoed through Scrooge’s house. By the time the spirit appeared onscreen, with his long green-and-gold robe and crown of holly, she was sitting up.
The Holly King.
“Um, Rowan?” asked Zaide.
“I got called out the other night,” she explained, getting to her feet and sticking her nail between her teeth, signifying that an idea was on the horizon. “At the Hunt. It was the Holly King himself.”
“That’s some big juju,” said Zaide with a whistle of appreciation.
Rowan paced. “He said we were close, but there was something we were missing.” Then it hit her. “Dennis is convinced that Elk Ridge wants what Goshen Group is selling. He will go on believing that unless Elk Ridge tells him, in no uncertain terms, that he’s wrong.” She stopped. “We should give Elk Ridge a chance to speak for itself.”
“What if they choose the Goshen Group?” said Zaide. “I mean, given it’s basically our plan…plus Starbucks. People love that shit.”
“Except not exactly,” said Naomie. “Because our plan is for Elk Ridge, by Elk Ridge…”
“And of Elk Ridge,” finished Rowan. Naomie nodded knowingly her way.
Rowan cracked her knuckles and paced. Her training in outreach coordination rose to the surface. “Call everyone. We need to amplify this fast. Both traditional canvassing and digital. Whatever spells you and Kel might have to boost your posts on social media, Naomie, we’re going to need all of them.”
“I don’t—” began Naomie, her cheeks flushing.
“Yeah, you do, babe,” said Zaide with a smile. “Your stuff is good. It deserves the chance to compete with racist algorithms andpeople out there with the money to pay for engagement, but we need every card on the table right now.”
Naomie straightened up and nodded. Then she glanced between them. “What about Gavin? Should we include him?”
Rowan’s heart rose into her throat. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”
“Of course,” said Naomie.
“Besides,” said Rowan, her voice weakening, “you were right, Zaide. He isn’t as invested as the rest of us. Either way, he comes out ahead.”
To her surprise, Zaide looked ashamed of the echo. “I shouldn’t have said that, Rowan.”
The admission startled her. She swallowed back a heavy lump and said, “Well, someone else call him—please?”
“We will,” reassured Zaide, and Rowan looked away, unable to take any more pity. There was no time to wallow. Elk Ridge needed her.
Her broken heart would have to wait.
That night, the coven assembled to cast one last spell together for Yule. This time a cell phone sat on the altar—Naomie’s cell phone—opened to the festival’s social media. Their pitch video for the Elk Ridge Wheel of the Year sat in her drafts, ready to travel across wires and signals.
Imagine a place where the year turns in a complete circle, and every season brings people together to celebrate…
While the social media mavens had been spreading the pitch video, everyone else canvassed in the traditional sense. They talkedto their neighbors and put up flyers around town that directed people to show up at the festival offices the next day to make their voices heard.
Rowan tried to use her focus spell to banish thoughts of Gavin, but they kept coming, even after she cast the spell again and again. Every time she pitched the festival to someone particularly shrewd, she would sense him there, just beyond her shoulder, and she channeled his voice as she outlined the plan’s financial merits.
The effect was so convincing that more than once she’d whirled, her heart at the edge of her throat, thinking maybe this time the lilting baritone giving her patient notes on cost-benefit analysis was actually there, just beyond the periphery.
