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“At … one p.m.?”

“Excellent!” Laura clapped her hands together. “I’m looking forward to it. Perhaps I can sneak some stew beef in. Are there any other bits of carrion I can tempt you with?”

“Do you know,” Bridgers said, bright as a sun dog, “I do so love a chicken heart. My mother used to roast them with some corn flour and they were crunchy, decadent mouthfuls.”

“Bridgers,” Maggie whispered, horrified. “Don’t talk about eating hearts in front of people.”

“Chicken hearts it is!” Laura looked delighted; Maggie felt nearly drugged by this overwhelming wave of… exuberance. “If you’ll excuse me, I must get back. Jake has a fight this afternoon and I’m sure I’ll be needed to not set any bones, since he’s so manly and resilient.”

“We will see you Friday,” Tom said, pulling the door open. “Take care.”

“Looking forward!” And then Laura was gone, whipping around the corner like a small, blonde tornado.

The three looked at each other.

“I enjoy her,” Bridgers said.

Chapter

Eleven

July 4th was a flurry, quite literally. The winds were relentless, whipping the branches of the trees around like flags, and Maggie struggled to keep her skirts from flipping around her legs.

“Bonfire is probably a bust,” Tom observed, absently tapping his thumb against Bridgers’ back. “Might burn down the whole village.”

“Hmm,” Maggie replied, looking down the street. The citizens of Rosyln were swarming despite the wind; the street was thick with buyers, full skirts bustling and smiling men crowding the stalls. More customers had come in after Laura paved the way the previous day. Maggie had the nagging feeling that she would spend much of her life feeling indebted; then she had the worse feeling that she didn’t mind.

It was just after four p.m. and while they had closed the shop only a few minutes prior, Maggie was already impatient to get back. She had four orders to fill and was surprised at how badly she wanted to do well. She hadn’t expected to actually care about the haberdashery, or modiste, or whatever the hell they were doing.

“Roasted nuts!” Bridgers bound over to a cart, cheerfully tossing the owner a coin and receiving a cone of sugared pecans. The panels of fabric surrounding the stalls caught the wind dangerously, making the temporary structures lean. “Perhaps we should go to the tavern,” Maggie suggested, feeling a prickle of unease. “I don’t like the way this weather is turning.”

Bridgers, happily tucking into his nuts, allowed himself to be scooted along to the tavern, where the ale was flowing freely and a group of red-nosed men already sang (yelled?) a bawdy song interspersed with whoops every few bars. It was impressive, really, to achieve this level of intoxication so early in the afternoon, though perhaps this was typical of small, quiet towns. Tom sidled up to the bar and ordered three pints of beer, slapping a coin onto the counter and exchanging rough handshakes with the barkeep, whom he had befriended over his fairly frequent visits. He carefully shuffled back to Bridgers and Maggie, handing them their drinks. “Cheers,” he said gruffly, taking a gulp of beer. Bridgers eyed him warily, taking a small sip. Maggie smiled while absently massaging her fingertips; she had been working late with the hand stitching, and they were as sore and tired as the rest of her.

“Oh, Lord,” Bridgers muttered. “Persistent Pastor spotted.”

The warmth disappeared, and Maggie instinctively slid closer to Tom, trying to crouch behind him.

“Maggie.” He softly jabbed her with his elbow, and she straightened.

“Ah, the newest business owners in Roslyn!” Reverend Myerson said, straightening his wind-swept hair. “How are you all? How’s the shop?”

His bright countenance was suspect, but then Maggie was inclined to think the worst of him so far. The man could appear before her with a halo, and she’d imagine it was made of stolen tin.

“Very well, for only being two days old,” Bridgers projected over a song about a laundress and a goat. “Mrs. Barrow has put in an order for three pieces, and a small stream of others have requested some aprons and such. Enough to keep our Maggie good and pricked.” Maggie stared at him, her eyes wide. “Finger-pricked,” he added, waving his beer around. “Because of all the needlework. Needles can prick you. Her fingers are being pricked. By needles.”

“Thanks, Bridge,” Tom said. “He understands.”

Myerson frowned at Bridgers. “Indeed,” he said. “And how are you finding the work, Miss Cruthers?”

Maggie took a swallow of beer. “Very satisfying,” she said, not bothering to raise her voice above the din.

“I was wondering, Miss Cruthers, if perhaps you would⁠—”

But whatever the reverend was wondering faded into the noise of the crowd as the door behind his shoulder opened and a pair of bright brown eyes, coffee-colored and glowing under the bright lamplight in the tavern, clapped on hers. The owner, very small, pointed to Maggie with one chubby, dimpled arm. “Mug!”

Maggie’s heart leapt. “Oh, hello, Emmy!” Emmy replied with a flap of her arm, hitting her father directly in the face.

Theo entered the room fully while jerking his head back. “Emmeline Grace,” he said, shaking his head. “You can greet Maggie without abusing me.”