Chapter Nineteen
The Christmas Miracle
“It’s not even seven,” Eva protested weakly, though she was already buttoning her coat.
The adrenaline from their all-nighter hadn’t worn off—if anything, it had transformed into something electric and urgent.
Her breath formed clouds in the frosty air, and the scent of someone’s wood fire made the morning feel impossibly festive. “Won’t he be—”
“Preparing his morning dramatics? Absolutely.” Charlie grinned. “Which means he’ll be awake, caffeinated, and ready to weaponise his entire contact list. Or at least, those he couldn’t get a hold of last night.”
The two were running on less than an hour’s sleep and a scary amount of caffeine.
Both Charlie and Eva were a bundle of nervous energy.
In the final hours of last night, they’d sat together with Florence and sighed with relief as she agreed to not sign Aidan’s final piece of paper.
The safety net was being pulled from beneath them but if they were going down, they were ‘going down swinging’ as Florence had said with a gritty attitude.
Before they left, Charlie grabbed something from the parlour—a large rolled paper he’d been working on through the night. “Wait until you see the final piece of the puzzle,” he said, his eyes bright with discovery.
They found Trinkett in The Shambles, adjusting his Victorian top hat in a shop window’s reflection.
Fairy lights still twinkled in the medieval overhangs, and the faint sound of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen drifted from a nearby shop already preparing for the day.
His magnificent moustache twitched when he spotted them approaching like people on a mission.
“Ms Coleman! Mr Blackwood!” He swept off his hat in an elaborate bow. “You both look positively unhinged. How delightful.”
“We still need your help,” Eva said without preamble. “The inn—”
“Say no more.” Trinkett held up a gloved hand.
“We’ve all heard the whispers about Thornfield Development, that appalling Aidan creature, over the last few months.
It’s a bloody tragedy what they’re planning to do to Florence’s inn and I can’t imagine the story they’ll spin about our Margaret.
” His eyes glinted dangerously. “Is the counter-offense continuing as planned?”
Charlie carefully unrolled his creation against the wall, and Eva gasped. He’d walked her through Margaret’s original diagram, but this—this was art.
“I told you I was busy while you were writing,” Charlie explained, holding the corners flat.
“I went back to Margaret’s diagram. Like I said, at first I thought it was just decorative—you know, stars and swirls.
But then I noticed the stars had numbers.
Tiny ones. And the swirls weren’t random—they were paths. ”
The original diagram had been simple pencil on yellowed paper, but Charlie had transformed it into a watercolour masterpiece.
Delicate blue lines traced through a painted map of York, connecting location to location like veins of kindness.
Each stop was marked with a golden star, and in Charlie’s precise architectural hand, he’d added labels: ‘Library—first notes, 1946.’ ‘Mrs Morrison’s shop—wedding dress, 1962.
’ ‘Milk route, Gillygate—coins for the Trinkett family.’
“Wait,” Trinkett said, his finger hovering over that last entry. “The Trinkett family?”
“Every hidden note, every secret kindness,” Charlie confirmed. “All those years of leaving York better than she found it.”
Trinkett traced the path to his grandmother’s house, his pale cheeks turning a soft red. “She used to find coins in her milk bottles when times were tight. Said it was the milk fairy.” His voice cracked slightly. “It was Margaret, wasn’t it?”
“According to this,” Charlie tapped the date notation, “every Tuesday from 1953 to 1961.”
Trinkett pulled off his gloves and wiped his eyes quickly. “Right. Well. That settles it.” He pulled out his phone with the determination of a general preparing for battle. “I have calls to make!”
“We’re saving the inn,” Charlie and Eva said in unison.
“Excellent. Focused. I like it.” His fingers flew across his phone screen.
“I’m cancelling today’s tours and calling in every favour I’ve accumulated in twenty years of showing people around this city.
Mrs Henderson owes me for not mentioning her great-aunt’s smuggling operation on tours.
Dr Hartley’s been trying to get me to include the hospital in my route.
Oliver at The Horse and Hound—his grandfather knew Margaret personally. ”
“You think they’ll help?” Eva asked.
Trinkett looked genuinely offended. “My dear girl, this is Yorkshire. We queue politely, we complain about the weather, and we rally like Vikings when one of our own is threatened. Margaret Wells IS York. They’ll help.”
