Page 15

I walked to the cash register and opened the drawer. Counting the right amount, I held the coins out to Lilja on my palm. “Here,” I said. “Your first wages.”

She took the money, and I watched as she counted them. “There’s one more krone than we agreed on.”

“Because you did such an excellent job.”

That made her smile grow so wide it reached her eyes. I busied myself with grabbing the second ledger below the counter because heat had rushed into my face. I noted down the amount under the “expense” column.

Outside, the air was cool but without the bite of frost now that the sun had peeked above the horizon. Jonsson’s was on the outskirts of the center of town, but still not very far. Lilja studied every store and every window, even craning her neck when we passed the bakery on the corner. I had walked these streets a thousand times, but to her, Norstad was brand new.

Mr. Karlsson came toward us, carrying a ladder under his arm. “Good morning, Miss Selander.”

“Good morning.”

He more than glanced at Lilja as he passed, and I couldn’t really blame him. She was very beautiful.

Jonsson was discussing the best type of nails for a shed with Mr. Källström when we entered, and I leaned an elbow against the counter as I waited. Lilja walked from shelf to shelf, studying the wares like she had at mine and my uncle’s stores.

“Here for more paint?” Jonsson asked me when Mr. Källström had left with his rattling box of nails.

“Yes. All of them. Blue, yellow, red, black, and white, please.”

Lilja joined me, and together we watched Jonsson pull the cans from the shelves and place them on the counter. “It’s important that the paint is oil based,” I told her. “It binds better to the wood.”

“And these are all the colors you need?”

“Yes. Any other shade I’ll mix myself.”

I paid Jonsson the cost of the paint. Many artisans ran up a bill they paid at the end of the month, but I had always preferred it this way. No debt to worry about.

Lilja took the black and blue cans while I grabbed the other three. “It’s a lot easier with you here,” I said once we were out in the street. “I’ve dropped a can on my way back more than once. I’ve painted the cobbles more times than I can count.”

She laughed at that, and the sound was like a dozen butterflies flapping in my chest. “I’m only happy to be of assistance,” she said, “although I do think a red or a blue is an improvement over the natural color of stone. It’s so dull.”

“I agree. That’s why I like to make toy soldiers. I love how bright their uniforms are.”

“Are they your very favorite?”

I adjusted the yellow paint in the crook of my arm. “My favorite are dolls.”

“Why?”

“Because a doll’s a person. It has… it has a soul in a different way than a soldier. Each one is unique. I like to imagine their stories as I make them. Sometimes I even name them, although only in my head.” My face heated again. I sounded so childish, admitting this.

Lilja smiled up at me. “That’s very sweet.”

“You really think so?”

“I do.”

Lilja fell quiet, just a shadow of a frown on her brow, but when we passed the bakery again, she twisted her neck to look at the confections in the window.

I nodded at the door. “I know it’s only midmorning, but I wouldn’t mind a bite. How about you?”

“Helena’s waiting for us.”

“And she tends to the store just fine. Come on.”

Mrs. Viksten’s bakery had once been just your usual place to get bread and cinnamon buns, but five years ago, she had bought the house next door and turned it into a real conditorie with chairs and white-painted round tables where people might enjoy a torte or slice of pie.