Chapter Ten #3
“You’re clearly a woman of intelligence and taste,” he said as they finished their second bottle. “Have you thought about what you’ll do when your holiday ends?”
“Not really,” Eva admitted. “I’m taking things day by day.”
“Very zen,” Aidan smiled. “Though if you’re interested, I have connections in London. Publishing, marketing, that sort of thing. Someone with your background could find interesting opportunities there.”
Warning bells chimed in Eva’s wine-fuzzy brain.
This felt familiar—too familiar. Richard had done the same thing, painted pictures of a future that suited his vision of what Eva ought to be while assuming she’d gratefully go along with it.
Or even her mother, steering Eva down the path she felt was best rather than the one her daughter actually hoped to follow.
“That’s kind of you,” she said carefully, “but I’m quite happy just being a tourist for now.”
“Of course,” Aidan agreed easily. “Just something to think about.”
When they finally left, Eva politely declined his offer to take her back to the inn via cab.
Instead, she insisted that she needed the fresh air.
The wine bar’s warmth gave way to York’s crisp December night, and she found herself walking towards the Christmas market almost without thinking.
There was no place that felt more magical.
The market was quieter at this hour, most families having gone home, leaving couples and groups of friends warming themselves with mulled wine.
The air smelled of cinnamon and roasting chestnuts, with an undertone of damp wool from all the scarves and coats.
Eva wandered past the stalls, many of which were closing up for the night, their owners packing away hand-crafted goods with practiced efficiency.
She stopped at a stall she’d noticed before—a leatherworker selling hand-bound journals.
One in particular caught her eye: deep green leather with a brass clasp, its pages thick and cream-coloured.
It smelled of leather and possibility, the kind of notebook that demanded important thoughts, meaningful words and creativity.
“That’s a special one,” the vendor said, noticing her interest. His hands were stained with dye, and he smelled faintly of the oils used to treat leather.
Eva picked it up, running her fingers over the smooth leather. It felt significant somehow, like it was meant for something more than shopping lists or journalling your latest crush updates. But when she checked her phone to see her credit card balance, reality intruded.
She’d extended her trip without thinking about the financial implications.
The hotel in London, meals, trains, the wine Aidan had ordered tonight that she refused to let him pay for—it all added up.
Her credit card was dangerously close to its limit, and she still had to solidify her flight home eventually.
“Maybe next time,” she said reluctantly, setting the journal down.
She pulled out her phone to text Courtney:
Eva: Did you manage to mail those returns for my Cancún clothes? My credit card is having a nervous breakdown.
Courtney’s response was prompt as usual.
Courtney: Mailed them in yesterday Should get your refunds in a few days, sorry been up the wall with food prep! How was wine with Mr Smooth?
Eva: Educational. He’s planning to develop the inn.
Courtney: WHAT?! No! We must protect Florence at all costs!
Eva: I know. I just don’t know how.
Eva was so absorbed in her phone that she didn’t notice Charlie until Tilly bounded up to her, tail wagging enthusiastically.
“Oh!” Eva knelt to greet the spaniel, grateful for the excuse to avoid looking at Charlie. “Hello, beautiful girl. What are you doing out so late?”
“Market’s closing up.”
“I was just browsing,” Eva said, standing awkwardly. “After drinks. With Aidan. Which you already knew I was doing …”
“How was it?” His tone was carefully neutral.
“Informative. He showed me documents about your … about Margaret. Her work with the inn.”
Charlie’s jaw tightened. “I’m sure he did.”
They stood there, the weight of the morning’s revelation hanging between them.
Around them, vendors called goodnight to each other, the comfortable sounds of a community ending another day.
Eva wanted to apologise, to explain that she hadn’t known, that she would never have pushed if she’d understood. But the words tangled in her throat.
“I should go,” she said finally. “It’s late.”
“Eva—” Charlie started, then stopped. “Never mind. Get back safe.”
She walked back to the inn alone, her heels clicking on cobblestones that had probably known Margaret Wells’ footsteps.
The building loomed before her, windows glowing warmly against the night, and Eva heard something that made her pause—the unmistakable sound of papers rustling and quiet cursing from the parlour.
Eva crept closer, peering through the crack in the door.
Florence sat at a desk covered in papers, her usually cheerful face creased with worry.
The lamp cast harsh shadows, making her look older, more fragile.
She was punching numbers into an ancient calculator that clicked and whirred with each entry.
“Bloody hell,” Florence muttered. “How did it get this bad?”
Eva could see bills spread across the desk, red numbers glaring accusingly from bank statements. Florence rubbed her temples, and for the first time, Eva noticed how thin her hands were, how tired she looked beneath the usual bustle.
Eva backed away quietly, not wanting to intrude. But her heart sank. First Charlie’s revelation about Margaret, then Aidan’s plans for the inn and now this. It seemed like every story in York ended with loss—love lost, history lost, homes lost to progress and profit.
In her room, she sat on the bed and picked up the brass key again, turning it over in her hands.
It felt warm from sitting on her nightstand beneath the lamplight, as if it had been waiting for her return.
Margaret Wells’ key led to something that had stayed locked away for decades.
Charlie’s grandmother, who’d loved and lost and spent her life helping others find what she couldn’t keep.
Eva thought about fairy tales and their alternatives, about paradise glimpsed but not grasped.
Maybe Charlie was right. Maybe turning Margaret into a romantic figure was just another way of avoiding the truth: that sometimes love wasn’t enough, that sometimes being brave meant living with your choices even when they broke your heart.
But as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling with its ancient cracks that looked like a map of everywhere and nowhere, Eva couldn’t shake the feeling that the story wasn’t over.
That Margaret had left more than regrets scattered around York.
That somewhere in this city of layers and legends, there was still truth waiting to be uncovered—not the pretty truth of fairy tales, but the messy, human truth of real lives and real choices.
The key now sat on her bedside table, catching the moonlight through thin curtains.
But tomorrow would be different, she decided.
Tomorrow she would find out what it opened, with or without Charlie’s help.
Because Margaret Wells—broken, brave, human Margaret—deserved to have her whole story told, not just the parts that were comfortable to remember.
Outside her window, York slept under its blanket of history, keeping its secrets close.
But secrets, Eva was learning, had a way of surfacing when the right person came looking—even if that person was just a lost American, following breadcrumbs through an ancient city, trying to understand her own heart by decoding someone else’s.
Eva felt a sense of sadness in all she had discovered. But another part of her felt purpose. For the first time in years, she felt she was actually on a quest that meant something. She just wasn’t sure exactly what it was yet.