“Yes, it does. Today I heard my father’s voice.” Again.
I shook off that memory, choosing to focus on the man in front of me instead. On the promise of the future, rather than the sorrow of the past. “Well, on behalf of the entire village, I thank you for maintaining the torches.” That was a tedious but vital part of protecting Oakvale, and pride swelled within me for his part in the effort. For his dedication to protecting the village. Grainger was a good man. Strong, and gallant, and honorable. And handsome enough to keep my thoughts as occupied as my hands during hours spent kneading dough at the bakery. Speaking of which . . . “My mother’s expecting me, but I promise we’ll be back before nightfall.”
“I’ll see you then.” His focus lingered on my mouth, and I felt the ghost of his lips there.
“I look forward to that.”
Grainger gave me a smile that lit my insides on fire. “Have a pleasant afternoon, Mademoiselle Duval,” he teased.
“And you, Monsieur Colbert,” I called playfully over my shoulder as I turned to head into the village. I could feel his gaze on me until I rounded the community barn.
On the way home, I strolled past two dozen small cottages with thatched roofs, several of which I’d made deliveries to that morning from my mother’s bakery. Most families on the edges of the village could only afford a standard order of rye, but those deliveries were my favorite—simple bread for people who were happy to have it.
Closer to the center of the village, the larger, sturdier structures were home to customers who placed more expensive orders, then complained about the size, or the cost, or the quality. Their real objection, though, was that the only bakery in Oakvale was run by the Duval women.
Redheaded witches, they whispered when they thought we weren’t listening. Or, sometimes, when they were sure we were listening.
I passed those houses with my head held high, then I crossed the broad, muddy lane leading to the manor held by Baron Carre, the local lord, and his household. The grand house was vacant at the moment, of course, because the baron had other homes, and because anyone with the means to leave Oakvale during the harshest winter months would do exactly that.
With our village surrounded by the dark wood, except where the river cut through it, regular trade and travel had to be conducted by boat, which was the only safe way in or out of Oakvale. But during the heart of winter, the river froze over, almost entirely isolating our little village until the spring thaw.
Baron Carre and his household had abandoned the village more than a month ago, just days before the hard freeze, and we wouldn’t see them—nor would we benefit from their patronage—again until spring.
We wouldn’t see many visitors or traders either.
Past the baron’s estate, I continued down the muddy path until I stood in the broad square—really more of a rectangle—at the center of the village. The square was presided over at one end by the church, built of hand-hewn wood planks the year I was eight. The year my little sister was born. At the other end stood the Laurent house, the second largest in the village and the only one built entirely of stone.
I crossed the square quickly, holding my breath as I passed the thick post mounted in the center, surrounded by stones set into the ground. Ash had long ago been washed from the stones, but the old, scorched post would forever bear the scars of every fire it had endured. Of every man and woman burned at the stake in order to protect the village.
Looking at the post chilled me almost as deeply as standing on the edge of the dark wood. So, as usual, I averted my gaze, and swift movement caught my attention. There was a boy—no, a man—walking quickly across the square.
“Simon!” I called, and the oldest of the Laurent boys turned. When he saw me, a smile beamed from his face, bright enough to light up this entire muddy hamlet. “What’s the hurry?”
“Good news today, Adele!” he called, walking backward now to keep me in sight.
“Well then, don’t keep it to yourself!”
He laughed. “You’ll hear soon enough. I’ll see you tonight!”
“Tonight?” I asked, but he’d already turned and was jogging toward his house.
Smoke billowed from the chimney of my home, the smallest structure bordering the village square, carrying with it the scent of fresh bread. I couldn’t resist a smile as I approached, because through the small front window, its wooden shutter propped open, I saw my mother at the table in the center of the room, kneading dough with both hands, sending up little puffs of rye flour as she sprinkled it over the work surface.
Our cottage might not have been large like the Laurents’ home, but unlike the smaller structures on the edges of the village, it had a separate room in the back for sleeping, made necessary by the large oven and table taking up most of the main room. I loved our little cottage because in addition to that back room, there was enough space in the front for us to host the occasional customer who wanted to rent space in our oven, rather than buy our bread. The chance to gossip with a neighbor while I worked was easily the highlight of any week, especially during the long, cold winter, when we spent much of our time cooped up inside.
The heavy wooden door creaked as I pushed it open and stepped into my home. The scent of minced beef wafted over me, making my mouth water.
“Adele!” Sofia squealed as I pushed the door closed, cutting off the winter chill. My eight-year-old sister stood from her stool at the smaller kitchen table and dropped a handful of dough on the floured surface. “I’m making a meat pie for our lunch!”
“For your lunch,” my mother corrected her with an indulgent smile. “Adele has one more delivery to make.”
“A meat pie?” I arched one brow at my mother, then my gaze slid toward the pot bubbling over the fire. As usual, today’s orders were all for simple flatbread, made either of rye or barley. When I’d left to make my morning deliveries, there’d been no sign of fresh beef or of the rich pastry crust my mother was now making. In fact, we hadn’t eaten meat, other than smoked fish from our small store of preserved trout, in more than a week. “What’s the occasion?”
“The Laurents and the Rousseaus finally came to an agreement.”
No wonder Simon was all smiles!
My mother’s gaze lingered on my face as she studied my reaction.
“How wonderful for Elena!” I set my basket on the other end of the table, hiding my frustration on my own behalf behind a bright smile.
Why was my mother so interested in my response to my best friend’s engagement, when she’d refused to even discuss Grainger’s request for my hand?
She went back to her kneading. “There’s to be an engagement ceremony tonight.” Which would mean a village-wide celebration. “Monsieur Laurent has placed a large order. When the meat pies go into the oven, I have to start some more raisin bread and an apple tart. In addition to the flatbread.”
I could only stare at my mother. “An order like that will deplete most of our stock of honey, and there will be no new shipment until the spring thaw.”
“I am aware, Adele. But the fee for such an extravagant commission will be a blessing in the middle of winter.”
I removed the cloth covering my basket. “Madame Bertrand sent half a pound of salt pork, and she thanks you for the rye disks.” Others had made payment in the form of smoked meats and winter vegetables like turnips, cabbage, and potatoes. “Do you think you can spare me for a moment, if I promise to start the tart as soon as I get back? I want to congratulate Elena.”