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I should run now. Leave it all behind me. I should let Rupert Diggs wake up and break out of his box—I should let him return to his life. I should leave Juliette to muddle her way out of her dilemma as best she can.
Why should I interfere any further in human affairs, in the schemes and plots of the palace? Why should I risk myself any more for a woman I barely know? Why should I care?
At the mouth of the alley, I hesitate. I can see through the spell I placed—I can perceive the box where Rupert lies, invisible to anyone else.
Juliette was right to question me about my motives. Why are you helping me? she asked, and I had no good answer, because the only answer makes no sense. Because I want to. Because you draw me in, fascinate me, compel me to pursue you.
My connection to her has no logic and no future. It would be better to break it now.
I can do this. I can walk away, before I invest any more in this. Before I get mixed up in a plot to kill the King. Before I sink so deep inside Juliette that I can never separate myself from her again.
This is the moment to run.
So I’ll go. I’ve helped her enough—she may gain the crown based solely on the miracle I worked for her today. She can tell the King it’s a feat she can’t replicate often, and he’ll keep her alive and well just in case she might perform it for him again someday.
I don’t quite believe my own rationalizations, but they’re enough to propel me past the entrance to the alley and down the street.
Rupert Diggs will waken in moments. By then I’ll be on the main road leading out of Giltos, and by this time tomorrow I’ll be far away in some hamlet bordering the woods. I’ll be back to the familiar life of begging, thieving, and glorious mischief. I’ll steal a bottle of good ale, and I’ll fuck someone else to get Juliette out of my head. It might take me a while to erase her scent and her face from my mind, but I have time. I’m a Half-Elf, and my life will be long.
I’m walking away, taking off the vest, when I feel the weight of something squarish inside it. Juliette’s notebook.
Pausing under a streetlamp, I tug out the small volume and open it. I’m not sure why. Idle curiosity, perhaps.
I opened it to the middle, to a spot she apparently references often. There’s a list, with a heading which reads, “Things I want to accomplish.”
-replace the roof of the house in the next two years
-replace the pavers for the front walk
-persuade Lady Adebi to try my cream puffs, gain her as a regular client
-rebuild the oven, maybe add a second one
-convince Prain to become more involved in the business, or make him to take up a trade
-invest in a bigger stone for Ma and Pa’s gravesite, one with clearer engraving
-win the regional baker’s competition next fall
-buy a pair of heeled shoes with pink ribbons
-hire more help, expand deliveries to local inns and shops
-open my own bakehouse
-buy a silk dress
-marry a good man
-5 children: Adelaide, Tulane, Darrick, Emmeline, Zeverin
There are a few more items, small practical things scribbled into the margins—but I read the main list three times.
It makes me smile even as it incites a sharp pang through my heart. It’s the sweetest, most admirable, most nonsensical list I’ve ever read. Her character shines through the words—her determined entrepreneurial spirit and her yearning for a pleasant family life with a few pretty things. It’s all her.
I’ve never had a single goal in my life, unless you count the occasional prank, usually conceived and accomplished within the same day—sometimes within the same hour. This woman is so full of charm, energy, purpose, and kindness I can hardly believe she’s real. She’s like a glowing fireplace in a cozy room, and the farther I get from her the more I feel the chill of the world seeping into my bones. I want to go back, to linger in her warmth, her light—to huddle near her like a frostbitten traveler.
“Well… fuck,” I murmur, tucking the notebook back into the pocket and donning the vest again. I turn on my heel and jog back toward the alley where Rupert Diggs lies concealed, on the verge of waking.
