Page 53 of A Spell for Midwinter's Heart
“Pardon?” he asked, eyebrows retreating to the top of his forehead.
She flushed, realizing that the goofy way her father pronounced the word could be dreadfully misinterpreted.
“Sorry, um,nussknackers…nutcrackers.”
“Oh…Right.” He gave a casual shrug and swept a hand toward the building, but she could swear there was a spot of pink in his cheeks.
A massive nutcracker guarded the entrance of the museum, at least twenty feet in height. A placard indicated it had once been a part of a prestigious production of the ballet. It was a grinning soldier wielding a curved sword and a handlebar mustache. Time had bleached the once-vibrant red and yellow of his uniform to more of a pink and off-white, but children still stood before him in awe, gaping at his sheer size, while parents snapped identical photos to post to their social media feeds.
“I’ll be inside in a second,” said Gavin, apologetically glancing at his phone.
“Okay, I’ll grab tickets.”
Inside, a television droned as a spindly old man wearing a knit Christmas sweater two sizes too big dozed behind a desk, nosehairs fluttering with every gentle exhale. A talking head on a small TV ranted about smuggling rings under the Denver airport. The “lobby” was actually the sun porch of a house belonging to the sleeping old man, Norman. The museum was more of a passion project than a true museum, but it had been a fixture of the community for as long as Rowan could remember.
“Norman,” she said. When he didn’t stir, she repeated, “Norman!”
The old man started and unwrapped his arms from his chest, blinking through thick lenses. “Wh-wha…?” His face soured in recognition. “The Midwinter girl.”
“Yep, it’s me,” she said, her voice strained.
Norman was one of the town’s oldest residents, making him one of the last remnants of the time when the prevailing attitude toward the witches was “Throw ’em in the river and hang ’em if they don’t sink.” It was an attitude he’d needed to keep to himself after the success of the winter festival, and Liliana’s position as a key member of the community had shifted sentiment in the witches’ favor, but it was clear his mind had not actually changed.
“How are you, Norman?” she said, through a forced smile.
“I was better before you brought Satan into my home.” Rowan’s cheeks burned with anger and embarrassment. It was at that moment she noticed a flyer behind his shoulder. It bore the unmistakable logo of the Goshen Group.
GET MERRY FOR
“CHRISTMASTOWN!”
Below it was the address to a website and the Goshen Group’s branding. Her heart rate spiked.
“Norman!” The voice was sharp. Gavin had stepped up beside her, and he frowned down at the old man.
“Gavin McCreery?” Norman blinked, glancing between them. “Don’t tell me you’ve gotten yourself ensorcelled by one of them.”
“Just give us two tickets,” said Gavin, rolling his eyes.
“Fine, fine,” said Norman, but then he looked Rowan’s way and gave a low chuckle. A shiver passed down her spine as she glanced at the Christmastown flyer one more time.
As predicted, they were the only people inside the museum at this hour, and their footsteps echoed off the stripped pine floors. Her anxiety at the Christmastown flyer lingered. It wasn’t surprising that Norman was in favor of it. But was anyone else?
She thought back to Hayleigh’s accusation. Were they standing in the way of what most people wanted for Elk Ridge?
“Which is your favorite?” Gavin’s distinct timbre suddenly interrupted her thoughts.
“Oh,” she said. “Um…”
The question successfully moved her thoughts on from the Goshen Group, and Christmastown, as she strolled through the museum. Solid wood cabinets lined the walls, filled with an array of nutcrackers. It might have only been one man’s collection, but that didn’t mean it was small. An article about the museum had gone viral more than a decade back, and since then, donations had poured in from all over the world.
A few of his pieces were over two hundred years old. While most were made of wood, others were ivory or porcelain. Norman might have been a narrow-minded curmudgeon, but that didn’t change the fact that he’d created something beautiful.
She stopped in front of a Drosselmeyer featuring a big bushy beard, a velvet eye patch, and a devilish grin. A petite Clara stood beside him with her blush pink dress and chestnut hair in tight sausage curls.
“I’ve got two,” she said. “This one’s the first. I had a bit of aNutcrackerphase—danced to the score over and over and over. My dad even drove me to Seattle to see it.”
“I didn’t realize you studied ballet.”
