We started with the candle booths. The air was warm and fragrant, and the vendor smiled at our group. She picked up a candle shaped like a pinecone and inhaled. “Cinnamon and vanilla. Smells like Christmas baking.”
“What is the point of a candle?” I wondered, even as I slowly took the proffered candle from her hand, giving it a quick sniff. She was right. It smelled like homemade cookies.
“For ambiance. The light gives an added warmth and the smell is lovely,” she replied.
“It’s a fire hazard,” I murmured, even though I agreed about the smell being nice.
She laughed softly. “Only in the wrong hands.”
We moved to a booth selling hand-knit scarves, then one with carved wooden ornaments. Helen appeared briefly to insist I try hot cider, pressing a cup into my hand before vanishing again into the crowd with William in tow. I watched Lucy sip hers, eyes bright from the steam. Her cheeks were pink, and the wind had loosened a curl from beneath her hat. She looked entirely at home here.
“You really have never done this before?” she suddenly asked.
“No. My family was more... structured." My mother would never think about going to a common event just to shop for handmade items. It wasn’t because she was a snob, it just wasn’t something Fitzwilliams did. We went to galas, and charity events instead.
“How structured?” she asked, her head tilting to the side as she looked up at me.
“Imagine the opposite of this." I gestured around us. “My parents valued composure above almost anything.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“Sometimes I suppose it was. My mother was the kind of woman who believed achievement equaled happiness. My father believed silence meant respect,” I mentioned in a matter of fact voice. It was the simple truth.
Lucy’s voice softened. “Are they still living?”
“No. They are both gone now. It has been years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. It’s all right." I said the words out of habit. I had lost my parents very young and suddenly was thrust into a role I wasn’t quite ready for but needed to be. I found myself suddenly adding, “I have my sister.”
Her eyes brightened. “You have a sister? Tell me about her.”
“Her name is Georgianna. Everyone calls her Georgie. She is twenty-two and studying piano performance at school. She is a happy person and gets top marks.”
“She sounds lovely,” Lucy responded with a smile.
“She is,” I said, smiling despite myself. I had the feeling Georgie would love Lucy. I looked around the market to distract myself from the thought. “She reminds me of this place. She feels everything. Loudly.”
“And you?” Lucy prompted
“I think too much and feel later." I shrugged.
“I do both at once. Usually badly." Lucy laughed.
“You seem perfectly balanced,” I quietly observed.
She blushed faintly and turned toward another booth. I let her change the subject. We wandered through aisles of pottery, paintings, and knitted hats. She spoke with every vendor. People lit up when she smiled. I found myself wishing she would turn that smile at me more often.
At a table of wooden toys, a craftsman was demonstrating a whittling knife to a small boy. Lucy watched, fascinated. “Look at the details. He makes it look so easy.”
“Precision like that takes patience with years of repetition.”
“You say that like you know.”
“I suppose I do. I used to do my architecture designs by hand before software took over. Drafting tables, rulers, mechanical pencils… there is an art to it,” I mentioned.
She looked at me thoughtfully. “You miss it.”
