Mistletoe and Magic, page 9
“Charlie’s still playing with his doodles and clinging to the past, I see,” Aidan said dismissively.
Eva felt her spine straighten. “He’s not playing. And they’re not just doodles, they’re historically accurate reproduction maps. They’re preserving history.”
She surprised herself with the vehemence of her defense. Charlie looked equally surprised, something flickering across his face before he masked it.
Aidan laughed, but there was no warmth in it. “Preserving history. That’s one way to put it. I prefer to think of it as refusing to move forward.” He looked at Charlie. “I build the future; he clings to the past. That’s always been our difference.”
“Your ‘future’ tends to come with eviction notices for whoever gets in the way,” Charlie said quietly.
“My future comes with jobs and investment. But we’ve had this argument before.” Aidan sipped his drink. “No point rehashing old debates in front of company. Eva doesn’t want to hear this crap does she?”
Eva watched the exchange, wondering about their history. They clearly knew each other well enough to know exactly which buttons to push, but there was something deeper here than a silly schoolboy rivalry. There was a fundamental disagreement about what York should be.
Charlie’s jaw worked for a moment. Then he looked at Eva. “Be careful,” he said simply, before turning and heading back to the bar.
“Don’t mind Charlie,” Aidan said once he was out of earshot. “We’ve never seen eye to eye. Different values, different visions. He thinks I’m destroying York’s soul. I think he’s keeping it trapped in amber.”
“How long have you known each other?” Eva asked, watching Charlie’s rigid back at the bar.
“Since we were boys. Went to the same school, ran in the same circles for a while.” Aidan’s expression grew thoughtful. “We were even interested in the same things once upon a time. But that was a long time ago.”
Eva wondered what—or who—they’d been interested in. If only she knew what they competed for, maybe she’d understand more. She didn’t dare to ask.
“Anyway,” Aidan said, brightening again. “I actually wanted to ask—I’m having drinks with some investors later in the week. Nothing formal, just a nice wine bar. I’d love to show you the parts of York that might actually have a future. If you’re interested?”
Eva looked at him carefully. In Nashville, this would be simple—a good-looking and successful man asking her out. She’d jumped when Richard had looked her way. He’d been exactly what her mom had said she needed. But here, everything felt different. She wasn’t the same Eva who’d dated Richard, who’d planned her outfits around his preferences, who’d laughed at jokes that weren’t funny.
“Just to be clear, this isn’t a date, right?” she said finally.
Aidan looked taken aback for a moment, then laughed. “Hey, I was offering you a networking opportunity, but it can be whatever you want it to be Eva,” he said smoothly. “No pressure. Just a local showing a visitor the best of York. The real York.”
“The real York,” Eva repeated, glancing towards where Charlie sat hunched at the bar. “Everyone seems to have a different definition of that.”
“Well, my version comes with decent wine and heating that actually works,” Aidan said. “What do you say?”
“Why not?” Eva said, surprising herself. “I’ve got to be upfront with you though, I recently got out of a relationship, and I’m not looking to—”
“Say no more,” Aidan held up his hands. “Like I said, you’ll be amongst friends. No pressure.”
They chatted a bit more, with Aidan asking about her travel plans, whether she’d been to London, if she’d visited Paris or Rome—anywhere, it seemed, but here. When Eva mentioned she was researching local history, specifically someone named Margaret Wells, Aidan’s response was tellingly brief.
“Margaret Wells,” he repeated with a slight shrug, swirling his drink. “Oh yes, one of those local stories. York’s full of them—everyone’s got a tale about someone who did something once upon a time.” He glanced at his watch. “Now, have you been to the Met in New York? That’s real culture.”
As they finished their drinks, Eva couldn’t help wondering what Florence might say about Aidan and his development projects. The way Trinkett had spoken about developers turning pubs into luxury flats, she suspected she might have strong opinions.
“Well, I should get going,” Aidan said, sliding gracefully from the booth. “Meetings with investors wait for no man.” He pulled out his wallet and dropped enough money on the table to cover both their bills, waving away Eva’s protest. “Please. It’s the least I can do to welcome you to York.”
“Thank you,” Eva said, still feeling off-balance. “For the drink and the conversation.”
As Aidan prepared to leave, he paused by Charlie’s spot at the bar. Eva couldn’t hear what was said, but she saw Charlie’s knuckles whiten around his glass. Aidan clapped him on the shoulder—a gesture that looked friendly from a distance but made Charlie flinch—then strode out into the night.
Eva waited a moment, then found herself walking to the bar. “Are you okay?”
Charlie didn’t look at her. “You should be careful around him.”
“Because he’s a developer?”
“Because he’s very good at making people think he cares about what they care about.” Charlie finally met her eyes. “Right up until he doesn’t need them anymore.”
“You two have history,” Eva said softly. It wasn’t a question.
“Ancient history.” Charlie’s laugh was bitter. “The kind that’s well and truly buried. I’d appreciate it if you just dropped it.” He stood abruptly, Tilly immediately at attention. “Enjoy your evening, Eva. Try not to let him sell you any bridges.”
