Page 52 of Enchanted Village

“Patrick Kerrigan,” Silas said. “I ran into him at Sugar Spell.”

Margaret wrinkled her nose. Patrick Kerrigan had, apparently, been doing a lot of one-on-one time with the villagers. He was popping in and out of their shops to check in, introduce himself, and generally get into the village’s good graces. He would spend money—significant money, if the rumors were true—in the shops he visited. It was incredibly effective marketing, Margaret had to admit. He wasn’t shouting about Fox Bar anymore. He was presenting himself, giving them a friendly—and ridiculously charming—face to associate with the place, so that when someone (usually Liza) said something untoward about him, the shop owners now said, “Oh, that Patrick Kerrigan seems all right to me.”

Of course, not everyone did that. Plenty of shopkeepers remained thoroughly devoted to Margaret. Old Man Weatherby had slammed the door in Patrick’s face and would tell anyone who would listen that he had done so. Norma sold him flowers, but ones that had already started to wilt. And while Margaret appreciated the gesture . . . she also couldn’t exactly begrudge her friends for being, well, friendly.

The real question was about the rest of the village. When the time came, would they choose the Toasty Owl or Fox Bar, her or Patrick?

“I see by the grimace on your face that you’re worried,” Silas said, drawing Margaret back to the present.

“Oh, not worried,” Margaret lied. She hid her actually very real worry by turning and watching the red pot to make sure it didn’t overheat.

“Margaret,” Silas said, and when she turned back, he was looking at her with an expression that clearly said he was calling bullshit.

“Well, not entirely unworried, I guess,” she admitted. “But I just . . . well, what did he say, exactly?”

“He was trying to be charming,” Silas said. “In fact, I think he might be a nice-enough guy if he wasn’t trying to ruin this place.”

Margaret snorted. Leave it to Silas to see the good in everyone. He was lucky Liza wasn’t nearby to hear such kind words said about Patrick Kerrigan.

“But he seems extremely determined,” Silas said. “He said he doesn’t lose.”

“Sounds like Liza,” Margaret grumbled. “The pair of them have more in common than they let on.”

Silas chuckled. “Well, regardless, I think we may need to kick it up a notch.”

Margaret glanced at the hot chocolate before letting her gaze sweep around the pub. Truth be told, it already felt like they’d done a lot to the place. They were running out of repairs to make—though Margaret was sure new ones would pop up soon enough—and the pub was sparkling. It looked almost exactly like how it had looked when Margaret was younger. It was comfortable, wasn’t it?

“How so, exactly?” Margaret asked.

“Well,” Silas said. “I was thinking. Sarah was asking me, after Patrick left, about everyone coming together to counter his opening night with your . . . ‘relaunch’ night. We talk it up and make sure everyone knows the Toasty Owl is better than ever.”

“Relaunch?” Margaret laughed. “Silas, people will think I’ve remodeled or something. I don’t want to confuse anyone.”

“We could make some upgrades,” Silas said. “Go beyond just repairs. New tile in the bathroom, maybe. Or get that new glassware you’ve talked about. Or maybe even add some decorations.”

At this he inclined his head, and she rolled her eyes.

“Silas,” Margaret said. “We don’t have time to do all of that. Didn’t the paper say he’s opening this weekend?”

“We can do a lot before that, though,” Silas countered. “Look at this place. Look at everything we’ve already done.”

He gestured around them, and Margaret couldn’t help but nod. Just then, the milk hit just the right temperature. She pulled it from the burner to rest on an oven mitt she set on the counter. From there, she pulled three mugs from her bar cabinets and set them in a line.

“I know everyone will step up to help us—to help you, Margaret,” he continued. “They all adore you.”

Margaret laughed. “Oh, please. If anything, we’re simply capitalizing on their goodwill toward my mother and grandmother. They all knew them, you know.”

She added a sprinkle of cinnamon to one of the cups and a dash of chocolate sprinkles to the other, leaving the third plain. When she looked up, Silas was watching her. There was something in his gaze that she couldn’t really decipher. Something soft and searching that made her feel bare in a way that last night’s dress hadn’t even touched.

“You really don’t see it, do you?” Silas asked.

Margaret averted her eyes. She pulled a can of whipped cream from her fridge, added a dollop onto each cup, and dusted each one with gold sugar. “Don’t see what?”

“How loved you are, Margaret,” he said, her name rolling off his lips. “I can’t walk into a store in this village without someone asking about you. This whole place . . . people light up for you.”

Margaret didn’t know what to say to that. She thought of Liza weeks ago, telling her she found reasons to push people away. But she was letting Silas in, wasn’t she? Even if he still didn’t know that she was as non-magical as he was.

“Well, I’m certainly glad for any help,” she said, as close to accepting the compliment as she found she could get. “It means a lot. But they’ve all got so much on their own plates. I wouldn’t want to ask for too much.”