His head dips in a nod. “It’s the whole reason I’m here.”

“You’re here because I got drunk and didn’t know how to play a record.”

“Why don’t you want to skate, Bettie? What are you afraid of?”

I try to scowl. I do. But Hall’s standing so close, analyzing me without meanness, without a biting remark waiting. I don’t have to wonder what’s brewing in the back of his mind. Don’t have to be careful. All he wants is for me to skate with my family and enjoy myself. (And then probably carve an ice sculpture later. He’s obsessed with them.)

“I don’t want to fall down in front of them. They’ll tease me until I die.”

“I won’t let you fall.”

“I’m not any good at skating.”

“Aren’t you?” he asks, a sly sparkle to his eyes. “You should try it, just to be sure.”

His hand in mine, we tread to the perimeter of the ice and . . . I feel it. A pull of magic.

You can do anything, it whispers.

The magic has Hall’s voice, his peppermint scent. It feels exactly like a warm, conspiratorial smile pressed to my cheek, a steady hand on my back, which shouldn’t make me shiver like it does. Even as he glides backward, one sure foot behind the other, away from me, I feel his hands. They’re everywhere I need them: gripping mine, leading me; on my back, hovering just behind my shoulders. One very near my hip, but not quite touching. An invisible thumb pushes a wayward lock of hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ear.

He watches my reaction as I test the magic, discovering how firmly it holds me. Grins when my eyes widen in disbelief, either of my arms outstretched, gliding along on one leg. He laughs at my astonishment when I try a spin, which I shouldn’t be able to pull off, and the spinning doesn’t stop until I tell it to. However I want to leap and twist and spin, I leap and twist and spin.

Kaia hoots, her dozens of bracelets clinking together as she claps. “Look at you, Betts!”

It’s not me, it’s the magic, but I still soak up her praise. I close my eyes and tilt my face toward the sun like a flower, the best at something for once. All I want to do is race as fast as I can, spraying sparks behind me like comets. Quicker, quicker, wind-stung skin, digits numb, hair flying. Athena intercepts me and grips my arm, using my momentum to fling me toward Grandpa, who chuckles throatily as he catches me and flings me back again. Athena playfully tugs on my hat—an infinitesimal tweak—as my momentum curbs. I stare after her as she skates away, silvery-blond hair swishing back and forth like a unicorn’s tail.

“Incoming!” a nephew cries, whooshing by. They’re all a little faster, a little better coordinated than they ought to be, which I think is the reason we stay out on the ice as long as we do. The only thing better than being good at something is being good at something while other people watch. Or maybe that’s just my mindset.