Page 39 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"Get in here before you become a cautionary tale," she says, already peeling my frozen coat off my shoulders.
The shop is eerily quiet without customers, just the soft tick of antique clocks and the whistle of wind through old windows. She's wearing approximately fourteen layers, including what appears to be a Christmas sweater over another Christmas sweater.
"Is sweater layering a thing?" I ask, pointing at her outfit.
"It is when your heating system was installed during the Coolidge administration," she explains, wrapping her arms around herself.
"Calvin Coolidge? That was the 1920s," I say.
"Which explains why it treats heat like a suggestion rather than a requirement," she sighs.
As if to prove her point, the ancient radiator gives one last heroic clank and goes silent.
"Did it just die?" I ask, staring at the offending machinery.
"It's taking a break. It does that. Like a very old cat that pretends to be dead for attention," she explains, giving it a gentle kick.
"Your heating system has a personality disorder," I observe.
"Everything in this building has a personality disorder," she says, leading me toward the stairs. "The stairs creak in Morse code, the door only opens if you lift and pull simultaneously, and the upstairs toilet flushes whenever it feels underappreciated."
"Your building needs therapy," I tell her.
"My building needs an exorcist, but I'll settle for functioning heat," she counters.
The lights flicker once, twice, then give up entirely.
"Oh good," Wren says into the sudden darkness. "This is how horror movies start."
"Or romantic comedies," I suggest, reaching for my phone's flashlight.
"Name one romantic comedy that starts with a power outage," she challenges.
"The one we're currently living?" I offer.
"This is less romantic comedy and more tragedy with comedic elements," she corrects me.
I hear her moving around, presumably looking for candles or possibly planning to burn furniture for warmth. Something crashes spectacularly.
"I'm okay!" she announces before I can ask. "The nutcracker army broke my fall."
"The what now?"
"I have forty-seven vintage nutcrackers. Had. Have forty-three. No, forty-two. Math is hard in the dark," she explains.
More crashing sounds echo through the shop.
"Wren, stop moving," I advise, following the sounds of destruction.
"I need to find candles," she protests.
"You're going to burn the place down," I warn.
"At least we'd be warm," she points out, and something else falls over.
I finally find my phone flashlight and navigate through what looks like the aftermath of a Christmas explosion. She's standing in the middle of chaos, holding what appears to be a shepherd's crook from the nativity scene like a weapon.
"Were you going to fight the darkness with Baby Jesus's supporting cast?" I ask, gently taking it from her.
