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“He always said so.” Of all the things my father had told me over and over again, those five words I’m proud of you, Selma were the ones he had spoken the most.

The shelves weren’t even half full, and soon Lilja had studied every single one of my creations that they held—a set of cheerfully painted building blocks, a locomotive, a handful of spinning tops. She bent down and peered into the dollhouse that stood on the floor below. With a gentle tap of her foot, she made the rocking horse next to it rock, then patted its head right between its wooden ears.

“As you can tell,” I said, “I’m low on inventory, which is why I need you out here.”

She nodded, and there was something almost childlike in her fervency. “I see that, and I’ll do my very best. I promise.”

“Come on. I’ll show you the ledger.”

Together we stepped behind the counter. I opened the ledger to a page of orders. “You’ll note down the orders in here. Include date and price and so forth. Any details that I’ll have to know to make it.”

“What sort of details?”

I turned to the last page and wrote the questions she would have to remember to ask. Color? Size? Fabric type? Wood sort? At the bottom, I scribbled down my general prices per item. “Oak is more expensive so you’ll have to add fifty øre per wooden block. Double if they want ash.”

She frowned down at the page. We stood so close that her hair brushed my arm. “Why is ash so special?”

“It’s very strong. The toy will last for generations in ash.”

“I see.”

Her frown didn’t ease so I said, “I’ll do the first couple of orders with you so you’ll know how to do it.”

Her forehead smoothed, and she smiled that careful smile. “Thank you. You’re very kind to me.”

I busied myself with placing the lid on the inkwell and closing the ledger because an insistent blush was creeping into my face.

Chapter Five

Helena didn’t burn the soup for our supper. The accompanying bread was also un-scorched, but that was because she had bought it at the bakery down on the corner of Storgatan. I brought in a third chair from the dining room, and despite the warmth in the kitchen and the heat of the soup, Lilja ate with the shawl knotted tightly around her shoulders.

“It’s very good, Miss Eriksson,” she said after a few spoonfuls.

Helena pointed at me with her spoon. “See? It’s just you who’s an eternal grump.”

“No, Miss Norling’s right,” I said. “This is actually decent.”

“You can both call me Lilja. I’d prefer it.”

Helena slurped a spoonful of her soup. “Where are you from, Lilja?”

I wanted to kick her under the table, but that wasn’t fair. Helena hadn’t seen the terror on Lilja’s face when I had asked that same question. And it was a common inquiry after all, second only to a light little chat about the weather.

Lilja broke off a piece of her bread and dipped it in her soup. “It’s a small place far north. You wouldn’t know it.”

Helena saw it, too, how Lilja’s shoulders tightened, and she asked no more. Helena and I might like to jest, but she had a lot of tact. After all, she herself was from a place up north that she would rather not think too much about.

When we were done, she shooed us out of the kitchen, and I brought Lilja to the parlor. She walked around, studying every item—the painting on the wall of some ruin in Rome that my uncle had gifted Father for his birthday once, then the vase Helena filled with lilacs in spring and roses in summer. She ran her hand over the lacquered surface of the bureau. “Your home is very nice.”

I shrugged because I hadn’t ever really thought of it as nice. It was just your typical artisan’s house after all.

“I mean it,” she said. “It’s cozy. I like that. And all the objects have such personality. They’re special.”

“Many are from my uncle. He deals in antiques. He has the store next door.”

“You’ve got many treasures combined then.”

I shrugged again. “I suppose.”