Page 32 of Enchanted Village

Norma’s eyes were wide. Margaret could tell she wanted Margaret to handle this part, but Margaret had her pub to get back to.

She didn’t kid herself that Silas would still be there, and she wouldn’t blame him for leaving, anyway. In fact, it was probably for the best that he was gone. She had enjoyed their conversation . . . more than enjoyed it, if she was honest. She hadn’t felt so comfortable with another person since, well, Liza. She still couldn’t believe she’d come out and started telling him about her mother and grandmother. The words had just sort of slipped out, but she hadn’t regretted them. And he’d shared with her, too.

Plus, they’d agreed on friendship, which was more than Margaret could’ve hoped for. Truly, it was all she could allow herself to hope for.

Because thinking of Silas as more than a friend could only lead down a disappointing road. Sure, he was charming and generous and offering to fix up the pub. But how long until he was sick of that? She thought back on the other men who had quickly lost their interest in Margaret because of how invested she was in the Toasty Owl. And with the threat of Fox Bar hanging over her, she really couldn’t afford to waste time on a man—no matter how charming—who would ultimately be a short-lived distraction.

Liza would be furious, of course—Margaret could already hear her friend groaning—but Margaret was glad the terms were clear. She would enjoy Silas’s company when he was there and appreciate the connection, but she wouldn’t feel guilty about having to leave. And she’d expect the same from him, which was why she wouldn’t feel any kind of way when she returned to the pub and found he’d inevitably headed out.

Already, her legs were sore from chasing around the dreebell, and she knew more tasks awaited her tonight if she wanted to try to open up tomorrow. There was still the sign outside, and the window, and the list went on and on. And that remained on top of all the little things she still hadn’t gotten to, nuisance issues that Fox Bar would certainly not have to contend with.

As she trooped back to the Toasty Owl, covered in dust and dirt and sweat, she cast a glance in Fox Bar’s direction. It was coming along, and she could hear the telltale clangs echoing from inside. Even Norma had been keen to discuss it—though at least she’d been critical of the noise caused by all the interior construction.

“Distracts me when I’m knitting,” she’d harrumphed. “Don’t worry, Maggie. What you have is much better.”

Margaret hadn’t even brought it up, but Norma’s kindness warmed her all the same. She had no doubt that the kindness was borne out of the fact that Norma and her grandmother had been close, had started their shops around the same time. There were photographs of them in City Hall grinning and holding up their Now Open! signs next to each other. When Margaret was young, she remembered the pub dotted with arrangements from Norma; she’d use the pub to advertise her services, and likewise, she’d tuck samples of Fiona’s latest beverage concoction into boxes that she sent off with bouquets. But at some point, both businesses were booming enough that they no longer needed to be advertised at all. Even today, Norma kept a steady stream of people coming in and out for her floral works of art, especially around a holiday. And even after Fiona passed, Daphne had kept the pub packed every night. Margaret, too, but that was before any competition arrived.

Margaret could all but hear her grandmother’s and mother’s voices in her head. She didn’t even know if it would be a problem, did she? And since when had worrying ever helped solve anything? She either needed to get to work or stop fretting.

Margaret sighed as she reached the door of her pub, catching sight of her boarded-up window and charred sign. She had plenty of things she could do to be productive. The question was, should she shower to get the musky smell of the dreebell off her and then start her next round of chores? Or should she jump right into them so she only needed the one shower? Should she risk caffeinated tea this late in the evening?

She’d have to chance it, she decided. She pushed the door of the pub open, bracing for the cold, dark emptiness inside.

As expected, Silas was gone, but the pub was neither cold nor dark. Instead, she found that the candles had been lit, and the fireplace was crackling with warmth, filling the pub in the soft glow that she loved. It allowed her to look around the space and notice that the shine that had been present solely in the only corner of the room she’d been able to clean had somehow extended to the rest of the pub: The floors were freshly polished, the windows—those that weren’t boarded up, obviously—were so clean as to be shockingly transparent, and every glass bottle behind the bar seemed to shimmer with the flickering candlelight. Had Liza been by?

She moved to hang up her coat in the closet, but before she could, her eyes caught on the portrait frames, gilded and resplendent once again, not a smudge of char in sight. She strode forward to get a closer look, pausing when she caught sight of her favorite chair, currently occupied by a dragon perched on the top.

“Bernie?” Margaret asked. “What happened? Did Liza come by and do all this?”

Bernie huffed, tapping the chair with her nose. Margaret glanced down and gasped.

Clearly, Liza had been here, had tapped her wand and repaired the chair to make it look brand-new. The leather was no longer peeling; rather, it was smooth, without a nick or tear in sight. And it no longer was dipping in the seat; instead, it was just the right amount of cushion when she sat down to test it. But somehow, it was also not too firm; this was the perfect state of just-right worn in. Liza must’ve been practicing, for there was no other way for Margaret to explain.

“I’m going to have to have a few words with her,” Margaret said, rising from the chair and moving to the bar. Everywhere she looked, Liza had tidied or cleaned or mended something. She opened the cabinet to grab a tea bag and—it no longer squeaked. But how had Liza even known it needed to be repaired?

Bernie zoomed across the room now, snatching something up from the end of the bar. At first, Liza thought it was a napkin, and then she saw it was actually a scrap of notebook paper with friendly, looping writing on it.

Margaret,

I hope you were successful with the creature, though I have no doubt you sorted it out. I also hope you don’t mind that I took care of a few things with my toolbox. I’ll be back tomorrow to take a look at the window.

Until then,

Silas

Margaret was not the kind of person who cried—at least, she was not the kind of person who cried when other people could see her. But now, in the warm glow of her pub, with a dragon jumping onto her shoulder to purr against her hair, Margaret let go of a tiny breath that had been notched in her chest all day and, with it, let loose tears she hadn’t realized were so near the edge of release.

She still didn’t have time for distractions, but for now, she could bask in the realization that she could go straight to bed tonight. Because of Silas, she could—for tonight at least—allow herself to relax.

Chapter Fifteen

Margaret awoke the next morning, the ache in her body still present but noticeably relieved. It had been a long time since she’d been able to slip into sleep without quietly crunching numbers in her head or thinking over menu items to add or writing the next day’s to-do list in her mind. But last night, she’d actually fallen asleep the second her head hit the pillow. She heard the hammering from outside and groaned slightly, knowing that must mean Fox Bar construction was starting even earlier than usual. It even sounded closer, as if they had moved their efforts right up against the pub.

“Bernie,” she grumbled, rolling over under her quilt. “Maybe you should go set their building on fire.”

She didn’t mean it, of course. The last thing she needed was to be held liable for a building fire. She opened her mouth to clarify, just to make sure Bernie didn’t take her literally, but then realized there was another reason she wasn’t sore: There wasn’t a dragon on her legs.

She lifted her head up from under the quilt, scanning the room. Bernie was nowhere to be found. As much as she enjoyed having feeling in her legs, Margaret had to admit she felt rather dejected that the dragon wasn’t in her usual spot. She wouldn’t have left the pub for good, would she? Margaret had gotten rather used to the company.