“How did it make you feel,” he replies at length, “when you wrote down all these names?”

I watch him guardedly. He doesn’t glance in my direction. “Satisfied.”

“Mm. And how did you feel when you were making that?” Hall gestures to the doodled nachos.

I shrug. “Happy?”

As soon as the word trips out, I realize his trick.

“If you do things that make you and others happy, I promise you will find that happiness much more rewarding than revenge. You found yourself in a position of considerable power when you conjured me; what you do with it can change who you are for the better, or . . .” He drifts off lightly. “Not. Don’t allow yourself to get wrapped up in bitterness.”

“Listen, Hall, I appreciate that you’re good and pure and Holiday Magic. But some of us are human with scores to settle. Why should I let those awful people get away with publishing awful stuff about me?”

He presses his cookie cutter into the dough, carving out maple leaves. “Maybe I’m not human, but I’m also not who I was anymore. Not all the way. I’m ancient, but everything feels new. My old life is so distant that I think I’ll soon forget what it was like. I don’t know who I’m becoming. But I do know that my choices decide that. Conscious, deliberate choices. I am magic from the inside out, but have you ever seen me eager to use my magic as a weapon against anyone? I see the strange looks some people give me. The smirks. I hear the laughing whispers. Not everybody likes me—”

“They’re stupid, then,” I cut in quickly, indignant. “Give me their names.”

He slants me a meaningful look. “It’s all right that not everyone likes me. I like myself.”

I twist the hem of my shirt around my finger, shame beginning to filter in along with the stubborn anger that surges whenever I reflect on all the ways I’ve been maligned.

I don’t like that Bettie Hughes, I think, recalling the snide remark of a woman I once passed on Rodeo Drive. She’s not very nice. Kaia and Athena are probably fake, but at least they’re nice.

Plenty of people have said pleasant comments to me over the course of my life. I don’t remember many of them. My brain keeps only the worst experiences intact, transferring them all to long-term memory storage while compliments and praise rot away.

I’m rattling and angry and I know it makes people like me less. Knowing this makes me angrier. “I’ll never be good enough, smart enough, beautiful enough,” I burst out. “I’ll never be as successful as the legend I’ve been compared to all my life. If I was born blond and they’d named me Crystal, I’d be so well-adjusted right now, probably a preschool teacher or something. I’m not a decorated actress or a brilliant singer.”

He faces me sharply, eyes alight with something shrewd and hunting as he scans every detail of my features. “And what is it, exactly, that you want?”