“Well. Take it up with literally anyone who’s met you.”
We stroll toward the next booth, where a wool blanket is draped over a spread of mismatched wooden crates. Rows of handmade candles sit on top. Some are poured into teacups, others molded into animals or wrapped in twine with bundles of dried herbs.
A little sign reads:
Midwinter Magick
small batch. all heart.
I reach for a fox-shaped candle tucked near the corner. One ear is slightly squashed, and the tail’s crooked.
“You should get it for her,” Isla says, glancing over. “It’s a little weird, but cute nonetheless.”
I turn it over in my hand. The wick’s too long. The wax dips unevenly around the base. It looks like something a kid might make in art class and be impossibly proud of. Elspeth would’ve loved it. I know Elsie will, too.
“I will,” I say, pulling a five from my wallet. “The Hart women have a thing for strays.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m quite literally a stray.”
She snorts. “Nah. You belong to the inn now. You belong to her.”
I don’t argue. I feel it too clearly in my chest—that low warmth whenever she walks into the room, the hush that falls over the house when she’s asleep beside me. It’s the first winter I haven’t spent counting the days left until spring.
We keep walking, and the rest of the market is a parade of familiar chaos.
Bobby’s haggling with the cider vendor, waving his arms emphatically. Alma bustles past with a basket of herbs, pausing every few steps to scold anyone who so much as sniffles. Winnie trails after Goldie, who’s a sugar-dusted blur with jam on her cheeks and mittens on the wrong hands.
Somewhere near the coffee stand, someone strums a banjo. Kids launch snowballs with terrible aim, laughing when they miss and the ice shatters harmlessly against storefront doors. And Jack—bless him—is trying and failing to flirt with a florist’s apprentice who’s at least a decade older and not having it.
I’m not sure why he even bothers when Isla is right there, pretending not to notice them, rearranging jars of spiced plum jam. If it’s in an effort to make her jealous, he’d better quit fucking around.
When Elsie finally returns to my side, she’s breathless and windblown.
“Sorry I took so long.”
I blink at her, caught off guard by the shine in her eyes. “Everything official?”
“As official as an email confirmation in my inbox.”
I grin and wrap an arm around her waist to pull her in.
This morning, she’d made the last of her calls to Florida. Canceling the lease, ending the utilities, tying up the final scrapsof her old life before the deadline hit. And still, she didn’t want to miss the pie contest.
“Should we check out the judging?” she asks now, eyes glinting.
I think about telling her the truth—that her pie probably doesn’t stand much chance beside the others. But there’s something about the way she asks, like she already knows, like she’s bracing for the worst but hoping for a sliver of surprise.
And hell, maybe it will taste good. Maybe it’s the kind of mess that works. I want it to. I want her to win, if only to see that grateful little smile on her face.
God, I should have fucking sabotaged all the other fucking pies.
“Later, baby.” I nod toward the far end of the market. “Let’s walk a bit.”
We spend another hour wandering, arms full of jars and loaves and things we have no use for. At one point, Goldie insists on riding my shoulders, her sticky mittens gripping my ears while she tells me about her plans to be a baker/astronaut/veterinarian when she grows up.
By the time we head home, the pie is soggy and cold. We carry it back anyway and set it on the parlor table on top of a doily. Elsie makes a whole show of digging out mismatched plates and arranging everything perfectly.
