“Elsie Hart,” she says softly. “Elspeth’s granddaughter.”
“Ah,” Ms. Quinn says, softening. “Then you’re allowed to touch one clock.”
Elsie gives her a small smile.
It doesn’t take me long to find the latches. When I head to the counter, Elsie drifts back with a tiny ceramic dish covered in plum blossoms, hair tucked behind her ear like she’s embarrassed to want it. I take it from her and set it beside the latches.
“We should get it,” I tell her. “It matches perfectly with the one in the parlor.”
She presses her lips together. “Yeah, I know.”
Her voice is quiet, but there’s something in it—a flicker of recognition, like a thread pulling taut between past and present. She doesn’t fight me on it, and for once, I don’t push. The dish belongs at the inn. Maybe she does, too, whether she admits it or not.
The next morning,the air is clear enough to sting the lungs, the snow glossed with a thin sheen of light. I haul the ladder out front, toolbox at my feet, pencil behind my ear. We’re doing gutters today, per Princess Elsie’s request.
By the time she steps onto the porch, boots laced and braid crooked, I’ve already cleared the worst of the ice. And thank God for that, because she looks way too eager for someone who has no business dangling three rungs up in the cold.
“It’s not as bad as I thought,” I tell her, tilting my chin. “Mostly just debris, a few warped brackets.”
She perks up. “I can do debris.”
I arch a brow. “Sure about that?”
“No,” she says, “but if I say it with conviction, it might become true.”
Something breaks loose in my chest. A quiet exhale slips out—half laugh, half surrender.
Ignoring the way she grins at having coaxed it out of me, I set the ladder against the eave and climb. The rungs feel familiar under my boots, the cold metal biting through the leather. I’ve done this dozens of times, maybe more, and it doesn’t take long before I settle into it.
“Pass me the scoop,” I call down.
She fumbles through the box and miraculously holds up the correct tool. I take it without looking, mutter my approval, and get back to work.
“Try not to lean,” she warns. “I’m not emotionally prepared to call an ambulance today.”
“Don’t pretend you don’t want me out of commission,” I mutter, scraping out a wad of pine needles. By the lack of reply, she either didn’t hear me or she’s wisely ignoring it.
When I climb down, I’ve cleared the worst of the corner. I jerk my chin toward the far end of the roof. “You want to try the next one?”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“Clear the leaves, tighten a screw. I’ll spot you. If you’re lucky, you’ll make it out with both dignity and blood volume intact.”
She hesitates, then sets her jaw. “Okay. Let me.”
I steady the ladder as she climbs, my hand braced firm against the rail. She’s careful, but the cold makes her movements stiff. It’s not a problem so long as she follows the steps. And to her credit, she does—crouches the way I showed her, knees bent, back steady, and sets to scooping. Leaves and half-frozen muck come free in small clumps.
I hover close, ready to catch her if she slips.
“You’re not terrible at this, either,” I say after a minute. “Maybe handiwork is your calling.”
She snorts. “I contain multitudes.”
“I’ll let you know when I meet the rest.”
The corner of her mouth tilts upward, but she doesn’t look down. She keeps working, breath fogging pale in the winter air. I sort through the toolbox for a new bracket, listening to the scrape of her scoop.
“This one’s stripped,” she calls, tapping the screw. “The head’s all messed up.”