By 8.00a.m., Trinkett’s network had activated like some sort of benevolent sleeper cell.
Eva and Charlie arrived at Whitby’s Antiquarian Books to find Arthur already pulling boxes from his back room.
The shop smelled of cinnamon and old paper, and he’d put on a recording of King’s College choir that made everything feel sacred.
“Trinkett called,” he said by way of explanation.
“Told me you were creating Margaret’s Trail.
” He opened a box with reverent hands. “These are from her reading program. 1946 to 1967. Every book she donated, every child she taught. I kept records because …” His voice wavered. “Because someone should remember.”
He pulled out a leather journal, its pages filled with careful entries.
“Look here—Christmas 1947. She brought thirty books wrapped in brown paper. Each one had a child’s name on it and a note inside.
” He showed them a preserved slip of paper: ‘For Tommy—adventures await those brave enough to read them.’
“Mr Whitby,” Charlie said softly. “We can’t ask you to—”
“You’re not asking. I’m telling.” Arthur pulled out a photograph—Margaret surrounded by children, books piled high around them.
Their faces glowed in what was clearly candlelight, and someone had drawn paper snowflakes for the windows behind them.
“See that boy, third from left? That’s me.
She taught me to read when everyone else had given up.
Said I wasn’t slow, just saw words differently.
” He looked up fiercely. “I inherited this bookshop proudly because Margaret Wells believed in a dyslexic child with no father to guide him. You think I wouldn’t fight for her memory? ”
The Horse and Hound was already in full Christmas mode when they arrived. Garlands hung from the beams, and the fire crackled with unusual warmth. They pushed through the heavy door to find Oliver on the phone, gesturing wildly.
“—don’t care if it’s short notice, Dennis. Margaret’s grandson needs us.” He paused. “The architect one. Yes, the one with the lovely girlfriend—” He spotted them and winked. “They’re here now. Bring your tools and anyone else from the Tuesday lot.”
Eva swallowed hard and pretended that she wasn’t just called Charlie’s ‘girlfriend.’
He hung up and beamed at them. “Right, that’s six carpenters, two electricians, and a plumber who owes Margaret’s fund his sobriety. What do you need built?”
Eva felt her throat tighten. “You don’t even know what we’re planning.”
“Don’t need to. It’s for Margaret.” Oliver reached behind the bar and pulled out not just a ledger, but a wooden box marked with Margaret’s star symbol.
“This has been behind our bar since 1946. We open it every Christmas Eve and read the names.” He opened it carefully, revealing hundreds of small cards.
“Every person able to raise a glass in here on Christmas day due to Margaret’s kindness. We remember them all.”
He pulled out one at random. “23 December, 1958. The Morrison family. Father out of work, four children, no money for Christmas.” He flipped it over.
“Margaret’s fund provided the Christmas dinner that year.
The eldest Morrison boy grew up to be a teacher.
Comes in every December to add to the fund. ”
“The Margaret Wells my father told me about,” Oliver continued, carefully replacing the card, “wouldn’t want some superficial development named after her. She’d want this—people helping people, the way she taught us.”
By 10a.m., York had transformed into something from a Christmas fairy tale.
What started as a desperate plan had become something extraordinary.
The path to the inn bloomed with pop-up stalls decorated with white lights and evergreen boughs.
The December cold had brought out the vendors’ creativity—braziers burned between the stalls, roasting chestnuts and warming mulled wine that scented the entire street.
Mrs Henderson’s pottery stall displayed bowls glazed in Margaret’s favourite colours.
She’d arranged them on white cloth with sprigs of holly between them.
“She commissioned these during the war,” she explained to growing crowds.
“Said beautiful things helped people heal. Always ordered extra before Christmas—‘for those who need something lovely,’ she’d say. ”
Dr Hartley had created a medical history display, but he’d softened it with Margaret’s own Christmas decorations from the hospital—paper angels made by patients, a knitted nativity scene, photographs of ward Christmas parties where Margaret, in her starched uniform, could be seen leading carols.
“Margaret Wells pioneered trauma treatment before we even had a name for it,” he explained to a group of visitors. “But at Christmas, she was pure magic. Used to dress as Father Christmas for the children’s ward. Only nurse I ever met who could make a beard look dignified.”