He blinked. “What?”
“I went looking for you,” I said. “You disappeared. No word. Nothing.”
“I was…” His gaze drifted. “Talking to a friend.”
“A friend?” My brow furrowed. “How? Did you ask them to meet you here?”
“Could you not right now?” he snapped.
I was taken aback. He never snapped at me.
“I’m sorry. I just told them we can’t keep doing this,” he said.
“Doing what?”
“Kera.” he warned.
My chest tightened. “Was it Isak?”
His eyes flicked toward the others, then back to me. “Shhh.”
“I thought you weren’t friends anymore.” I asked.
“We’re not.”
“Then why meet him? Why meet him in the middle of the night?” I pressed. ”What if they’d seen?”
He didn’t answer.
“Please don’t see him again. It’s not safe. You know it’s not.”
“That’s what I told him,” he said.
But he still wouldn’t look me in the eyes, and that’s how I knew.
He was lying.
CHAPTER SIX
The dough was soft under my palms, warm from my touch and speckled with flour that clung to my fingers. I moved on instinct—kneading, shaping, pressing. The sun had barely risen, and I’d already been working for hours. There wasn’t time to stop.
I didn’t sleep that night. Barely had time to change clothes before heading to the bakery. I braided my hair on the way there, tight and close to the scalp, the way my mother used to do it, to keep it out of my face. I knew Mrs. Holt wouldn’t have minded if I showed up looking a little worse for wear, but still… I wanted her to approve of me. I always did.
I wore the same thing every morning, so it made getting ready easier: a simple white blouse, a long skirt, and a fitted bodice laced over top. I’d made all of it myself—sewn the patterns, dyed the fabric, stitched every seam. I’d heard of women with closets full of dresses,beautiful ones and more than they could ever wear. I wondered how they chose what to wear in the morning with so many options. What a beautiful problem to have, not knowing what to wear. I imagined that was the life of a princess.
Well.
Until they got murdered.
My mother taught me how to save coin on fabrics by dyeing them ourselves. We used whatever we could find in the forest or our garden—nettles for green, lingonberries for pink, dandelions for yellow, and blueberries for that bluish-purple that stained your fingertips for days. My favorite skirt was one I dyed with elderberries a few summers ago. Back then, it had been a bright pink, but it softened into a muted, dusky pink with time. The fabric was worn smooth from washing, and I think that’s why I loved wearing it.
I hated when clothes itched my skin, so I probably washed everything more than I should’ve. At least summer clothes wore down with time. Winter ones were a different story. The scratchy wool and thick, hand-knit sweaters always left my skin red and raw. But it was either that or freeze to death, so I learned to live with it. Wool was the lesser evil.
The bakery smelled like a dream. Like fresh sourdough and burnt sugar and all the things we didn’t have time to make anymore. No apple cakes. No berry tarts. Just loaves. Loaves and loaves and loaves. And even those were getting harder to keep up with.
I slid two golden ones from the oven just as another batch went in. Perfectly risen, just the way Mrs. Holt had taught me. I used to think she was preparing me to take over the bakery someday. She never said it out loud, but I could feel it in the way she taught me, like she was handing something down, not just a skill, but a legacy. And my mind couldn’t help but plan what I would do if I ever got the chance. I’d paint the shutters pink first. Maybe the sign too. Then I’d fill thewindows with pastries and cakes, bright, beautiful things that would make people smile.
No. More. Loaves.
