Even more mystifying than the skates is the ice rink that’s materialized where the defunct car lot used to sit on Old Homestead Road, just across the street and two spaces down from my gingerbread town house, which I hope none of them notice.

“Who built this?” Grandpa asks wonderingly. “You know how long this has been here, Bettie?”

“Nope,” I say. An old joke, replying when I know he’s talking to Grandma. She hates it.

No one besides us is here. “It’s probably a bribe from the mayor, hoping for reelection,” suggests Grandma, who watches Frangipane lunge for the ice without skates on. Her eyes gleam like twin knives as they rest on me, then flick to Hall, who’s smiling dreamily at what can only be his handiwork. Victorian lampposts hem in the rink, strung with twinkle lights and garland, each pole twined in ivy. There’s a red bench, and a birdhouse over by the fountain in the town square, which is supposed to be covered with a tarp for the season but now spurts crystalline water. Puffy pink clouds tumble low, the spire of the church tower lancing through them.

“I’m pretty sure this rink has always been here,” says my nephew Ichabod.

Dad grimaces without meaning to. (He’s where I get my resting bitch face from.) “It must’ve. Skating rinks don’t simply appear out of thin air.”

“Don’t forget your scarves,” Hall says, probably to knock their thoughts off track. He hands out scarves to each Watson or Hughes as they pass, their eyebrows lifted as they appraise this fancy gift.

“Darling, did you make these yourself?” Mom exclaims, looping hers about her neck. Her name is stitched above the black trim in gold. “Where’d you find the time?”

Felix refuses his scarf. He’d probably refuse to skate, as well, but he considers himself to be pretty good at it and can’t miss the opportunity to show off. Weak sunlight glints off his silver blades, harsh brow lowered, hands extended behind his back like a ski jumper as he pushes left, right, left, scaring off anyone in his path. Sean veers too close and staggers, clawing at air for a few moments before running Kaia over.

Mom is doing graceful triple axels like they’re nothing. Dad sits down on the bench, grousing that he’s too old to skate, which makes Octavian burst into tears: “Is Grandpa going to die?”

Something touches my hand and I jump back, but it’s just Hall.

He raises his eyebrows at me, a small smile touching the corners of his lips. Then, once again, he bumps his gloved fingers against mine. “Let’s go.”

“Me?” I point at myself.

He points at me, too. “You.”

“Oh, nah, no thanks, I’m too full of pie. I’ll just watch.” I try to shove my hands into my pockets, but the pockets seal shut. I snap my head up to level him with a glare, and he shakes his head amiably, tugging on my arm. “Hall, I’m serious. I know you’re really into this traditional holiday stuff—”