Page 1 of Enchanted Village

Chapter One

It wasn’t easy winning a staring contest with a dragon.

Margaret knew this better than most people. For one, there was the risk of singed eyebrows if the dragon in question so much as hiccuped unexpectedly. For another, dragons were incredibly stubborn creatures. Even the tiniest dragon—like the miniature calico one currently curled up inside of one of Margaret’s handcrafted ceramic bowls—could hold a boulder-size grudge if given the opportunity. And grudges, after all, tended to lend themselves to ego when given the proper care. Margaret also knew a fair bit about grudges and stubbornness, which was perhaps one of the reasons why she found herself sparring so often with the leather-hided creatures.

She didn’t back down, and neither did they.

“All right, you,” Margaret said, getting down on her elbows so that she and the calico were in each other’s direct line of sight. The dragon’s brown-and-black scales shimmered in the light filtering in from the window, her amber eyes flashing in the dim pub. As Margaret rested her chin on her knuckles, the dragon’s tail twitched.

“I thought we came to an understanding last time,” Margaret pressed. “About my bowls. About how much I dislike having them shattered.”

The dragon peered innocently back, as if she had no recollection of such a conversation ever taking place—even though it most certainly had—and flicked her tail once more before flexing her claws and yawning to reveal tiny fangs that Margaret knew, from unfortunate experience, could pierce straight through a person’s hand.

“Now, let’s be reasonable,” Margaret said. “You and I have had this conversation before, haven’t we? And you agreed that, considering I give you food and shelter, you’d leave my bowls alone. Or would you rather be out in the cold? First snow will be arriving any day, you know.”

The dragon made what Margaret could only describe as an indignant snort, but she knew what that snort said plainly: one, that the dragon had no intention of going out into the early morning chill; and two, she knew that Margaret would never dare.

Margaret sighed. They’d had the conversation before, but apparently, they’d be having it again. The question was: Would she give up precious time on this particular morning for it, or would she continue with her usual morning routine and deal with it later?

Because this exact stretch of morning was Margaret’s favorite time of day at her pub, the Toasty Owl, when the sunlight was just starting to slant through the tall windows of the pub and cast everything in a warm glow. Now was when Margaret preferred to put the kettle on for a pot of piping hot tea and settle in her favorite leather chair next to her favorite window and watch the village slowly come to life.

But persuading the dragon to move would eat up a significant chunk of that time, and judging by the creature’s haughty stare, that was the very reason she had chosen this moment to curl up in the bowl. She knew Margaret too well.

“Fine, Bernie.” Margaret acquiesced. “But remember. I’m partial to that one. And I’m the one who decides exactly what type of scraps you get, so you want to be nice to me.”

Bernie harrumphed at the empty threat.

Margaret checked the time on her grandmother’s old watch—a charmed, gold thing that Margaret wore at all times. It didn’t show the time exactly but, rather, told Margaret if she had plenty of time to do whatever she was considering, just enough, or not even a spare minute. Now, it showed just enough, so she sighed and allowed the dragon to win this particular round.

After leaving the dragon in the bowl, Margaret went about making her morning tea. She grabbed her grandmother’s old kettle—painted white with swirls of blue flowers along the sides—and filled it with water before placing it on the stove. As the water heated, she pulled her favorite mug from the cabinet, nice and round and black stoneware. She’d cried the day it finally chipped, which she knew was silly. It was just a mug. And yet, it was her mug that fit perfectly in her hands. Her mug that she’d sipped from for hundreds of mornings. Her mug that her mother had gifted her when she was ten, one of those casual gifts that turned into so much more when her mother hadn’t been able to gift her anything else ever again.

Margaret shook off the grief like she might’ve shaken dust off an old coat, turning her attention back to selecting tea. As with everything in the pub, Margaret strove to keep her tea caddy well stocked with the finest magical and non-magical offerings from across the globe. She selected a black tea with notes of citrus and cinnamon, poured water over the tea bag into her mug, and took up roost in her chair. She had it angled to the window, which showed her where the last golden leaves of autumn were falling from the trees.

Margaret knew this village the way some people knew the rules of a game. She could predict every small moment, from the time the florist across the street would step outside with her first blooms to when the baker would place his rolls and cakes for the day in the window display. And, of course, she knew when she would see a swish of honey-blond hair and the bell of her pub would jingle and Liza would appear.

“Margaret!” Liza said as she burst through the door, hands thrown out and green eyes as wide as saucers. “Today’s the day. I just know it.”

Margaret arched a brow. “The day? And what day, pray tell, is today?”

“Oh, just the most marvelous day you could ever imagine,” Liza continued, twirling in the center of the pub. “It’s Christmas.”

Margaret sighed. “It’s not Christmas, Liza. It’s November first.”

Liza scoffed. She paused her twirling, but only so that she could go behind the bar and rummage around for her own mug and fill it with the remaining hot water from the kettle. As she searched for a tea bag, she called back to Margaret.

“Everyone knows that November first is when the Christmas season officially begins,” Liza argued. “Didn’t you wake up this morning and immediately want to pull on something wool? I certainly did.”

She stood up from behind the bar, gesturing to the knitted plum-colored sweater she was wearing. Knowing Liza, she’d probably made the sweater herself, but you’d never be able to tell. Liza’s work was always impeccable, particularly her knitting-spell work. Even when they were kids and Liza’s mom had first taught her the spells necessary for purling, Liza had accepted nothing short of perfection.

“It’s maybe fifty-five degrees out,” Margaret said, rolling her eyes. “Not exactly wool weather.”

“Then I’ll will it into existence,” Liza said, plopping a tea bag into her mug just before her eyes caught on Bernie in the bowl. She looked from the dragon to Margaret.

“I assume you know there’s a dragon in your bowl?” Liza asked, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she came to join Margaret by the window. She settled herself in the chair opposite Margaret, crossing her legs to reveal brown leather boots beneath a flowy skirt.

“I’ve warned her not to break it,” Margaret replied, shrugging. Bernie had rolled so that she was on her back in the bowl, tail flicking in the air as she snored softly.

“Of course you have,” Liza said. “Well, I think it’s time for us to start planning for the holiday. I’ve got a bucket list of things I want to do. This is our twenty-seventh Christmas on Earth, and we’re making the most of it.”