Mistletoe and Magic, page 6
“Eva. And thanks for understanding the impulsive tourist thing.”
“The impulsive ones have the best adventures,” Jean said, leading Eva to a table by the window. “Careful planners never find the hidden doors.”
Eva settled in, ordering the ‘full afternoon tea’ without really knowing what that entailed, and arranged the green book on the table beside her. When Jean returned with a steaming teapot and the first tier of what would become a towering stand of treats, Eva took a chance.
“I’m—well, I’m following a sort of trail,” she said, turning the book to show Jean the inscription. “Do you know anything about Margaret Wells?”
Jean’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Margaret Wells! She used to come in here every Thursday at precisely four o’clock, rain or shine. That was before my time, mind you, but my aunt owned this place then. Everyone in York knew of Margaret. She was … well, she was special.” Jean glanced at the book. “And you found one of her books? That’s quite something.”
“You mean there are others?”
“Oh, I believe so. Plus, Margaret was famous for leaving little treasures around York—notes in library books, messages tucked behind loose stones, that sort of thing. Like a treasure hunt for the heart, my aunt used to say.”
Eva leaned forward eagerly. “Do you have anything of hers here?”
Jean’s smile widened. “As a matter of fact …” She disappeared into the back room, returning with a small envelope. “This has been waiting for whoever might come asking about Margaret. My aunt always said it would find its way to the right person eventually.”
Eva took the envelope with trembling fingers. Inside was a yellowing card with the same careful handwriting as the book:
York reveals its secrets to those who look beyond the surface. The gruffest exteriors often hide the kindest hearts.
Eva stared at the note, a shiver running down her spine. “She … she left this for someone she’d never met?”
“Margaret believed in serendipity,” Jean explained. “She said the universe had a way of bringing the right people together at exactly the right time.”
After finishing her tea and paying the bill, Eva asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know of a good place to stay, would you? I was so eager to get here that I forgot to book anything.”
“The Riddle & Quill Inn,” Jean said without hesitation. “Florence runs it—she’s a bit sharp around the edges, but she has a good heart. Tell her Jean sent you.”
The address led her to a striking Tudor-style building nestled between two more modern structures. Its black timber frame created a dramatic geometric pattern against white-washed walls that had yellowed slightly with age. The steeply pitched roof featured two dormer windows that peered out like watchful eyes, and the distinctive hexagonal leaded glass windows glowed with warm light from within. A simple wreath hung on the black-painted door, and small box hedges, slightly overgrown, framed the entrance.
Eva paused to admire the building, which looked like it had been plucked straight from a storybook about medieval England. While the white paint was chipping slightly at the corners and one of the timber beams showed signs of recent repair, there was an undeniable charm to the place—the kind that came from centuries of history rather than careful decoration. This wasn’t the polished, Instagram-ready version of England that tourists typically sought out, but something more authentic. It was unapologetically itself. Eva appreciated that.
She pressed the tarnished brass doorbell, hearing it ring somewhere deep within the house. A moment passed, then another. Eva was about to try again when she heard footsteps approaching from inside.
The door swung open to reveal a woman who seemed to Eva to be somewhere between seventy and infinity, with perfectly set silver hair, piercing blue eyes, and the kind of impeccable posture that came from a lifetime of being told to stand up straight. She was wearing a cardigan that appeared to have been knitted from actual clouds, and tartan slippers that looked like they’d weathered several monarchs.
“You all right?” the woman asked, her Yorkshire accent so thick that Eva had to lean in slightly to catch the words.
“Um, yes? I’m fine,” Eva replied, confused.
The woman chuckled. “That’s just how we say hello in Yorkshire, love. I’m Florence. Jean called ahead—you must be the American.”
“Eva,” she confirmed, adjusting her bag nervously. “Thank you for having me.”
“Well, you’d better come in before we let all the heat out,” Florence said, dropping her h’s like they were unnecessary accessories. “Yorkshire doesn’t warm itself, you know.”
Florence led her up a narrow staircase that creaked with every step, past framed photographs spanning what appeared to be several decades. “You’re in the room at the top. It has its own loo, thank the Lord. I’m too old to be sharing facilities with strangers.”
The room was small but perfect—all vintage charm and surprising comfort. A wrought-iron bed was piled high with quilts, a small writing desk sat beneath a dormer window overlooking the street, and the sloped ceiling was crossed with ancient wooden beams that spoke of centuries of stories.
“Breakfast is from seven until nine,” Florence said briskly. “I don’t do special diets, but there’s a vegan café down the street if you’re one of those.” She gave Eva an appraising look. “You’ll be wanting to see the Christmas Market, I expect. That’s where you’ll find the real magic—not in the touristy bits, but in watching how the city comes alive when people gather.”
After Florence left, Eva unpacked and freshened up, then ventured out into the early evening. The Christmas Market was everything she’d hoped for and more—wooden chalets adorned with pine garlands and twinkling lights lined the cobblestone streets, their roofs dusted with what might have been real snow. The air was intoxicating: warm clouds of cinnamon and nutmeg, sweet caramel scents of roasting chestnuts, rich chocolate mingling with buttery pastries.