After he left, Eva lingered at the table, finishing her drink. Aidan was certainly charming. Polished. Professional. Everything Richard had aspired to be, down to the cashmere sweater and perfect teeth.
And yet.
There was something about Charlie—gruff, difficult Charlie with his ink-stained hands and disdain for tourists—that felt more genuine. More real. The way he’d looked when she’d defended his maps, like she’d handed him something precious he’d thought lost.
The green book sat in her bag, a constant reminder of why she was really here. Tomorrow evening, Aidan would show her what he considered to be the ‘real York’—whatever that meant.
But watching the two men interact, Eva wondered if she’d just witnessed something more real than either intended to show. Old wounds, old competitions, different visions for the same beloved city. And she wondered why being caught between them felt like being asked to choose between two different versions of the same story.
She paid for her own meal (leaving the money Aidan had set down for the bartender as a generous tip) and stepped out into the cold night air. York was beautiful at night, the medieval buildings lit with a soft glow that blurred their edges against the dark sky. The sound of laughter and music drifted from pubs and restaurants, and the Christmas lights strung across the narrow streets cast star-like reflections in puddles.
Eva walked slowly, in no hurry to return to the inn. Here, in this moment, she felt oddly free—not Eva Coleman, daughter of Sandy, ex-girlfriend of Richard, passed-over employee of Monarch Music. Just Eva, following a mystery through an ancient city, with no expectations other than her own.
And definitely not the Eva who’d thought a meal deal counted as experiencing British cuisine. Florence would never let her live that down and neither would Courtney (she regretted texting her friend that update now).
But she was also no longer the Eva who would have automatically sided with the polished, professional man, with the voice of her mother in the back of her mind. Something in York was changing her, helping her see past surfaces to what lay beneath.
For now, that was enough.
Chapter Seven
Florence’s Wisdom
The walk back from The Horse and Hound should have taken ten minutes. Eva managed to stretch it to twenty, partly because she kept stopping to peer into shop windows (closed, but prettily lit), and partly because she wasn’t quite ready to face the empty room at the inn. The conversation with Aidan had left her feeling unsettled, like she’d accidentally picked up someone else’s coat—it fit, but it wasn’t quite right.
York at night was a different creature than its daytime self. The tourist crowds had thinned to nothing, leaving only locals hurrying home and the occasional ghost tour group huddled around their guide’s lantern. The narrow streets created wind tunnels that sent her scarf flapping like a banner, and the cobblestones gleamed wet under the streetlights despite no recent rain.
She paused at a corner where three streets met at impossible angles—the kind of intersection that only made sense in a city that had grown organically over two millennia. A brass plaque on the wall caught her eye, barely visible in the amber light. She stepped closer, using her phone’s flashlight to read it.
The plaque itself was unremarkable—something about a merchant’s house from 1487. But tucked behind it, wedged between the brass and the stone, was a folded piece of paper.
Eva’s heart quickened. Another of Margaret’s notes?
She carefully extracted the paper, her cold fingers fumbling with the folds. But instead of a note, something small and metallic tumbled out, hitting the cobbles with a bright ping.
A key.
Eva crouched, searching in the dim light until she spotted it—a small brass key, ornate and old-fashioned, the kind that belonged to a music box or a diary. She picked it up, feeling its surprising weight in her palm.
The paper, when unfolded, revealed not a cheerful note but what appeared to be a page torn from a manuscript. The handwriting was definitely Margaret’s—Eva recognised it from the green book—but the tone was entirely different:
We tell ourselves that duty is noble, that sacrifice is beautiful. But what if duty is just fear dressed in respectable clothing? What if the greatest betrayal is not of others, but of our own hearts?
I chose what was expected. I chose what was safe. I chose everyone’s happiness but my own, and now I sit in this room full of other people’s love stories, wondering if the heroine of my own story simply gave up too soon.
The cruellest lies are the ones we tell ourselves in the early hours, when the house is quiet and our hearts are loud.
Eva read it twice, then a third time. This wasn’t the Margaret Wells who left hopeful notes for strangers. This was someone wrestling with regret, with choices that couldn’t be undone.
She tucked the key and paper carefully into her bag and hurried the rest of the way to the inn, suddenly eager for its warmth and light.
Back in her room, Eva sat on the bed and pulled out her phone. Seventeen unread messages from her mother. She’d been ignoring them all day, but Sandy Coleman was nothing if not persistent.
Mom: Eva, this is getting ridiculous.
Mom: You can’t just disappear to England without a plan.
Mom: Your father thinks I should give you space but this is INSANE.
Mom: What about your job? What about Christmas?
Mom: Call me. NOW.
The messages grew increasingly capitalised as they progressed. Eva could practically hear her mother’s voice rising with each text.
She pulled up Courtney’s messages instead—a palate cleanser of friendship:
Courtney: How’s the British adventure? Meet any Mr Darcys yet?
Courtney: Your mom called me FOUR TIMES today
Courtney: I told her you joined a convent
Courtney: She didn’t find that as funny as I did
Eva smiled despite herself and typed back:
Eva: No Darcys. Did meet two guys who hate each other though. Very Shakespearean.
