Page 43 of The Swindler’s Daughter

“What can I do for you?” I asked, swiping the back of my wrist over my forehead.

His eyes returned to me and he gave a little shrug. “I just wanted to see where you spend so much of your time.”

He had come here to see me. Flattered was too weak a word to describe the fluttering inside me. “Well, this is it.” I looked around, trying to see it from his perspective. Objectively it was a rather cold space. Stone walls, metal pots and pans, wooden furniture. But it also had sunshine pouring through the windows and a sense of home that I’d never found anywhere else.

“You’re a baker,” he commented as he stepped up beside me.

“Among other things,” I said, digging the heels of my hands back into the dough.

“Do you like what you do here?” he asked.

I nodded. “Working in a kitchen means I’m never hungry.” And that meant the world to a beggar-child. “I also happen to love baking bread.”

His head tilted again. “Why?”

“It’s simple. Reliable. Filling,” I answered as I breathed deep to take in the smell of the dough. “Emeline loves the delicate, complex recipes, but not me. They’re finicky and complicated. They’re bound to fail half the time. Simple and reliable bread—that’s what I like.”

“And what about people?” he asked as he moved to stand behind me, close enough that his chest bumped into my left shoulder. “Do you like simple, reliable people?”

My stomach tightened and I had to clear my throat. “Reliable, yes,” I answered, having to remind myself to keep working the dough. “But I don’t mind a bit of complexity in people. After all, I can hardly claim to be uncomplicated myself. I’m a tangled mess. Life makes us all complicated.”

He moved to lean against the counter so that I could now see his face. “Can I ask you something without starting a fight?”

I took in a breath, preparing for whatever he had in mind. “I suppose that depends on the question.”

“You told me yesterday that you know what’s right for you better than I do.”

“Yes,” I confirmed as I realized what he would ask next.

“Doesn’t that apply to Hunter as well?” he asked gently. “Don’t you know what’s right for you better than he does?”

I continued to knead, the dough making a shushing noise as it moved over the flour-covered slab. His question didn’t make me angry, but it did make me think for several moments before I came up with something I thought he would understand. I paused my work and looked up at him. “If you wanted to do something that you knew would disappoint Isabel”—I let that prospect sit for several beats—“would you still do it?”

His eyes widened and his mouth opened but no words came out. Eventually his expression settled and he nodded his understanding.

I gave a little shrug. “People are complicated.”

“You’re right. Thank you for explaining.” He breathed deep and let it out in a relaxed sigh. “And thank you for letting me be complicated.”

My mouth curved into a smile. It was such a strange thing for him to say, but somehow I knew what he meant.

I kept kneading and we both let the silence sit. It was lovely to just be in the silence with him. No challenge. No argument. No arrogance. Just a pleasant buzzing excitement because of his proximity.

“Tell me more about Isabel,” I suggested. I knew that if I let this enjoyable tension continue, I would do something ridiculous, like suggesting we be more than friends. But if that was ever going to be a possibility, I needed to hear more about his life first. And it was clear that a large part of his life was Isabel.

He tilted his head. “You want to hear about her?”

“Certainly,” I answered. “That’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

He searched my face for sincerity and when he found it, he pulled a stool over so that he could sit as he talked. He let out a wistful sigh then began. “Isabel had straight black hair, long and luxurious. Her complexion was dark and she had beautiful, piercing eyes.” His words were calm, like there was a peace that came with describing her. “Those weeks that she lived on the streets—they hurt her. They made her hard and unyielding in some ways, but she was also fragile and needy in other ways. She would cling to me one day and push me away the next. As a result, our friendship was…tumultuous.” The corner of his mouth turned up a little. “At times I wanted to give up on it altogether, but I felt fiercely, fiercely protective of her. If I didn’t know that she was safe and well, I couldn’t sleep or concentrate.”

The dynamics he described sounded difficult, and I wondered what had kept them together.

“So I kept going back to her, checking on her at the tailor’s shop, making sure she had enough to eat. She softened after a time, once she’d learned to trust that I wasn’t going anywhere.” His face softened. “That’s when I really fell in love with her.”

“Because she trusted you?”

“Because she let me see who she really was.” He fell silent for a moment, and I watched his face morph with thought and realization. “I suppose that’s what this is about, isn’t it?”