Each stall was a small work of art. Hand-blown glass ornaments caught the light and projected magical rainbows. Intricately carved wooden figurines seemed to have personalities of their own. A cheese vendor offered samples that made Eva’s eyes roll back in pleasure.
There were so many stands selling alcohol it made Eva giggle. She decided she needed to participate, a wrong from her earlier UK market experience had to be corrected. She was in the right place, spoiled for choice. She had to dive in now.
She found herself at a mulled wine stall, ordering without making a conscious decision, she picked the first option that her eyes landed on. The vendor—a rosy-cheeked man in a knitted hat—handed her a ceramic mug painted with holly leaves.
She stood allowing the swirl of the market atmosphere to envelope her. This was a Dicken’s Christmas novel come to life.
She felt goosebumps on her arms, despite her warm coat, and smiled to herself. This risk was going to pay off, she could feel it.
Eva wandered deeper into the market, clutching her warm mug she was completely enchanted by the magical atmosphere around her. The mulled wine was nothing like anything she’d had in Nashville—complex and aromatic, warming her from the inside out.
She was so entranced by the sight of York Minster illuminated against the darkening sky that she didn’t notice the uneven cobblestone beneath her feet. She stumbled slightly, and her mulled wine sloshed violently in its mug.
Time seemed to slow as she watched the hot liquid rise from her mug in a perfect crimson wave, arching through the air towards a display of what looked like hand-drawn maps. Eva’s eyes followed the trajectory of the beverage to behind the prints. There stood a man in a thick wool coat and navy blue fisherman’s beanie, his eyes widening as he watched disaster approach in slow motion.
The wine completed its graceful launch, landing with spectacular accuracy across both Eva’s cream sweater and the stranger’s coat. The ceramic mug tumbled from her grasp, bouncing once on the cobbles.
“Oh no, no, no!” Eva gasped, horror-struck. She frantically rummaged through her purse for tissues while backing into another of the map displays. Several carefully arranged prints fluttered to the ground.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” she babbled, trying to blot the stranger’s coat with one hand while attempting to rescue the maps with the other. “I’ll pay for dry cleaning, I’ll pay for everything, I just—”
“Stop,” came a deep voice. Eva looked up to find herself staring into eyes that caught the winter light like sea glass—distant and definitely not amused. The man’s dark curls escaped from beneath his beanie, and his expression suggested he was calculating exactly how much damage one American tourist could inflict in a single evening.
“You’re dripping wine on a fifteenth-century street plan,” he said, his voice clipped with barely controlled irritation.
Eva immediately stepped back, clutching her soggy tissues. “I’m really, really sorry. These are so beautiful—did you make them?”
“I did.” He crouched to examine the maps, checking for damage with the careful attention of someone whose work meant everything to him. “They’re historically accurate reproductions of York’s development through the centuries.”
Eva leaned closer, examining the detail. “It’s like a Disney version of medieval England,” she said, then immediately regretted it when his expression hardened.
“It’s historically accurate,” he said, his voice clipped. “Not sanitised for American tastes.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean—” Eva stumbled over her words. “I just meant it’s magical. Like something from a storybook. Or Harry Potter.”
His jaw tightened. “York has been here for two thousand years. It doesn’t need fictional wizards or fairy tales to make it special.”
“They’re incredible,” Eva said earnestly, trying to recover. “Like artwork you’d want to frame and—”
“They’re not decorations,” he cut her off. “They’re educational tools. Historical documents.”
“Of course,” Eva said quickly, stung by his tone. “I didn’t mean to minimise—”
“Americans,” he muttered, not quite under his breath, as he carefully straightened a damp corner. “Turn everything into a photo opportunity.”
Eva felt her cheeks burn. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“No, you were just wandering around a crowded market drinking mulled wine while gawking at buildings instead of watching where you’re going, like any sensible person would do.”
“You know what?” Eva said, her embarrassment flaring into indignation. “I said I was sorry. Multiple times. I offered to pay for damages. I complimented your work. I’m not sure what else you want from me.”
He looked up from the maps, his expression unchanged. “I want you to be more careful. This isn’t Disneyland.”
“I know it’s not Disneyland,” Eva snapped. “I came here because I thought British people were supposed to be polite.” She couldn’t believe she’d said it, this wasn’t careful and controlled Eva. This wasn’t the girl who always made a good first impression, the one who tried to mould herself into what people wanted her to be. But now she’d leant in, she had to admit: it felt good.
“We’re polite to people who deserve it.”
Eva stared at him, momentarily speechless at his bluntness. A movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention—a black and white spaniel with floppy ears trotted towards the stall, looking between them with what seemed like canine concern.
The man’s expression softened instantly as he crouched to greet the dog. “There you are, Tilly,” he said, his voice completely transformed—warm, gentle, tender. He scratched behind the spaniel’s ears with obvious affection.
The contrast was so stark that Eva felt even more annoyed. “You’re nicer to your dog than you are to people.”
“Dogs don’t knock over displays or spill wine on historical documents,” he replied, but there was less edge to his voice now.
Tilly approached Eva cautiously, sniffing her wine-stained sweater before resting her head against Eva’s knee with surprising gentleness.
