Chapter Nineteen #2
The library had sent their entire children’s department. They’d created a reading corner with books bearing Margaret’s bookplates, arranged around a small Christmas tree decorated entirely with paper ornaments—each one containing a quote from Margaret’s hidden notes.
“We’ve been preserving these for decades,” the head librarian explained, adjusting an angel made from pages of Peter Pan. “Waiting for the right moment to share them.”
Eva stood in the inn’s doorway, breathing in the mingled scents of pine, cinnamon and snow, watching it all unfold with a kind of breathless wonder.
Inside, each room had become a chapter in Margaret’s story.
Florence had found boxes of Margaret’s Christmas decorations and the volunteers had used them throughout—paper chains made by long-ago children, glass baubles that caught the light like tears, a wooden star that Charlie recognised from his childhood.
The parlour held Charlie’s map as a centrepiece, now framed and surrounded by battery-powered candles that made the golden stars seem to pulse with life. The dining room displayed the love letters between Margaret and Walter—not as tragedy, but as prologue to a life fully lived.
“Your young man knows what he’s doing,” Florence said, appearing beside her cradling a cup of tea in Margaret’s best Christmas china—red roses and gold rims. They watched Charlie directing volunteers, his usual awkwardness replaced by focused purpose.
She’d found an old Santa hat somewhere and placed it on his head thinking he’d take it off straight away.
Instead, he wore it unselfconsciously, with a bit of extra tinsel caught in his hair.
“He’s not my—” Eva started, then stopped. “He might be. I don’t know. It’s complicated.”
“Love always is.” Florence smiled. “Especially at Christmas. All those songs about mistletoe and miracles put pressure on people. But Margaret taught me that the best love stories aren’t the ones that happen because of the season.
They’re the ones that happen despite it—messy and real and choosing each other when everything’s chaotic.
” Florence sighed to herself. “The inn looks bloody brilliant, what you’ve both done here, it’s something special,” she caught herself as her voice began to shake.
“Thank you for bringing us together like this, all of us.”
By mid afternoon, the inn looked like a scene from A Christmas Carol had come to life.
Local media had arrived to find a story that wrote itself.
Carollers had appeared spontaneously, their voices weaving between the stalls.
Someone had brought a snow machine, causing artificial flakes mixed with the real ones to begin falling at the entrance of the inn.
Local news arrived alongside the journalists, it seemed a snowball effect had occurred on multiple levels. The word truly had spread quickly …
Eva’s phone buzzed. Her mother. Again. She’d sent seventeen texts since Eva had gone dark last night, but Eva had been too caught up in the magic to check them properly.
The afternoon brought unexpected revelations, each one wrapped in its own Christmas story. A woman in her eighties arrived with a suitcase, snow dusting her silver hair like a crown.
“I’m Helen Morrison,” she announced. “Margaret Wells helped create my wedding dress in 1962. It was two weeks before Christmas, and I was crying outside the shop because I couldn’t afford anything nice for my Boxing Day wedding.
” Her eyes sparkled. “The shopkeeper and Margaret helped me pick one of their cheaper dresses, then Margaret took it away to alter. She made it so beautiful.”
She opened the suitcase. Inside, preserved in layers of tissue paper, lay a beautiful 1960s wedding dress.
“I’ve kept it all these years. My granddaughter wore it last Christmas.
Generations of Morrison brides have been blessed with it, all because Margaret Wells believed everyone deserved magic.
” The stories continued to multiply like lights on a tree.
Charlie found Eva in the kitchen, where Florence was pulling tray after tray of mince pies from the oven—“Margaret’s recipe,” she said simply.
They were both taking a moment to breathe.
His hair was sticking out wildly beneath the Santa hat, his shirt was now untucked and there was paint on his cheek from helping with signs.
“Look what we did,” he said wonderingly.
“Look what she did,” Eva corrected. “We just reminded people.”
The sound of Silent Night drifted in from outside, and for a moment they just stood there, surrounded by the warmth and scent of Christmas, feeling the weight of what they’d created. Refusing to think about the looming fate of the inn.
Bang on time, the front door slammed open with characteristic drama.
“What the bloody hell—”
Aidan stood frozen in the doorway, snowflakes still melting on his expensive coat, his usually perfectly styled hair looking slightly windswept, had he ran here?
Aidan stared at the controlled chaos around him.
The sound of children laughing at the puppet show outside mixed with the brass band that had just started “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”
“Charlie,” he managed. “I figured I’d give Florence a bit of breathing room this morning before I came to collect the signed papers and instead found—what is this?”
“This,” Eva said, stepping forward, “is what you were about to destroy.”
Aidan’s gaze landed on Charlie’s map, the candlelight illuminating it in all its glory. He moved towards it slowly, his expression unreadable.
“Margaret drew this?” His voice had lost its usual corporate smoothness.
“She mapped every kindness,” Charlie confirmed. “Every life she touched. A lifetime of leaving love notes in the margins of York’s story.”
