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I pulled away from Von and continued to the village.
Joe’s bakery shop was closed according to the crooked sign hanging on the inside of the window.
But Joe’s shop was closed on Mondays and Tuesdays, never Wednesdays. And I was fairly certain it was Wednesday—although the days had been a bit more blended lately. Also, it was early enough in the day that there was no way he would have run out of bread. Joe wasn’t just like clockwork—he was the epitome of it. Unlike a lot of the vendors in this village, he was the one I could always count on. Always on time. Always there.
So, naturally, I concluded that Joe’s shop was open and he’d simply forgotten to flip the sign. I slipped my hand into the brass handle, my thumb pushing down on the latch.
It didn’t open.
“It’s locked,” Von stated, the basket thrown over his shoulder once again.
“It’s just stuck,” I exclaimed, jiggling the latch and the door. Neither of them budged. I turned to Von, gesturing to the door. “You try.”
He sighed. Slipping his hand from his pocket, he wrapped his long fingers around the latch and gave it a go. Nothing happened. “Satisfied?” he asked, taking a step back, his gaze drifting lazily to a soldier standing at the end of the block.
“No,” I said, moving to the window. I pressed my hands against the glass, filtering out the reflective sunlight. I peered in. The shelves were overflowing with bread—cinnamon rolls, buns, pastries, various loaves—onion included. My mouth watered. All of it was stocked and ready for a day of sales. I waited.
And waited some more.
But Joe never came out. A sickening feeling swarmed in my gut.
“Shadow walk me inside,” I said, turning to Von, shoving myself into his side.
His brow darted up before his hand fell to the small of my back and he guided me around the corner of the building, where no one could see us, and shadow walked us inside.
The divine smell of yeast and flour and freshly baked dough hit me first, the interior of the building—the neat shelves and tiled floors—filled in next.
Von looked down at me, his lips twisting into a coy smile. “Shall I add bread thief to your growing list of titles?”
I squinted at him.
Turning my head and my attention, I called out, “Joe?”
My search of the bakery turned up empty.
It occurred to me that after all of these years, I had no idea where Joe’s actual home was. I decided I would ask Ezra when I returned. Looking for another missing male, I did a mental check for Soren, but still, there was nothing.
Sighing to myself, shoulders sagged in defeat, I glanced up at the sign gently swinging above. It readFerster’s Food Shop,the crisp white paint so fresh it still looked wet. The food shop used to belong to the Haymen family. I had never thought the owner, Rose—a woman who had been widowed in her younger years—would agree to sell it. She and her two sons had poured their heart and soul into this place, much like Joe had with his bakery. And yet, she’d sold her beloved shop.
I was reminded, in that moment, that time waited for no one and things continued to change. I cursed change under my tongue as I trotted up one lonely step and inside. The door, which looked brand new, was propped open, letting in the cool, autumn breeze. Von followed me inside, ducking under the too-short doorframe.
Years ago, the shop had been much smaller. When Rose and her husband—whose name I could not recall, as he’d died when I was young—purchased the shop, they also bought the building beside it. They knocked out the middle wall, joining the two, making it the largest food shop in Meristone—not that there was much for competition.
Not much had changed inside, other than the new door, a fresh coat of paint on the walls, and a few reorganized shelves. I supposed that was to be expected, as Rose had kept this place working like a well-oiled wheel. A few people waited in line at the front counter, while others drifted about. Some wandered aimlessly, pondering if they should buy this head of cabbage or that sack of potatoes, and others were more determined, grabbing what they needed before moving on to the next.
“Sage!” greeted a familiar male voice.
I smiled, recognizing it as soon as I heard it. There was no mistaking that accent anywhere, poised with clipped tones, spoken clearly and briskly and proper. It was almost melodic, like it had a ring to it.
“Thomas James Ferster,” I said by way of greeting as I walked towards him, more excited to see him than I should be—considering how things ended between us last spring. Thomas was handsome, with his sandy-colored hair, deeply tanned skin, and sparkling, clear blue eyes. He looked like summer, or what I imagined a day at the beach must look like—not that I had ever been to a beach, unless the weedy bank of the lake counted as one. Thomas had a small gap between his two front teeth, and where most people couldn’t pull a tooth gap off, he sure could. It added to his charm. He was dressed casually in brown trousers and a white tunic that hugged his lean, lightly muscled frame.
He flashed a grin, that space between his teeth making its debut. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” He looked me up and down for added emphasis.
I smiled warmly. “It’s good to see you too.” I raised my hands, gesturing to the shop. “This is all yours now, I take it?”
He grinned proudly, hands bracing on his hips as he took a look around, as if he were still walking in a dream and he had to survey it to make sure it was real. “Yes, she sure is. As of last week, actually.”
“That’s wonderful. Congratulations. I remember you talking about wanting to open up a food shop last spring. This is even better, really. It has everything you need,” I said, feeling every ounce of my excitement for him. “How did you get Rose to agree to sell it?”
