Chapter Four
Cobblestones and Confrontations
Perhaps the greatest miracle of Eva’s trip so far was that the British transport system, despite their notorious reputation, had somehow been more reliable than her relationships.
Outside the window, the landscape blurred past—patchworks of green and brown dusted with frost, stone walls slicing through fields like handwritten notes across parchment.
Eva sat curled by the window, clutching her second cup of tea of the day.
She hadn’t slept much the night before. The mysterious green book had sat on her nightstand like a visitor from another world, its presence somehow both comforting and unsettling.
She’d found herself repeatedly reaching for it in the dark, running her fingers over the worn cover as if it might whisper secrets if she touched it just right.
Now, as the train rushed towards York, Eva held the book in her lap and tried to make sense of her own decision.
For once in her life, she was doing something purely for herself.
Not because her mother approved, not because it looked good on her résumé and not even because it was the practical choice.
She was following a thread of possibility, hoping it might lead her back to the girl who used to believe in magic.
The girl who had written stories late into the night and dreamed of adventures beyond Nashville’s city limits.
Maybe that girl was still in there somewhere, waiting to be rediscovered.
An elderly woman with a cloud of white hair and spectacles perched on the end of her nose watched Eva from across the aisle, setting down her Agatha Christie book.
“York’s your stop, is it?” she asked, her accent softening the words into something musical.
“Yes,” Eva replied.
The woman smiled. “You have that look. Like you’re expecting something marvellous to happen.”
“I’m not sure what I’m expecting,” Eva admitted.
“That’s the best way to arrive anywhere,” the woman said, nodding approvingly. “York doesn’t disappoint those who come with an open heart.”
Eva’s phone buzzed.
Richard: I think I made a mistake. Can we talk?
She stared at the message, feeling a familiar tug of obligation.
The old Eva would have responded immediately, would have reassured him, would have made it easy for him to waltz back into her life.
But sitting on this train, with the English countryside flowing past and Margaret Wells’ mysterious book in her lap, Richard’s message felt like an echo from a life she was no longer sure she wanted.
She’d spent a considerable amount of time on her travels reflecting on their relationship.
How there’d never been a true balance. Eva seemed to put in all the work.
She’d compromised on what she’d wanted nearly all the time, she’d been polite to cover his rudeness in social scenarios, laughed at his frankly terrible jokes and excused his belittling comments. And for what?
Eva: We were never right for each other. You know that.
His response came immediately: That’s not true. We worked well together.
Eva almost laughed. Worked well together. Like they were business partners, not lovers. Like their romance was a project he was managing rather than a feeling to be cherished. God, she’d never felt cherished by him at all.
Eva: Take care of yourself, Richard.
She typed her response, then did something she’d never done before in the (very brief) history of her dating life—she blocked his number.
She’d already removed him from Instagram to tear away his prying eyes from her exciting adventures, this was now the final step.
With a new sense of empowerment, she thought of a world free of Richard, his judgements and demands— damn it looked pretty good.
The elderly woman glanced up from her book. “Good for you, love. Nothing worse than someone who doesn’t know when they’ve been properly dismissed.”
Eva blushed, realising her internal monologue on ‘blocking that jerk’ hadn’t been as in her head as she’d thought. “Do you think I did the right thing?”
“Of course you did. Look at your body language, I just know, love. You’ve relaxed, it’s like you’ve just taken a proper deep breath for the first time in years.”
The train announcement crackled overhead: “We will be arriving at York Station in approximately five minutes. Please ensure you take all your belongings with you when you leave the train.”
As Eva pulled down her suitcase, a wave of uncertainty hit her. She had no hotel reservation, no concrete plan beyond finding the Fairy Light Tea Room. What if this was all a terrible mistake? What if she was just running away from her problems instead of solving them?
But as she stepped off the train onto the platform, the air felt different—crisper, somehow, as if the city had been preserving winter just for her arrival.
York Station itself was a marvel of Victorian engineering, a cathedral to the golden age of rail travel with its sweeping curved roof and intricate ironwork. Eva paused, gazing up at the vaulted ceiling, momentarily lost in its grandeur.
This was it, her chance to take on an adventure and outside, the city waited.
“Holy shit,” she whispered, the words forming a small cloud in the cold air.
Ancient stone walls encircled the city like a protective embrace, standing sentry as they had for centuries.
Within their protection, a tangle of medieval streets and crooked buildings created a skyline that looked like something from a fairy tale.
And rising above it all, the magnificent York Minster, its twin Gothic towers reaching towards heaven.
Eva felt her breath catch. This wasn’t just a city—it was a living storybook.
Following the signs towards the city centre, Eva found herself on narrow cobblestone streets that seemed untouched by time. The buildings leaned towards each other like old friends sharing secrets, their Tudor frames creating intricate patterns of dark timber against whitewashed walls.
She turned onto a street marked ‘The Shambles’ and immediately understood why this place had captured imaginations for centuries.
The medieval buildings pressed so close together that Eva could nearly touch both sides of the street with her outstretched arms. Above her head, upper floors jutted out at impossible angles, creating a tunnel of ancient timber and stone.
Shop signs hung from wrought-iron brackets, swaying gently in the winter breeze—a golden unicorn, a silver moon, a painted dragon that seemed to wink at her as she passed.
Following the address from Margaret’s book, Eva found the Fairy Light Tea Room nestled between a jewellery shop and an antiquarian bookstore.
Its windows were steamed up from within, offering glimpses of twinkling lights and the warm glow of candles through the condensation.
The sign—a delicate wrought iron creation featuring a teapot with tiny stars emerging from its spout—swung gently in the winter breeze.
Eva pushed open the door, which announced her arrival with the gentle chime of a silver bell.
The interior was like stepping into someone’s whimsical dream of what an English teashop should be.
Mismatched vintage tables were arranged across a creaky wooden floor.
Each was set with different china—some floral, some gilt-edged, no two alike.
Fairy lights were strung across the ceiling, reflected in dozens of tiny mirrors that caught and multiplied their glow.
The space smelled of cinnamon, cloves, and something buttery baking in the kitchen.
Eva had overheard whispers on the train of scones that rivalled the King’s personal bakes available here in York and her stomach grumbled at the thought of securing one.
“Just yourself?” asked a woman about Eva’s age, her blonde hair twisted into a messy bun secured with what appeared to be a pencil. She wore a deep green apron over a floral dress, and round glasses that gave her a slightly bookish air.
“Yes,” Eva said, suddenly conscious of her suitcase. “Sorry about this—I just arrived and wanted to come straight here.”
“No need to apologise,” the woman said with a laugh. “I once went straight from the airport to a castle in Scotland because I couldn’t wait to see it. Twenty kilogrammes of luggage and all. I’m Jean, by the way.”
“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.”