Thoughts of her endless lists of tasks had woken her at dawn, and she had thrown herself into her work without bothering to break her fast. It was now half ten, and Mr. MacLean had likely saved her from fainting.
That was surely the reason her knees had felt strangely weak when he entered the shop.
“I...” she said.
He leaned closer.
She wished he wouldn’t.
From this distance, she could see striations of dark blue lapis lazuli in his sapphire irises. His eyelashes were thick, the golden-brown shade found on the underside of shortbread. He did not smell of soap, but sweet biscuits and fresh bread. A warm, cozy scent that made her wish to bury herself within it; to wrap the scent around her and snuggle in close.
Mr. MacLean was as tempting as any treat she had ever sampled, but Angelica had no time to indulge even the tiniest nibble.
“I need to concentrate,” she said firmly. Or would have said firmly, if her voice hadn’t decided to crack and come out a breathy whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again. “The Yuletide ball is in four days. If they write about me in theGazette...”
“It’s important?”
“The most important thing to happen since my shop opened. It’s the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. It’s just been difficult to concentrate.” She nudged one of the pieces on her work board. “I normally spend the Yuletide with my relatives. It sounds odd, but I think best when I’m surrounded by their noise. I’ve been at this tiara since dawn, but my shop is so... empty. The silence weighs on me.”
“Ah.” He nodded slowly. “I understand wanting to escape loneliness. I don’t even have a home, which means every time I go somewhere, I must start from the beginning. It hadn’t occurred to me that someone with roots might feel the same way.”
“No.” She looked at him sharply. He hadn’t understood at all. “I’m not like you. I have a home. I don’t have to begin anything again. My family is inside that castle. I can see it from here. Even if they weren’t close by, I have other friends. There’s no reason to be lonely. I’mnotlonely.”
Her family had predicted she would be. London was home to a million people, ten or twenty thousand of whom were Black like the Parkers. And Angelica intended to move to a village of one or two thousand total inhabitants? Was shedaft? How would she find a husband up there?
But she wasn’t daft. She wasambitious. And she wasn’t the least bit interested in finding a husband. If her time was limited now as an independent woman, how much harder would it be to achieve her aspirations if being some man’s obedient wife came first?
Besides, Cressmouth was small, but it wasn’t the surface of the moon. More tourists flocked in this street every winter than had ever passed by her father’s shop in Spitalfields.
When it wasn’t Christmastide, the villagers formed their own big family. The Black community here was smaller, but no less loving. Her neighbors were friendly, all the shopkeepers looked after one another, and she never missed a church service. Angelica belonged here. If she weren’t overwhelmed with work, she’d be overwhelmed with dinner parties and seasonal invitations.
She wasn’tlonely. She was industrious.
It was not at all the same thing.
“I’m just busy,” she said. “That’s all.” She made a big show of resuming her work on an emerald tiara for one of her customers. “If I had time for people, I’d be with my relatives. But I cannot leave my shop until all the work is complete. People rely on me.Irely on me.”
“Just to make certain I understand,” Mr. MacLean said politely. “You miss your family. Their noise makes you happy. You can’t leave your shop. Your relatives are in the castle.”
She glanced up from the tiara to glare at him.
He gave her a brilliant smile. “Why not invite them here?”
“My goodness, that thought has never occurred to me,” she said in a tone dripping with so much sarcasm it could wipe the shine off his boots.
Yes, their chaos rejuvenated her... in carefully regulated circumstances.
If she allowed any of them in, her brother would insist on taking control. He had his own, bigger shop in London. He’d be judging her the entire time. She wasn’t ready for that yet.
The family noise and chaos revitalized her when it was somewhereelse. When it was around her, but not about her. When the topic was Christmastide.
“What if,” said Mr. MacLean, “the trick is not to run yourself ragged but rather to take a small respite now and then?”
“I took a respite,” she reminded him. “I ate three biscuits.”
“A large respite,” he amended. “Gargantuan, by your standards. A period of rest that involves stepping outside of your shop, for an hour or two. It might invigorate you more than you think.”
She shook her head. “I don’t deserve a rest yet. There will be time for that once the adornments are hung and my name is in theGazette. Until then, I have work to do and a shop to make presentable—”
