Throughout their friendship, their stolen moments, Daisy had always known change would come.
But she had never expected that day—that warm spring afternoon—to be the last time she would ever see him.
At first, she had been concerned. Then she had been angry. And in the end?—
She had been devastated.
But God help her, she had never been able to fully banish the hope.
After the move to London, the premature birth of Gilbert, and her mother’s death—followed by her father’s decline and Aunt Thea’s illness—she had grown up quickly.
Grieving the loss of a childhood romance had not been practical. So she had done what needed to be done. She had pushed him from her thoughts, burying him beneath work, beneath necessity, beneath survival.
And she had succeeded.
Except in the dead of night. Or while performing mindless tasks—the kind that left her thoughts unguarded.
Like now.
She swept the shop, the rhythmic drag of the broom across the wood normally soothing, but today, it did nothing to calm her racing thoughts.
Nor did washing some bedding. Or scrubbing the floor.
Because of him.
Because, on more than one occasion, she had imagined seeing Alastair walking down the street. She had fantasized that he was looking for her.
That he had been desperately looking for her for years.
Only to be disappointed—over and over again.
“It isn’t him.” The words came out sharp, gritted between her teeth.
Determined to banish her foolish thoughts, she returned to work on the soap, cutting five vertical lines, then five horizontal, creating thirty-six evenly portioned cakes.
She’d just finished wrapping the last one in cloth and tying it off with her signature ribbon when Gilbert burst into the kitchen.
Daisy stared at the clock in disbelief. Eight hours had passed. Had she really been working that long?
She had checked on their unexpected guest a few times, but he had slept the entire day away.
Hopefully, that was a good sign.
Gilbert’s eyes—so like hers, so like their mother’s—were full of his usual curiosity.
“Is he still alive?”
“He is.” Daisy untied her apron, suddenly bone-weary in a way that settled deep in her limbs. “And he woke up.”
Gilbert’s brows shot up. “That’s good then, right?”
“It is.”
“Who is he?”
Daisy exhaled. Because, of course, Gilbert would have questions.
“I still don’t know.” She ran a hand down her skirt, smoothing her apron. “He was only conscious for a few minutes, and he wasn’t very… aware.”
