I can see the image so clearly in my mind that I pause for a moment, committing it to memory. Hall glances at me and follows my gaze, not seeing what I’m seeing, but something in my expression makes him smile. I fold up the thought and tuck it into my pocket for later.

On we go, past the market, the bookshop, the post office, singing “The Holly and the Ivy.” Hall, without my knowledge, has slipped elsewhere into our group, leaving me shoulder to shoulder between my sisters. Kaia throws an arm around me as she sings, pushing me over to Athena, who nudges me back toward Kaia, in a game we used to play when we were kids, walking together. I’d forgotten how it feels to be on the inside of that club again.

I study Kaia, realizing I’ve been looking out at her from a distance for a long time, seeing her as less real than she is. Then Athena’s self-conscious mumbling gives way to a top-of-her-lungs spectacle, which makes me smile, genuinely, and I’m overcome with a strange, earnest tug to do the same. This persona we’ve all adopted, that we don’t care, that we’re untouchable, is a protective second skin that we maybe don’t take off often enough. Maybe if I let my persona rest around family now and again, they’ll feel safe enough to do so, as well.

“Have we ever gone caroling before?” Mom asks. “I feel like we have.”

“I did in a movie,” Grandma replies. “A Very Warren Christmas.”

“We’ve never gone caroling,” Felix says.

“Well, I think we should do this every Christmas,” adds Mom, who doesn’t like the spotlight but is happy to be part of a pack.

“But you’ll have to go caroling here,” Grandpa tells her with an authoritative nod. “Where there’s snow.”

Dad shocks everyone by suggesting, “Next year we’ll all fly out to visit my parents and surprise them with caroling. Have you ever been to England, Hall?”

“Yes.” But not in person.

“It’s the loveliest country,” Mom declares. Dad throws her an amused look, as Mom has never visited England without complaining about the weather. “You two could even get married there!”

Neither Hall nor I say anything.

We pour past the Blue Moose Café, past my gingerbread town house, which is starting to grow on me, Teller City Trading Company, clanging our bells, shouting to the heavens, singing the Hall part of “Deck the Halls” extra loud. Then we sing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,” and Hall changes you’d better watch out, you’d better not cry to you’d Bettie watch out, you’d Bettie not cry.

I slip my hand in his. “Your hands are probably cold. Thought I should keep one of them warm.” I clear my throat. “I’m very chivalrous like that.”

“You’re a saint.” He laces our fingers together. “Hmm. Is your cheek cold?”

“It’s all right.”

“Because if so, I was thinking that I should probably kiss it,” he ventures. “For warmth.”