Chapter 7
"The path?" Klaus prompted, drawing Talia back from her memories.
"Right." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and moved to the front window.
"See that line of evergreens? Follow those north.
There's a deer trail that runs parallel to the road but far enough into the forest that you won't be seen.
When you reach a stream—you'll hear it before you see it—turn northeast and follow the water upstream.
The clearing where you crashed is about a quarter mile past that. "
He nodded confidently, and she was sure he’d committed it to memory. He turned towards the door, then hesitated.
"What time does Theo return from school?" he asked, frowning.
"He doesn't go to school. The village teacher quit last month, and no one's replaced her yet." She sighed. "I've been trying to teach him myself, but it's been… difficult so he sometimes has lessons with our neighbor. That’s where he is this afternoon. He'll be back later."
"I do not like leaving you alone."
"You're worried about me?"
"I am being logical. This is an isolated location."
"Right. Logical." But it didn’t feel like just logic. It felt like he cared.
"Very well. I will make sure to return before nightfall."
He would? Her heart skipped a beat as she shot him a quick look from under her lashes. “You’re coming back?”
“Of course. That is—am I welcome here?”
“Very much so,” she said quickly, then blushed at how eager she sounded. "But be careful."
"I am always careful."
"Klaus." She caught his arm again as he turned toward the door. "I mean it. If someone sees you—"
"I will exercise appropriate caution." He looked down at where her hand rested on his forearm, then met her eyes. "I have survived enemy territory many times before. A frontier village presents minimal threat in comparison."
“That doesn’t mean it isn’t a threat. Which reminds me.
” She hurried over to a tall dresser and retrieved his weapon from where she’d hidden it behind the top molding.
"You’d better take this. These people will be scared of you, and scared people are dangerous in ways enemy soldiers aren't. Not that I want you to shoot anyone,” she added hastily.
"Thank you. I will return unharmed, and I will not shoot anyone." He took the weapon, then covered her hand with his, squeezing briefly. "You have my word."
She made herself release him, and he headed for the door. He had his hand on the latch when she found her courage.
"Klaus?"
He turned back to her immediately..
"Thank you. For today. For helping with the toy, for—" She paused. "For seeing me. For talking to me like I have a brain."
"You possess considerable intelligence. It would be illogical to address you otherwise."
"Most men don't see it that way."
"Then most men are fools."
He opened the door and set off towards the tree line, following the path she had suggested, and disappeared into the woods.
She stood at the window long after he’d disappeared into the tree line, staring at the spot where he’d vanished.
Her stomach twisted with a strange mix of anxiety and something warmer, something that made her feel foolish and reckless.
He'll be fine. He survived a crash that should have killed him, and he’s already healed from a wound that would have left most men dead or dying.
But the villagers weren't a crashed ship or a stab wound.
They were fear and superstition wrapped in righteousness, quick to condemn anything they didn't understand.
And he was wrong about another thing—people who acted out of fear were far more dangerous than enemy soldiers.
Soldiers followed rules. Frightened farmers with pitchforks followed panic.
She forced herself to step back from the window.
Standing here worrying wouldn't keep him safe, and she had her own problems to solve.
Problems that had been piling up like snow in a blizzard while she'd been distracted by broad shoulders and startling blue eyes and huge hands that could wield a molecular bonder with impossible delicacy.
Stop it. I have work to do.
She returned to the kitchen and pulled out the account book she kept in the drawer beneath the dish cupboard.
The leather cover was worn smooth from Sarah's hands, and now hers, both of them trying to make numbers stretch further than they wanted to go.
She opened to the current page and stared at the figures she'd written two nights ago. The numbers hadn't magically improved.
Market day was in five days. Wednesday morning, when the village gathered to trade goods and gossip in equal measure.
She needed to bring something to sell or barter, not just because they needed supplies, but because her absence would be noted, and the last thing she needed was Martha or anyone else deciding to check on the poor spinster woman struggling alone with her nephew.
Except she wasn’t alone, not anymore.
No. Klaus would be gone soon, and that was for the best. He had to leave before someone discovered him—or before she did something stupid like ask him to stay. She shook her head and focused on the account book. What did she have to trade?
Apples? She still had three bushels of apples from the small orchard Willem had planted five years ago.
The trees had produced well this year, one of the few things that had gone right.
But trading away food made her stomach clench.
Those apples could be dried and stretched through the winter months when fresh food was scarce. Each one traded was one less meal.
But they also needed lamp oil and flour and salt. They needed a dozen other things she couldn't produce herself, no matter how many skills she'd learned in the city.
Maybe she could make apple butter. It required more work and more time, but the return would be better.
Martha had taught her the process earlier in the fall, standing in this same kitchen, stirring the massive pot as she chatted cheerfully, her voice a gentle barrier against the grief that threatened to overwhelm Talia.
Crossing to the pantry, she pulled out her largest pot.
It would take hours to cook the apples down, stirring constantly to prevent them burning—hours she didn't really have.
But what choice do I have? She was bringing a basket of apples from the root cellar when her gaze landed on the kitchen table.
Glimmerhorn.
Theo had left the toy behind when Martha had come to collect him. He'd clutched it on the walk to the door, only setting it down at the last moment with visible reluctance.
"I'll be back before dark," he'd said, placing the toy carefully on the table. "Don't let anything happen to him."
"I'll guard him with my life," she’d promised, and he’d given her a tentative smile
Now she picked up the toy, turning it in her hands. The original craftsmanship was beautiful, but the repairs they’d made were even more precise, enabled by Klaus's tool. What if they hadn’t just been repairs? What if she could use his tool to make new toys?
Excitement skittered through her veins. Toy-making wasn’t quite the same as her work with clocks, but it appealed to the same inventive, creative side of her.
Willem had kept a small workshop attached to the barn, and it was still full of wood pieces and partially finished projects he'd never completed.
Toys should do well at the market, especially with winter coming and parents thinking ahead to Longest Night gifts.
If Klaus allowed her to use the bonder, she thought she could make several toys before Market day.
If he let her. The tool was clearly valuable, far beyond anything she could offer in trade.
He had no reason to help her beyond the shelter she'd already provided. But he had helped with Glimmerhorn. He’d taken the time to show her how the bonder worked, to guide her hands, and to share his knowledge.
He looked at her like she was clever, capable, valuable—not just a pair of hands to cook and clean but a mind worth teaching.
The memory made her chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with accounts and everything to do with the impossible alien currently walking through the forest to check on his crashed ship.
She set Glimmerhorn down carefully and grabbed her cloak from the hook by the door.
Willem's workshop wouldn't be warm, but she'd make do. The barn sat thirty yards from the house, its red paint faded to pink in patches where the weather had stripped it away. Willem had planned to repaint it this spring. He’d planned a lot of things that would never happen now.
She pushed open the side door and stepped into the dim interior.
She hadn't been in here since she’d arrived, unable to face the evidence of interrupted projects and abandoned dreams. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light streaming through the high windows.
He’d shown it to her on her long ago visit, claiming he needed a space to work without Sarah fussing about sawdust in the house, and it hadn’t changed much since then.
The workbench stretched along one wall, its surface scarred and stained. Tools hung on a pegboard above it—saws, chisels, planes, all arranged in neat rows. He'd been particular about his tools, insisting each had its place.
Partially finished projects occupied every available surface.
A chair with three legs. A jewelry box missing its lid.
A set of alphabet blocks, only half carved.
Each one was a ghost, a reminder of time that had run out.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and moved to the storage bins beneath the bench.
Wood scraps, sorted by type and size. He’d been methodical about that too, never wasting material.