Myrtle sank to the floor and threw her arms around Horace’s enormous head, hugging the creature.

And it occurred to him. “You are inviting my dog?”

Myrtle briefly lifted her eyes up to Val’s. “Well, I’ve purchased myself a splendid cake and would rather not eat it alone,” she explained. “And we can’t have that, can we?” she asked more rhetorically in a singsong way as she angled Horace’s head back and forth. “Plus, I do so adore your company.”

The dog’s panting grew more frantic, more eager, and he gave a happy yelp, as if he understood precisely what the minx was saying.

Val rocked back on his heels. She adored his company.

As in . . . his dog’s.

Whereas Val’s she sought because he was the next best thing to no one.

“I’ll leave you two to celebrate,” he said, as for the first time in all the years he’d had Horace, he found himself resenting the magnificently loyal creature.

Or rather, once loyal.

Laughing, Myrtle looked up. “You are so funny, Val.”

She believed he’d been jesting. He used to be the charming fellow capable of making people laugh. But that skill now eluded him. And yet, he could not bring himself to admit that he’d not been making a joke, not when her eyes sparkled as they did.

Myrtle gave Horace one more affectionate pat on the head, before hopping up. “We must all celebrate.”

They must all celebrate.

She’d confounded him.

She’d confounded both of them, him and Horace.

It was why, a short while later, with Myrtle singing a merry tune as she went, he found himself crossing the street, accompanying her to her family’s household.

“Christians, awake, salute the happy morn,

whereon the Savior of the world was born . . .

rise to adore the mystery of love,

which hosts of angels chanted from above,

with them the joyful tidings were begun . . .”

And oddly, hearing her sing lyrics about “happy morns” and the mystery of love, and “joyful tidings” . . . did not stir his bitter cynicism or crush him with the weight of sorrow and loss. Rather, there was more of that . . . overwhelming lightness within, a lightness that found its spark from her joy that flickered like a flame inside Val.

Suddenly, Myrtle stopped walking and singing, and that flame went out. “Are you all right?” she asked. “You’ve gone quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“But it’s different from your usual quiet,” she said, unnerving him with the level of intimacy that had grown between them, and the ways in which she’d come to identify variations between his silences. “This is more like you’re distracted and—”

“And I’m just looking to get us out of sight and indoors so we can get on with this celebration,” he snapped, instantly hating himself for turning his impatience on her.

Horace whined and rested a paw on Myrtle’s knee.