Page 30

Lilja pulled away, and I felt cold without her body against mine. “I’ll make the oatmeal,” she said. “That way you can get started in the workshop.”

“Nonsense. We’ll help each other. It’s faster.”

I opened the cupboard and pulled out the pot, but Lilja stood frozen in the middle of the floor, staring again at the window. I stepped in front of her, and at the sight of the terror in her eyes, my hand lifted all on its own, my finger brushed along her cheek. “You’re safe here,” I said. “Your foster mother can’t hurt you. You’re free.”

My palm against her face finally roused her. She looked up at me and blinked, and her lips quirked into just the very faintest smile.

“Will you cut the apple?” I asked. “You do it best.”

“Of course.”

As we worked, I told Lilja the story of the time Alma and I had gotten the bright idea to catch a nightingale to be our pet. Just like on our ride back from getting wood, it worked to distract her. She laughed when I got to the part where Alma dropped the antique cage from a tree and it hit a boulder, getting knocked completely out of shape.

“You never caught the nightingale?”

“We never even got close to one.”

“I’m glad,” she said with that careful smile. “They deserve to be free.”

“I agree. We set our sights on a feral cat instead, although only until it scratched Alma’s arm. She looked like she had stripes.”

That made Lilja laugh again, and when we sat down with our bowls, there was even a bit of color in her cheeks.

The day passed like any other. The bell rang many times, heralding yet another customer and another order for our ledger. Helena sewed. I finished another train set, two spinning tops, and the last two soldiers of a twelve-man regiment. No dolls, no real challenges. Once Christmas was over, I would allow myself a treat. I would make a doll so beautiful that when people saw it in the window, they wouldn’t be able to resist pressing their noses to the glass. I would use the doll from my uncle as my guide. Eivor, as Lilja had named her.

Alma came over, bringing us a basket of Karin’s fresh bread for lunch. She knew how busy we were, and that Helena’s time was better spent in the workshop than in the kitchen this time of year.

She set down the basket and walked to the table where a row of Lilja’s painted wood stood. Picking up one, she turned it in her hand, studying it. It was decorated with a pattern of little orange swirls, green leaves, and white and yellow wood anemones. “These are charming.”

“Lilja painted them.”

“Really?” Alma glanced at the door to the shop and lowered her voice. “How did she learn?”

“She practiced, I assume. Her father was an artisan.”

Helena joined her and picked up another of Lilja’s painted pieces, this one with green swirls and purple violets. “They look like the frost flowers on the windows this morning. The art of the elves.”

I hadn’t thought of it before, but Helena was right. The swirls of Lilja’s brush did have a likeness to the patterns on the kitchen window this morning. Same elegance, same form.

“Elves aren’t real,” I said. “It’s just the cold.”

Helena put down the piece of wood and turned to me. “They are real. I’ve seen them dance on their mounds.”

“And have you also seen them paint?”

“No, but they do. On our windows in winter. Like this morning.”

“With a brush and ice paint?”

“With magic.”

I thought Alma would laugh or shake her head, but instead she bit her lip.

“Why would they do that?” I said. “Paint our windows?”

“It’s a warning so we won’t forget the power they hold.”

“What power?” Alma asked. She glanced toward the store. Lilja’s low voice came through the door. She was taking an order from a customer.