“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” she said, though her tone wasn’t quite steady.
“True things often are.”
Her gaze darted away. “Help me with this, will you? There’s flour all down the back of my gown.” She turned, presenting him with the sight of her slender back, the muslin clinging in placeswhere the heat of the bakery had melted the snow. “It feels dreadful.”
He hesitated a moment too long. “Are you certain...”
“Yes,” she said briskly. “It’s only flour, Your Grace, not impropriety.”
“I’m not sure there’s much difference when one’s heart is already compromised.”
“Then I suggest you find a sturdier one.”
“Impossible,” he murmured, already brushing at the fabric. His movements were careful, almost reverent, yet even through the coarse cotton he could feel the warmth of her. When she shivered, his breath caught. “Cold?”
“No. Just...” She faltered, the word lost somewhere between defiance and confession. “Just aware.”
“Aware of what?”
“You know very well,” she said, turning her head slightly but not moving away.
“I know whatI’maware of,” he said quietly. “That you are allowing me to touch you. Here. Where the world might see.”
“It is practicality,” she said, though the words came softer now. “I can’t very well brush my own back.”
“It feels rather more… personal than practical.”
“Does it?”
“You tell me.”
Marianne turned to face him then. The space between them was small, an arm’s breadth, no more, and yet it felt immense with all the things neither dared say aloud. Behind them, the square was alive with distant laughter and music, but in that narrow alleyway it was just them, breathing the same sugared air.
“I don’t know what this is,” she said at last.
“But itissomething.”
“It’s something,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
“Something worth exploring?”
“Something worth risking,” she said after a pause. “Though I don’t yet know which one of us will regret it more.”
“I won’t hurt you again.”
“You cannot promise that.”
“I can promise to try. And to keep trying, even when I fail.”
She looked up at him then, and her expression softened into something that was almost forgiveness. “That’s better. That’s honest.”
“I’m trying to be honest.”
“I know. That’s why we’re standing here like fools, covered in flour and pretending the entire village didn’t just watch us behave like children.”
He smiled faintly. “That wasn’t childishness. That was enthusiastic participation in local tradition.”
“That waschaos.”
