Midnight in Provence

Arrival in Beauvais

Amelia’s POV

The train ride to Beauvais turned out to be exactly what Amelia Windsor hadn’t known she needed—a slow, scenic exhale. She’d chosen the train on purpose. Flights were faster, of course, but nothing soothed her quite like watching winter unfurl outside a window.

Snow-kissed fields.

Clusters of quiet cottages.

Twirling flurries drifting over old stone bridges.

Christmas decorations popped up in every tiny town the train passed—garlands draped over lamp posts, wreaths adorned with berries, windows glowing with candles and stars. It felt as if the world was gently reminding her: you’re allowed to feel joy again.

And she did. Unexpectedly. Brightly.

Christmas had always been her favorite season, even when the palace schedules had tried their best to turn it into a performance. But here—here she could enjoy it like a normal person. Here Christmas meant lights, markets, cinnamon, woodsmoke… not speeches or photo sessions.

When the conductor announced their arrival, her heart fluttered with anticipation.

Beauvais.

The name alone sounded like something out of a storybook.

She stepped onto the small platform, the cold kissing her cheeks, snow settling lightly in her hair. The station itself looked adorably festive—evergreen garlands wrapped around the beams, red velvet bows on each lamppost, and a chalkboard sign wishing travelers Joyeux Noël in curly handwriting.

It was perfect. She felt ten years old again. Her taxi driver, a cheerful older woman named Margot, helped her load her suitcase into the trunk.

“Bienvenue à Beauvais, mademoiselle,” Margot said with a grin. “You came at the best time. The decorations this year are magnifique.”

“I can already tell,” Amelia said, still half mesmerized by how quaint everything looked. As they drove through the village, her excitement only grew. Beauvais was… breathtaking.

Strings of warm lights draped overhead like golden constellations. Window boxes overflowed with pine branches, cranberries, and ribbons. Shops displayed handmade ornaments, knitted scarves, and candles shaped like little snowy cottages.

Every door had a wreath.

Every window glowed.

And the mountains—dusted with white, rising in soft waves behind the village—made her breath catch. She had always dreamed of restoring old buildings in places like this, where time moved differently and history clung to the stones like frost.

“This is incredible,” she whispered without meaning to.

Margot chuckled. “Ah, you have the heart of someone who loves Christmas.”

“I really do,” Amelia admitted.

They turned down a narrow lane, snow crunching softly under the tires. Then something in the corner of her vision made her sit straighter. A small house. Warm light glowing through the windows. A man standing on the porch in the falling snow, bending down to fix the scarf of a little girl. He had a thick winter coat, dark hair that brushed his collar, and a light growing beard that softened the sharpness of his features.

She didn’t slow her gaze fast enough.

There was something about the image—the tenderness of the moment, the quietness of it—that caught her unexpectedly.

Not attraction. Not curiosity. Just… a pull. A moment that felt like winter itself had paused to let her look.

She forced her eyes back to her side of the window before he or the child noticed her. She wasn’t here to admire strangers. She was here to work. Margot pulled up beside a charming stone inn wrapped in garlands.

“The Beauvais Inn,” she said proudly. “Our crown jewel.”

Inside, the inn smelled of pine, orange peel, and something sweet baking in the kitchen. The owner, Solène, greeted her like an old friend, immediately offering tea and a tour.

Upstairs, Amelia unpacked in a cozy room with a sloped wooden ceiling and a window that overlooked the village square.

Still smiling, she leaned toward the glass. Snow fell softly along the rooftops. Children carried paper lanterns as they rehearsed for what looked like a Christmas performance. A vendor across the street was already setting up a booth of gingerbread houses.

It was all so warm, so magical, so exactly what she needed.

And then her gaze brushed over the same house she’d noticed on the way in.

The little girl was outside again, bundled in a fluffy coat, spinning slowly with her face turned up to the sky as snowflakes landed on her eyelashes. Behind her, the man stepped into view—broad-shouldered, wrapped in a dark coat, moving with a weariness she couldn’t quite name.

There it was again— that tiny, fleeting tightening in her chest.

She didn’t let herself dwell on it.

She wrapped her scarf around her neck, slipped her gloves on, and prepared to explore the Christmas market forming in the square.

She’d come to Beauvais for work. For clarity. For a fresh start.

But as she stepped into the hall, she couldn’t help thinking:

If magic existed anywhere… it would be here.