“Well, at least one of you has manners,” Eva said, stroking the spaniel’s silky ears. The dog’s warmth against her leg was oddly comforting after the man’s coldness.
He watched this interaction with wide eyes but narrowed them once again, “She likes everyone, so don’t feel special.”
“Maybe she can sense that I’m not actually trying to destroy your city,” Eva said pointedly.
For just a moment, something that might have been amusement flickered across his face. But then he stood, all business again. “You should watch where you’re going before you cause any more accidents.”
Rolling her eyes, she turned her back to him and walked away with as much dignity as she could muster. Careful of spotting the cobbles, she felt the heat of his gaze upon her neck. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking after such a thoroughly unpleasant first impression.
But as she moved deeper into the market, the magic gradually worked its way back into her mood. The fairy lights strung between medieval buildings created a canopy of stars overhead. Carol singers gathered around the enormous Christmas tree, their voices lifting into the cold air. Children raced past in colourful scarves, their laughter ringing like bells.
At a chocolate stall, Eva bought a small bag of truffles dusted with cocoa powder that melted on her tongue like velvet. The vendor—a woman with kind eyes—chatted about how her grandmother had run a sweet shop on this very spot.
“First time in York?” she asked, and when Eva nodded, added, “You picked the perfect time. Christmas Market brings out the best in everyone.”
Everyone except grumpy stall owners, Eva thought, but found herself smiling anyway.
As she wandered through the glowing stalls, past artisans crafting everything from pottery to jewellery, past the warm scents of mulled cider and roasted almonds, Eva felt something shift inside her chest. This was why she’d come to England—not for the London she’d first imagined, but for this unexpected magic. For narrow streets that had witnessed centuries of Christmas celebrations. For the possibility that around any corner, she might find exactly what she didn’t know she was looking for.
Even if that corner also happened to contain the rudest mapmaker in Yorkshire.
Eva finished the last of her truffles and made her way back through the winding streets towards The Riddle & Quill Inn. Tomorrow, she would continue following Margaret Wells’ trail. Tonight, she would write in her own scruffy notebook—because sometimes the most important stories began with the most unexpected encounters.
Even the infuriating ones.
Chapter Five
A City of Stories
The sound of church bells and birdsong broke Eva’s sleep. The windows were thin enough to hear nearly every noise outside, including what seemed to be an extremely passionate argument between two seagulls over what was probably a discarded chip. She pulled open the heavy curtains and watched as the weaker winter sun battled against dense, grey clouds.
She stretched, relishing the unexpected luxury of waking without an alarm. Back in Nashville, her mornings followed a precise routine: alarm at 6.15, scrolling through emails by 6.20, in the shower for 7.10, breakfast tracked on MyFitnessPal by 7.30. Life measured in fifteen-minute increments, recorded in her planner with colour-coded precision.
But here? She had no idea what time it was, and for once, it didn’t matter.
The floor was ice-cold beneath her feet as she padded to the bathroom. The radiator in her room made occasional alarming clanking sounds, like something was trying to escape from the pipes, but it did a valiant job of keeping the bedroom warm. The bathroom, however, was an arctic temperature.
After a shower that involved a complex dance of keeping various body parts under the hot water while washing others, Eva wrapped herself in a towel printed with bright green frogs. The shower itself had been a uniquely British experience—an electric box on the wall that seemed to offer two temperature settings: ‘surface of the sun’ or ‘ice bucket challenge’. The water pressure alternated between a gentle mist that wouldn’t disturb a butterfly and a blast that could strip paint. She’d finally found a sweet spot by standing at exactly the right angle, but only if she didn’t breathe too hard or think incorrect thoughts about the water temperature. Positive vibes only.
She pushed her wet hair back from her face and opened the bathroom door. Releasing a cloud of steam into the hallway, she stepped onto the patterned carpet that had probably been rolled out there since the Victorian era.
Through blurred vision, she walked directly into a firm surface. Looking up to clear her vision her eyes were met with a familiar scowling face. The mapmaker.
“Oh!” Eva yelped, clutching the towel tighter as she stumbled backward. “What are you—why are you—”
The seemingly permanent scowl slipped from him suddenly as the scene unfolded. The man looked as startled as she felt, his eyes wide, a toolbox dangling from one hand and what appeared to be a wrench in the other. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly for a moment like a fish before he managed, “Radiator. Florence said it was making noise.”
In hearing his voice Eva became acutely aware of several things at once: her wet hair dripping down her neck, her bare feet on the well-trodden carpet, and the way the stranger’s eyes seemed to be determinedly fixed on a point somewhere above her left ear.
“A little warning would have been nice,” she said, trying to sound dignified.
“I thought you were out,” he replied, his usual gruffness replaced by something that sounded almost like panic. “Florence said the guest upstairs was early riser. Always up with the birds.”
“I am. Usually. Back home.” Eva shifted uncomfortably. “Different time zone.”
“Right. Of course.” He shifted the toolbox from one hand to the other, the metal tools clanking loudly in the quiet hallway. “I’m Charlie, by the way. Charlie Blackwood. Florence is my aunt, well not exactly, but she’s as good as.”
