Once, when she was a kid, Kate had gotten caught trying on the Ebenezer Scrooge costume, fake beard and all. The man playing the miser that year had a lisp and a bit of a limp, so she was dragging her left foot around the dressing room saying, “Merry Chrithhhmathh.” To her everlasting shame and regret, he’d walked in on her mid-private performance.

She felt nearly as captured now.

Michael. She cursed his name. He was supposed to keep him busy until noon at least! Everyone was supposed to be safely back home so there would be no way of restoring the house to normal order. That was the entire point of the distraction. If Clark demanded his house be emptied of all Christmas cheer, the plan would be ruined.

You’ve got to do something, Kate’s rational brain told her petrified tongue. You can’t just stand here like an idiot. It’s starting to get awkward. Hands shaking in her pockets, she wondered if she hadn’t made a poor decision or two this morning. Not about the choice of an angel as a tree topper instead of a star—she stood by that. She wondered if she’d made a mistake in coming here at all. Was she beaten before she’d even started? Was she even strong enough to save her town? Why did she think she, the town’s resident hem-stitcher and pie-placer, would be good or strong enough to defend them against disaster?

Kate straightened. It didn’t matter if she wasn’t strong enough. He didn’t know she wasn’t strong enough, and she could use that to her advantage. Besides, she had every right to be here. She picked her head up, adopting an impenetrable armor of optimism. This was Christmas Eve. These people were her family and friends. She had to save them all.

And she didn’t know how to walk away from someone with eyes as cold as his. She’d just have to save him, too.

“Clark! How are you?”

Her smile sent him back a step. He must have expected her to whimper and scrape at his booming shouts. Good. She’d caught him off guard already. Once he’d recovered, he walked deeper into the foyer.

“What have you done to my house?”

“Your house? Does it have your name on it?”

Michael helpfully stepped forward.

“It does, actually. It’s on the sign right out front.”

“Don’t you have a clock to check somewhere?” she snarked, sending him scurrying out of the front door, right behind Billy Golden.