Page 68 of The Unknown Birds

Cold washed down her spine at the realization they could have been reunited that much sooner had he only known the truth.

He frowned back at her, the same Rookish scowl she’d once held so dear. “I came to light some candles of my own,” he explained. “One for every man—or woman for all I know—a candle for every life I took those four long years. Sometimes it seemed like enough candles to light the whole world.” He was still scowling when he added, “Will you come to mine for a cup of tea?”

Rook didn’t live far, which pleased her. She hated to think of him walking on bad days through cold or rain. His flat was small but tidy and remarkably cheerful, with plenty of light to make it cozy, and a hydrangea bush flourishing in the tiny garden just outside.

“There’s a peg in the closet to hang your coat up if you’d like.”

The room was warm, and so she opened the closet door. Inside, next to his slicker, she found a pair of crutches and what must have been a spare prosthetic leg. She frowned, realizing for the first time quite the extent of his injury as she studied the wooden piece, bent slightly by a metal hinge to replicate the knee.

“Damn,” he whispered, realizing what she’d seen. “Sorry. I forgot. I don’t have people over.”

“It’s fine,” she said, slipping out of her coat and hanging it, feeling guilty for being caught staring. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

He grimaced and turned back to the kettle. “I got used to drinking mine without milk or sugar in the war, and I tend to brew it strong enough to trot a mouse on,” he said, forcing a laugh as he set about preparing the tea. “I do have both, though, if you want them.”

Laying the table with charmingly mismatched cups and saucers, he added a sugar bowl and a bottle of milk. Then he brought out the pièce de résistance: a plate of pastries, which made Ash look at them twice.

“Is that…?” she trailed off because it couldn’t be.

“Franzbrötchen,” he confirmed, holding out the plate for Ash to take one.

When she bit into it, she closed her eyes, and the sweet butter and cinnamon melted on her tongue like honey made from drops of the sun.

“These were always my favorite,” she told him, though Frau Wintter rarely ever baked them now.

Rook grinned. “I’d have bought them for your birthday, but I never searched out a new baker after realizing yours had closed.”

“You’ve been to mine?” she asked, then blinking amended, “To Wintter’s?”

“When I first returned to London, I searched every bakery in the East End.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. I thought I’d know it was yours with a single taste.”

“And did you?”

He took a breath, deflating a little. “I didn’t have to. I knew just by looking in the window, before I ever stepped inside.”

“Charles,” she gasped, realizing with horror he must have seen her twin who’d spent most of his time down in the shop when he was over from Spain.

Rook nodded. “That was the first time I ever thought I saw a ghost. But not the last time I went chasing them.”

Ash swallowed, eyes burning. “He didn’t recognize you. Of course he wouldn’t. Did you think I had amnesia?”

“No. Once I got over the shock, I knew immediately he wasn’t you. I believed then you must truly be gone or else I would have found you—or you found me. But somehow I never stopped looking.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks.

“Don’t be sorry, Little Bird,” he whispered, cupping her cheek and stroking it with his thumb.

“I’m sorry for listening to those who urged me not to tell you I was a girl.”

“What did the Bard say? Thou shalt not trust the air with secrets?”

“I’ll have this secret from thy heart or rip thy heart to find it.”

“I’d never rip your heart,” he whispered. “Everyone has secrets.”