Chapter Three #2
Courtney’s words from the apartment echoed in her mind: “Go find yourself.” But how did you find something you weren’t even sure existed anymore?
She slipped through streets where shops sold single, specialized items: one sold only antique maps, another nothing but wooden jigsaw puzzles.
A third displayed fountain pens in a window so small she had to stoop to peer inside.
Each storefront seemed to exist in its own time zone, unconcerned with the digital world that Eva had left behind in Hyde Park.
This felt much more like the haven she’d been seeking.
She turned down Marylebone Lane, where the street curved like a question mark. Her shoulders brushed brick walls on either side as a black cab somehow navigated the bend, its tyres slick on cobblestones that had been worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. The driver nodded at her with a smile.
Her Google Maps app had given up trying to tell her where she was, the blue dot jumping erratically between streets. But getting lost, Eva decided, was exactly what she needed.
A shop window caught her eye—not the gleaming displays of Oxford Street, but something altogether different.
Behind rain-spotted glass, vintage teacups balanced in precarious towers, each one different from the last. The sign above read ‘The Marylebone Curiosity Cabinet’ in gold letters that had seen better decades.
Next door, a pub called The Golden Eagle looked as though it had been serving pints since before the USA was even a country.
A Christmas garland framed its door, but not the shiny mass-produced stuff from Winter Wonderland—this was real pine, decorated with dried orange slices and cinnamon sticks. It was beautiful.
The rain picked up again, but here it felt different.
Maybe it was the way it caught the light from the antique street lamps, or how it made the cobblestones gleam like black glass.
Either way, something in Eva’s heart told her she wasn’t so lost anymore.
Ready to escape the rain she ducked under a striped awning, brushing the droplets off her red jacket.
In Nashville, she’d have been huddled in her car by now, cranking the heat and complaining about the weather.
Here she was getting soaked and somehow enjoying it.
A sign pointed down a narrow passage: ‘St. Christopher’s Place’.
Eva hesitated. The alley was barely wider than her shoulders, and definitely not on any tourist map.
She hesitated for a moment at the quietness of it all.
But wasn’t this what she’d come for? Not the London of guidebooks and Instagram, but the real city, with its secrets and stories?
The Eva from last week would have kept walking, concerned about safety ratings and Yelp reviews.
But that Eva had also believed Richard was going to propose and that she was a shoo-in for the promotion, so clearly her judgment wasn’t infallible.
She took a deep breath and stepped into the passage.
What opened up before her was a scene like stepping through the wardrobe into Narnia.
A hidden courtyard, strung with lights that danced in the rain.
Small shops lined the square, their windows curved and glowing amber against the twilight.
There was a chocolatier hand-dipping truffles in the window and a shop selling only flat cap hats and feathers.
The kind of specialisation that suggested either extreme dedication or terrible business acumen.
That’s when she saw it: a bookshop. The window display featured a stack of old books arranged like a Christmas tree, topped with a worn copy of A Christmas Carol. A brass bell tinkled softly as she pushed open the door, her boots squeaking against the worn wooden floor.
The smell hit her first—old paper, leather bindings, and something that might have been tea or possibly just centuries of British dampness.
Books were stacked everywhere, creating narrow canyons barely wide enough to squeeze through.
It was like someone had taken the concept of fire safety regulations, considered them thoughtfully, and then laughed deciding they were entirely optional.
“Looking for anything in particular?” asked a voice from somewhere behind a towering stack of worn British classics.
Eva caught a glimpse of silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses perched on a man’s crooked nose.
Upon further investigation, she locked eyes with pools of blue that had clearly seen their fair share of books.
“Just browsing,” Eva replied, running her fingers along the spines.
They felt different from the books at Barnes the book’s pages fluttered of their own accord and settled on a heading written in looping script: The Fairy Light Tea Room, York. Follow the signs.
Eva felt goosebumps tickle her flesh. The signs? Eva laughed. No. No, she couldn’t just suddenly change her plans.
She went to set the book down, but hesitated.
Just dive in, Eva. She argued with herself on whether or not to keep reading.
Who was she? This was crazy. A part of her felt weary, though she wasn’t sure why.
She shouldn’t have watched Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets on the plane.
The diary scene always freaked her out. Harry follows a diary and almost dies because of it.
But that was just a story. And so was this.
Damn it, be brave, Eva. Open the cover …
Flipping to a third page, another handwritten note was revealed: Sometimes the best stories start where you least expect them.
She flipped back to the page that had caught her eye in the bookshop—the one about the tea room in York.
Reading more carefully, she saw the full address: The Fairy Light Tea Room, Stonegate, York.
The ink looked strangely fresh, as if written moments ago.
Eva’s MacBook Air glowed as she pulled up the National Rail website.
York was only two hours away by train. The photos looked like something out of a movie she’d have watched with Courtney on a girl’s night in, but …
real. She leaned closer to the screen, heart lifting as photo after photo scrolled by—stone walls tangled with ivy, crooked timber houses leaning together like they were a team.
It wasn’t just a city. It was a storybook.
And then there was the Christmas Market—images showed wooden stalls dusted with snow, steam rising from cups of mulled wine, artisans selling handmade crafts.
Her phone buzzed.
Richard: Hey, saw your London pics on Instagram. Looks amazing.
Eva looked at the message, then at the mysterious book, then back at the message. She closed it without responding and clicked ‘Purchase’ on a train ticket instead. She needed to block his ass.
Her phone buzzed one more time. She glanced at it, expecting her mother next. But it was Courtney:
Courtney: How’s the finding yourself going? Any magical epiphanies yet?
Eva looked at the mysterious book, then typed back:
Eva: Maybe. Following a lead to York tomorrow. Will explain later.
Courtney: That’s my girl! Chase that adventure!
Eva smiled and closed her laptop. Outside her window, London sparkled in the rain.
Yes, it was beautiful and grand and exactly what she’d thought she wanted.
But maybe, just maybe, what she really needed was waiting in a tearoom in York.
Like when Dorothy had realised the Emerald City wasn’t home after all, Eva was finding that the London she’d dreamed of for so long was just one stop on a longer journey.
Eva packed her carry-on, carefully wrapping the green book in her favourite oversized cream sweater. For a moment, she held her untouched notebook from Nashville, considering whether to leave it behind. She packed it too—a reminder of who she’d been, even as she was becoming someone new.
Then she did something she hadn’t done since she was a kid writing in her Lisa Frank diary—she made a wish. Not on a star (London’s light pollution took care of that), but on the book itself.
She felt a little bit ridiculous, standing there with her eyes closed, in damp socks, whispering a wish into the cold London air.
But maybe that was the point. Maybe magic only found the people who still believed it might.
Maybe change wasn’t something you planned for—it was something you asked for, even when you weren’t sure you deserved it.
“Please,” she whispered, feeling only slightly ridiculous, “let this be something amazing. Something … real.”
The next morning, she wheeled her suitcase through King’s Cross Station, past the tourist crowds taking photos at Platform 9?, and found her way to her train. As London’s suburbs gave way to rolling countryside, Eva opened the book again.
She noticed something else written on the back of the note, in different handwriting:
P.S. - Don’t forget to look up when you reach Stonegate. The best magic happens above the shop signs.
Eva smiled and settled back in her seat. Despite the fact that she didn’t quite know where she was going, for the first time since leaving Nashville, she felt like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.