12 Days 'til Christmas ✓

chapter twenty-four

t w e n t y - f o u r

*

After what felt like a battle to the death to get to the food amidst throngs of people looking for Christmas Eve deals, and a thirty-minute wait just to get out of the car park once the supermarket shut, and another thirty minutes to drive in the traffic and ice, Casper and I make it home. It feels like we've been away for a lot longer than three hours, but those three hours were enough to make me miss being trapped in the house.

While Casper brings the bags in and unloads them in the kitchen, shivering all the while, I build a fire and get to work on a plan for tomorrow. I can't believe I've left it so late but when I think too much about that, I stress myself out so I try to focus on persuading the flames to grow and the logs to catch fire. It's a bit trickier with my duff hand, even more so when splinters of wood catch on the flimsy bandage material and at one point, I almost catch myself on fire.

Good thing I'm not running low on wood, a whole stash stacked up in the conservatory, because the fire's going to need to be running as hot as possible for as long as possible tomorrow, if I want to avoid complaints of the cold.

Casper comes in brushing his hands together and perches on the edge of the coffee table. "Everything's where it's supposed to be. Meat in the fridge; veg in the drawer; peas in the freezer; dry stuff in the cupboard."

"Perfect. Thanks, Cas."

"I was thinking we could do the cabbage now, and we could prep the roasties for tomorrow, right?"

"Mmhmm. And get the chicken ready."

"Gotta be honest, I've never stuffed a chicken before."

"I'll show you how."

He winks. "Sexy."

"It's the opposite of sexy," I say, closing up the fire and opening the vents to get the air flowing, so it can suck up oxygen and pump out smoke up the chimney. When I turn around to face Casper, he's wearing his cheeky face. It's adorable, all bright eyes and crooked smile and dimples. It's irresistible. But we've got a lot to do, so I have to resist. It's after five and I'm already tired, and we're down to seventeen hours before my family rocks up.

"You'll have to let me do it," Casper says. "I don't think it's very sanitary for you to handle raw meat and the insertion of more food into a chicken's arse with a gross bandage. Actually, speaking of which..."

His voice trails off as he gets up and leaves, taking the stairs two at a time and almost falling backwards when he tries to take three. I can hear his footsteps creaking on the landing above me and a couple of minutes later, he returns with a handful of first aid stuff. He plops down on the coffee table again. Our knees touch, closing the gap between us, and he takes my hand, lying it in his lap.

"I think it's time for a check-up with Doctor Casper," he says. "Wait, no, Doctor Boutayeb. I don't think I've ever called my doctor by his first name. I don't think I even know it."

I don't point out that I know mine, after everything I went through. I saw him a lot; I think we built up as close a relationship as it's reasonable to have.

Casper gently unwinds the bandage and peels off the plasters. Both of my cuts are still tender and red and not very healed. He holds my wrist in one hand, the other dabbing antiseptic cream on the wounds before he cuts another strip of plaster and does a pretty good job of protecting the cuts from the elements before he chucks the old bandage in the fire. The material crackles and burns, hissing until it's reduced to a pile of ash.

"Those can go in the bin," he says, nodding at the old plasters. "I think it's a bit too witchy to throw blood on the fire; it might be some ancient spell and we'll reawaken a demon, or accidentally make a blood oath."