“There it is.” She tilted her head toward the imposing stone manor that loomed across the street.
He stiffened, and Daisy waited.
“I remember it.” He continued staring, for such a long time and so intently, that Daisy worried someone might take note.
And yet, she didn’t want to interrupt his thoughts—especially not if buried memories were working their way free.
A carriage rolled to a stop only a short distance away, and as the door swung open, Daisy’s pulse spiked. She grasped Alastair’s arm and tugged him sharply, forcing him to turn onto a path leading in the opposite direction.
“Have a care,” she murmured, casting a discreet glance over her shoulder.
A tall, older gentleman had stepped out of the carriage. Impeccably dressed, from the polished crown of his black hat to the gleaming tips of his boots, he carried himself with a confidence that spoke of power and entitlement.
Daisy recognized him.
“That’s your uncle,” she whispered.
Alastair stiffened beside her.
As another horse and buggy passed, he took advantage of the moment to glance behind them as well, his movements careful and measured. Then, just as quickly, he led them away at a steady, unhurried pace.
“I didn’t get a good look at his face,” he admitted under his breath. “But the house—the carriage… I know them. I remember them.”
Daisy tightened her grip on his arm. “That’s good! It means the rest of your memories can’t be far off.”
And she was happy for that.
She was, truly.
But the sharp grimace on his face stole her breath. “Everything is so close, it’s infuriating,” he muttered. “I feel it, who I am, what I was—right there—but before I can focus, the memories… they turn to smoke…”
His frustration was more than palpable, his fingers flexing restlessly at his sides. Wanting to ease the tension, Daisy forced a smile and nudged his arm. “Then let’s stop chasing the smoke for now. Tell me, what are your thoughts on rose-scented shaving soap?”
“For gentlemen?” His brows shot up, and when he saw her expression, he was shaking his head.
Daisy exhaled, relieved. For now, at least, she had managed to distract him from the frustration of his lost memories.
“What do you think it looks like inside?” she asked, glancing back at the grand townhouse.
“Not as formidable as the exterior,” he answered, not hesitating for even a moment. “When my father ordered renovations, he preserved much of the original structure out of respect for the dukes before him. But he wasn’t opposed to modernization.”
Her pulse skipped. He’d answered without thinking.
“Does it have running water?” she asked, testing him.
“Hot and cold,” he said, nodding. “And someday, every house will be plumbed—” He cut himself off, his expression tightening.
Daisy’s grin widened. He was remembering.
As they strolled back toward her shop, she stopped at a vendor’s cart and ordered two piping-hot savory pies, pressing one into his hands before he could protest.
Alastair frowned, clearly unsettled by the fact that he had no coins with which to pay. “I don’t like this arrangement.”
She smirked. “I’ll collect once you’re restored to your abundant riches.”
He huffed, but his lips twitched at the corners.
Afterward, they visited a bookstore and then stopped at one of the mercantiles where she proudly pointed out the display of her soaps.
