“I’m not sure that witnessing my utter clumsiness was being around at the right time,” I said with a weak laugh, trying not to think about the other things he’d made me feel within minutes of meeting.
Ainsley made a noncommittal sound. She was already bustling around her small sitting room like a moth, opening a chest and drawing out measuring tape. “The dress will need to come off so I can get measurements. Off now, come on. I suppose you’ll want the top half refitted into a blouse?”
“Oh. Yes,” I said, realizing I had not thought that through. “Yes, please.”
“Turn around now. I’ve got a pie on and chores to do.”
“I was wondering what the smell was.” Sugar and butter and summer berries wafted from the back room.
“Like I said, I have a growing boy.” She helped me out of my black dress, careful with the buttons at the back of my high collar. “And a healthy appetite myself,” she added with an amused huff.
I turned to face her, and her eyes narrowed. I realized with a start that my bruises were exposed. My fingers rose to my throat, but it was too late to hide what had happened.
“Someone got their hands around your neck,” she said, brow arched.
“My train was robbed. I ran afoul of one of the bandits stealing supplies meant for the Mission.”
“Unwise of them to put their hands on you, I imagine,” she said quietly, beginning to take measurements.
My underthings went only to midthigh, but I didn’t feel any more exposed in front of her than I had with the other girls at the House. Legs were legs.
“Not really,” I said. “I was panicking too much to know what to do with myself. The one who got her arm around my throat would have killed me if one of the others hadn’t stopped her.” Despite the warmth in Ainsley’s little house, the hair on my legs stood on end.
Ainsley noticed, chuckling. She crouched at my feet, measuring my inseam. “Goose bumps? Someone must be talking about you.”
“No, I was …” I couldn’t explain. For a moment, I’d recalled something, but the memory had dissolved like a cloud of steam.
“I’m sure what you went through was terrible,” Ainsley murmured. “We’ve been lucky in Frostbrook. The bandits don’t bother with the town—only the trains. And every once in a while, they rob the work camps out along the conduction line.”
I noticed that Ainsley didn’t call them resistors. Although I’d been certain they were common bandits, it relieved me to have my assumption confirmed. Julian seemed far too bookish to help me fight off resistors if we found ourselves under attack.
“I was working at the Mission this morning, and the forewoman told me the wasting has come to Frostbrook,” I said, trying to carry on the conversation, though it had begun to feel strange and prickly. My choice of topic didn’t help.
Ainsley stood and met my gaze. I felt as if she were still measuring me. “The wasting has long been in Frostbrook. It took Henry’s parents. It took mine.”
“I’m sorry,” I said helplessly, wishing I’d simply brought up the weather. “Truly.”
She snorted. “Enough of that. Go get the pie out of the stove. Use the quilted mittens, or you’ll burn yourself.”
Busying myself in Ainsley’s little kitchen eased the tension in my shoulders. The pie was beautiful. Sugary fruit bubbled through neat little cuts in the golden crust, steaming and daring me to scorch my mouth. “I suppose I should let this cool,” I called to Ainsley.
“Unless you want to blister your tongue,” she said.
When I returned to watch her sew, it looked as if she’d relaxed into her work. While I sat on a cushion on the floor, she deftly disassembled my dress, before fashioning the top half into a long blouse. Pausing occasionally, she’d ask me a quick question about whether I wanted any changes to the sleeves or neckline, but beyond that, we sat in companionable silence. Every so often I’d glance toward the kitchen, my stomach giving an eager rumble.
“Go have some of that pie,” Ainsley said, her attention on pumping the pedal on her sewing machine and feeding the fabric through the little darting mechanism that mystified me. “You’re as bad as Henry, all but drooling.”
“Thank you,” I said with breathy sincerity, trying not to make an indecent sound at the thought of digging into the pie. Ainsley’s kitchen was small and functional, with a modest set of tin plates and cutlery, and bins of dry goods on shelves against the wall. I easily found a plate and knife. “Would you like a piece?” I called out.
“No. I’ll make a sticky mess of your blouse. Mind that you leave some.”
I laughed softly. “I don’t intend to eat the whole thing.”
“I wouldn’t judge you if you did. My pies would win awards, if we had that sort of thing.”
“I’ve heard of pie awards,” I said, returning to my place on the floor to eat a small slice with my fingers. I took tiny, careful bites, savoringeach sweet-sour morsel. “They have them outside the city, at the summer festival.”
“You’ll find we have no festivals in Frostbrook.”