For a long moment, Aidan studied the map. Behind him, through the window, they could see an elderly couple requesting roasted chestnuts to share on their wander. His finger traced the path from the hospital to the orphanage to the inn itself.
“The local publicity you’ve garnered just today,” Aidan said slowly. “This is generating actual attention. It’ll lead to tourism.”
“It’s generating more than that,” Eva said. “It’s generating community. Memory. The kind of thing your development would erase forever.”
A child’s laughter drew their attention to the reading corner.
Here, Arthur was showing children how Margaret had hidden notes in books.
One little girl pulled out a slip of paper that read ‘You are braver than you know’ and clutched it like treasure.
Her mother shed a tear, whispering “I found the same note when I was seven.”
Something shifted in Aidan’s expression. “We used to come here as kids at Christmas. Your Gran would make us all hot chocolate with candy canes and tell stories by the fire.” He touched the map again. “I guess I’d forgotten.”
“Aidan—” Charlie started.
“Wait, just let me think a second.” Aidan pulled out his phone, scrolling through messages with increasing agitation.
“The numbers could work. Heritage site, living museum, Margaret’s Trail as an actual attraction …
” He looked up. “Christmas tours alone would pay for maintenance. Add in the wedding venue potential, the literary connections …” His business mind was visibly working, but there was something else there too—a softness around his eyes as he watched a family discover Margaret’s advent calendar, each door revealing a small act of kindness to perform.
“Actually,” Aidan said, “this is better than demolition. Heritage tourism, authentic York history, multi-generational appeal …” He smiled suddenly, a genuine childlike glow that Eva had not seen from him before.
Perhaps there was a purer side of Aidan after all.
“Fair play to you, Charlie boy. You’ve really got something here. ”
“You mean—”
“I mean the sale’s off. We’re going to need to find another way to help Florence aren’t we?” Aidan pocketed his phone. “Besides, can you imagine the press if I demolished a Christmas miracle? I’d be the Grinch of Yorkshire.”
Relief flooded through Eva so fast she felt dizzy. Charlie made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Outside, as if on cue, the brass band struck up Joy to the World.
“I need to call the lawyers,” Aidan said, already moving towards the door.
“And possibly grovel to the heritage committee. We’ll definitely need to hire Trinkett for the marketing.
” He paused. “Your Gran always said Christmas was when magic was strongest during storytime. Suppose she was right about that too.”
Aidan nodded once, sharply. “I’m going to talk to Florence about a potential loan to approach the bank with today, combine that with the donations that you’ve already received today and we’ll be getting somewhere. We’ll sort it Charlie, the proper way.” He smiled again and was gone.
Eva and Charlie now stood alone in the parlour, surrounded by the gentle chaos of their miracle.
The smell of warm mince pies wrapped around them like a blanket.
Through the windows, snow had begun to fall in earnest, dusting the market stalls in white and making everything look like a snow globe come to life.
“We did it,” Eva breathed.
“You did it,” Charlie corrected. “I was ready to let it go. You fought.”
“We did it together,” Eva insisted, and something in her tone made Charlie step closer.
They were standing in the doorway between the parlour and the hall, where Florence had hung not just one sprig of mistletoe but an entire bower, tied with red ribbon and little silver bells that chimed softly in the cool air currents.
The sounds of celebration floated around them—carols, laughter and the clink of glasses as people toasted Margaret’s memory.
Charlie reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind Eva’s ear, his fingers lingering against her cheek. “You have glitter in your hair by the way,” he said softly.
“You’re wearing a Santa hat,” she countered.
“It’s Christmas,” he said, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did.
“There’s mistletoe,” she whispered, glancing up at Florence’s elaborate creation. “Margaret’s magic strikes again.”
“I don’t need mistletoe to want to kiss you,” Charlie said, “but I’ll take all the magic I can get.”
His hands framed her face, and Eva’s eyes fluttered closed.
The kiss was everything she’d longed for over the past few days as she’d grown ever closer to Charlie.
Their connection had become deeper, more certain.
Eva’s arms wound around his neck, and she could taste cinnamon from the mulled wine, feel the soft wool of his jumper under her fingers.
The Santa hat fell off somewhere amidst the embrace, and Eva was just thinking she could stay here forever when—
The front door burst open with enough force to rattle the windows.
“Eva Coleman!”
Eva’s eyes flew open. She and Charlie sprang apart like guilty teenagers, but not quickly enough. Her mother stood in the doorway, snow swirling dramatically behind her, looking like an avenging angel in Burberry.
Her father peered around her shoulder, arms full of what appeared to be every craft item from the market. “Oh, hello darlin’! Are we interrupting?”
“Yes,” her mother said crisply, her eyes fixed on Eva. “Yes, Robert, I believe we are.”
Eva smoothed down her hair, very aware that she probably looked thoroughly flustered at this point. Charlie, for his part, was trying to look cool, calm and collected while his Santa hat lay incriminatingly at his feet.
“Hello, Mom,” Eva said, with as much dignity as she could muster while her lips still tingled from kissing.