Eva: Also I’m extending my time in York.
Courtney’s response was immediate:
Courtney: DO IT
Courtney: Your mom will literally explode but DO IT
Courtney: Also guys??? SPILL …
Eva: One’s charming and wants to develop real estate. The other makes maps and scowls a lot.
Courtney: Let me guess which one you like
Eva: I don’t like either of them. I’m here for self-discovery, remember?
Courtney: Sure
Courtney: It’s the scowly map guy isn’t it
Courtney: You always had a thing for the difficult ones
Eva was composing a defensive response when another text from her mother arrived:
Mom: If you don’t call me in the next hour I’m flying to London myself.
Eva sighed. She couldn’t put it off any longer. But she could control the medium. She typed carefully:
Eva: Mom, I’m safe and I’m okay. I’m extending my trip by another week. I still have vacation time and this is important to me. I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you.
She hit send before she could second guess herself, then immediately turned off her phone. She’d deal with the explosion tomorrow.
The next morning, Eva woke to the sound of rain pattering against her window. Real showering rain this time, not just York’s perpetual mist. She dressed in her warmest sweater and made her way downstairs, where Florence was already bustling around the dining room.
“Morning, love,” Florence said, not looking up from where she was arranging fresh flowers in a vase. “Full English again, or are you wanting something lighter? I’ve got some lovely porridge if you’re feeling delicate.”
“I’m actually feeling pretty good,” Eva said, settling at her usual table. “But I need to ask you something. I’m supposed to fly home tomorrow, but I’d like to stay longer. Would that be possible?”
Florence’s hands stilled on the flowers. She turned, studying Eva with those sharp blue eyes. “Found something worth staying for, have you?”
“Maybe,” Eva said. “I’m not sure yet. But I’m not ready to leave.”
Florence nodded slowly. “The room’s yours as long as you need it. You know Eva, York’s full of stories, if you’re willing to read into them a little bit more. They might just help you re-write your own.”
There was something in the way she said it—a weight to the words that suggested she wasn’t just talking about tourist attractions.
“Actually,” Eva said, pulling the brass key from her pocket, “I found this last night. Behind a plaque on Stonegate. With a page from what looks like a manuscript.”
Florence’s reaction was immediate. She set down the flower she was holding and crossed to Eva’s table, her eyes fixed on the key. “May I?”
Eva handed it over. Florence turned it carefully in her fingers, examining it from every angle.
“Where exactly did you find this?” Florence asked, her voice carefully controlled.
“Corner of Stonegate and Little Stonegate. Behind a merchants’ plaque. It was with this.” Eva showed her the manuscript page.
Florence read it, her expression growing more complex with each line. When she finished, she sat down heavily in the chair across from Eva.
“So you’ve been pursuing Margaret Wells,” Florence said. It wasn’t a question.
“Mr Trinkett told me a little about her. How she left notes around York during the war, trying to spread hope.”
“That’s how it started,” Florence agreed. “She worked at the military hospital, saw terrible things. Young men who’d never walk again, who’d lost their friends, their futures. She began leaving notes in library books—little bits of encouragement for the wounded soldiers to find.”
“That’s beautiful,” Eva said.
“It was.” Florence was still turning the key in her fingers. “But some notes became more than that. More personal. There was—” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “Well, that’s not my story to tell.”
“But you know more,” Eva pressed gently.
Florence gave her a long look. “I believe Margaret felt that if she helped enough people find love, maybe she’d forgive herself for giving up her own.”
“What do you mean?”
But Florence was already standing, bustling back to her flowers with renewed energy. “Now then, enough of the past. What you need is some proper Yorkshire company. You can’t understand York by sitting outside our attractions and just reading plaques.”
“I’ve been doing okay on my own,” Eva said, slightly defensive.
“Have you now?” Florence’s tone was sceptical. “Been out to the Dales yet? Seen Haworth where the Brontës lived? Walked the moors that inspired Wuthering Heights?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Charlie will take you,” Florence announced, as if it were already decided.
Eva laughed. “Charlie? The man barely tolerates me, Florence. Something tells me he’s not really my biggest fan.”
“Nonsense. He’s just guarded, careful with people. That’s what happens when you’ve been hurt before.” Florence’s expression softened. “Besides, Tilly likes you, and that dog’s never wrong about people.”
“Florence, really, I can’t ask him to—”
“You’re not asking. I am.” Florence’s tone brooked no argument. “Tomorrow morning, bright and early. Well, maybe not too early. Traditionally, Charlie’s not what you’d call a morning person.”
Eva wanted to protest further, but something in Florence’s expression stopped her. There was the mischief Charlie had warned her about there, certainly, but also genuine concern.
After breakfast, Eva retreated to her room. The rain had intensified, streaming down her window in sheets that blurred the outside world into watercolour impressions. She pulled out her phone, bracing herself for the onslaught.
Twenty-three texts from her mother. Four missed calls. Two voicemails.
She scrolled past them all and opened Courtney’s messages instead:
Courtney: Your mom just called me AGAIN
Courtney: I told her you were taking a vow of silence
