Page 7 of Infernal Affairs

“Exactly.”

Clover smiles.

“He’s the only one who listens without judging.”

Her face softens.

“Don’t let the horns fool you. He’s probably the best man in town. If that interests you.”

It does.

More than I want to admit.

But saying it aloud would be as good as conjuring it into being, and I’m not ready for that.

Instead, I reach for the honeycomb, dice it into neat cubes, and dot each cake tier with golden syrup.

I think about how Enoch’s hands looked when they folded the bakery box. How his smile took a second to find, like a pilot light catching after a long cold season.

I think about pity and how seldom it fits the shape of a person’s life.

What I actually felt was something closer to kinship.

“Is he... happy?” I ask, because I want to know, and because I have the sense nobody has asked him that question in a very long time.

Clover leans against the countertop, considering.

“He wouldn’t use that word, but yes. I think he is.”

She pauses.

“He’s made peace with himself, mostly. But it’s a lonely kind of peace.”

She wipes a finger through the honey, then offers it to me like a communion wafer.

“You’d be good for him, Daisy. He’s always happiest around sweet things.”

I decline to answer, though I do lick the honey from her finger, which is less weird than it sounds. In baking, some rituals don’t require thinking. They just are.

The bell over the door tinkles again.

This time, it admits Elowen, her eyes the color of blue frost and her mouth set in a way that means she’s about to deliver news nobody wants.

She ignores me, focuses on Clover, and says, “There’s trouble at the pier. Drusilla’s ward is failing again.”

Clover groans, the sound almost lost beneath the sudden rush of cold air through the shop.

“Can you take over here, Daisy?”

She’s already untying her apron.

“Of course.”

I reach for the piping bag.

“I’ll finish the cake.”

She claps a hand on my shoulder—her version of a hug—and vanishes out the door, Elowen in tow.