Page 73 of Enchanted Village

“I know, logically, that it wasn’t my fault,” Margaret continued. “I know that. But I still wish I could’ve lightened the load for her. I wish life could’ve been easier for her. Not that you would’ve ever known it wasn’t. That’s why it hit so hard. We never saw it coming.”

Silas was at her side now, on his knees beside her. He wiped away her tears.

“I can’t live up to her,” Margaret said. “I’m not even magical, am I? And don’t try to say I am. Because the reality is, her magic was special. And I’ll never live up to it. Not to how she ran the pub or even how she decorated for Christmas.”

Silas’s face was pained when she laughed, so she looked away.

“There’s a box of decorations upstairs,” she said. “But once I touch it, once I open it, all her charms, even just how she organized the box . . . all that will disappear. I’ll ruin it.”

She waved her arm out at the pub.

“And if I change anything here, I’ll ruin that, too,” Margaret said, fighting through the sobs that threatened to shake her. “And she trusted me to run this pub. She trusted me to keep it safe. She left it to me, and I . . . I’ve already made a mess of everything.”

Silas’s hand was in hers.

“Margaret,” he said. “Don’t you see? You don’t ruin anything. And if you wanted to change a painting, that wouldn’t mean ruining the pub.”

Margaret sniffed. “You don’t get it.”

She didn’t mean for it to sound harsh. It slipped out of her, the sad realization of every human being who has experienced grief, that they will not be understood. How could she explain that changing a painting was like admitting her mom was dead, that it was like losing her all over, to someone who had not experienced loss before? Not loss like this.

“I don’t,” Silas said, surprising her. “But I can feel the love she had for you in this place. And I’m sure she’s very proud of you, magical or not.”

Margaret shook her head. Even if his words were true, they didn’t erase the fact that Margaret wanted her mother to be there, saying the words. And she wasn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Margaret said, swiping at her tears. “Everything was lovely, and I went and turned into a grief ball.”

Silas’s hand was on her shoulder, the other tilting her chin up so that their eyes could meet.

“You can turn into a grief ball any time,” he said. “I promise.”

She kissed him, tasting the saltiness of her own tears when she did. When they pulled back, his thumb brushed away the most recent one.

“I swear I don’t cry all the time,” she said. “You’ve unleashed this.”

He laughed. “Forgive me. But I’m glad you feel, well, safe enough to share this with me. Now—”

There was the sound of wings in the air, and they both looked up, expecting Bernie, but she was still curled up in front of the fireplace. Instead, there was a black dragon, and this one landed next to Silas and nudged his hand.

“Ah,” Silas said. “My uncle’s pet dragon.”

The dragon made a face as if it resented being referred to as a “pet,” then nipped at his hand.

“Looks like someone needs you back at the castle,” Margaret said, nodding at the dragon.

Margaret stood, and Silas stood with her.

“Go,” she said. “I’ve got to get ready to open.”

She didn’t say the part that hung between them, that there was the fear it would be another empty night. But she could face it—had to face it—especially after last night.

Silas nodded, kissed her once more, then walked to the door. He paused then, taking her in.

“Not alone, remember,” he said. “We’re together on this.”

And then he was gone, but his words stayed in the pub.

Not alone.