✶✶✶
THEY ran and ran. Isadora was so quick that she left Sophie trailing behind, panting in the dust.
Sophie paused at the roadside, catching her breath, when a voice called out to her.
She turned and spotted an older man—sixty, perhaps—standing in front of a storefront brimming with colorful produce. He was waving enthusiastically.
“Ms. Yaora’s…!” Her face lit up with recognition.
It was the son of Yaora, the kindly old woman who’d once come to her salon. Sophie’s heart lifted at the sight. There he was, proudly tending the shop his mother had built, standing where she had stood, carrying it on.
He jogged up to her, still holding a knife in one hand.
Well, that’s a little scary.
“Ms. Sophie! It’s good to see you,” he said, beaming. “I can’t thank you enough for what you did for us. You’re huffin’ and puffin’! Want a slice of melon?”
“Yes, thank you—I’d love one,” Sophie replied.
“Coming right up!”
Crack! The knife came down clean and quick, splitting the melon in half. For just a moment, Sophie was unhelpfully reminded of William the pirate’s rather gruesome fate. But thirst won out over imagination, and she reached for a slice.
It was fresh and wonderfully sweet, the juice dripping down her fingers. So delicious it nearly brought tears to her eyes.
Isadora munched happily on her own, spitting seeds onto the road without a care.
“Where are you two off to in such a rush?” the man asked.
“The inns’ row,” Sophie replied.
“That’s quite a trek. Ah! I know—if you’d like…”
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✶✶✶
“YOUNG ladies! I suggest you clench your teeth if you’d like to keep your tongues!” came the voice, half warning, half gleeful challenge, barely cutting through the shriek of wind and the clatter of stone.
“Aba-aba-aba-aba—!” Sophie stammered, every syllable shaken loose by the wild ride.
“Oh my, young ladies, he says! He’s a flatterer, this one is!” Isadora called out, utterly delighted.
They were on a cart—a vegetable cart. The very one Yaora’s family had once planned to use to carry her to Sophie’s salon. Solid wheels. No suspension. No mercy. At the reins—if you could call it that—was Yaora’s great-grandson, sprinting full-tilt down the cobbled road.
Sophie clung to the wooden frame, her bones rattling, trying to breathe, to focus, to keep her organs where they belonged.
Isadora, meanwhile, was leaning out over the side like a child at a fair, hair whipping behind her, shrieking with joy.
“Turning—right!” the boy hollered.
“Aba-ba-ba!” Sophie yelped.
“Woohoo!” sang Isadora.
“Turning—left!”
“Aba-ba-ba-ba-ba!”
“Weeeee!”
And so it went until they reached the inns’ row.
✦ ✦ ✦
✶✶✶
“SOPHIE? What are you doing here?”
“Hello, Lily. Sorry to disturb you while you’re working—hurk!”
Sophie bent over with a dry heave. Her former classmate rushed over, gently guiding her into a chair and patting her back.
“And who might you be?” Lily asked, glancing at Isadora.
“I’m Isadora. A dancer. Sophie here erased my stretch marks for me.”
“Ah! In that case, I’m Lily—Sophie’s former classmate. My family owns this place. She helped me with the burns on my face.”
In an instant, a connection sparked between them, warm and unspoken.
With Sophie still hunched and pale, Isadora stepped in to explain the situation. Lily listened, then disappeared and returned with a stack of paper. Isadora took one and quickly sketched out a likeness—a very good likeness. As soon as it was done, Lily snatched it up, laid it out so the still-wet ink wouldn’t smear, and placed a weight on top before setting the next sheet in front of Isadora—a quick and efficient process.
“Can we do at least ten more? Optimally fifteen? Can you draw the same image that many times?” Lily asked briskly.
“Sure I can,” Isadora replied with a grin. “You’re awfully pretty, you know that?”
“Double goes for you, Ms. Isadora.”
Meanwhile, the soothing tea Lily had brewed was starting to bring Sophie back to life. She sat up, eyes clearer, color returning. Noticing this, Lily turned her way. “Sophie.”
“Yes?”
Without warning, Lily crisply straightened her posture. There was something so sure in the gesture that Sophie instinctively sat a little straighter herself.
“Please know that despite the situation,” Lily began, “as innkeepers, we can’t freely give out information about our guests. The trust between innkeepers and our guests is sacred, and I’m afraid I won’t be breaking that.” Her tone was steady, but there was a fierce light in her hazel eyes.
“Instead,” she continued, “my family and I will use these drawings to visit the other inns along the row. We won’t ask if this man is staying with them. We’ll simply say we’re looking for him. That way, if he is here, he can choose to come forward himself. What do you think? Would that be acceptable?”
“Of course,” Sophie said at once.
“Thank you. If there’s any news, we’ll bring him straight to your salon. I know that waiting can be difficult, even painful. But for now, I can only ask for your patience. And your trust.”
She met Sophie’s eyes directly. That light had morphed into something akin to a roaring bonfire.
“Lily,” Sophie said gently, “I appreciate it. I really do. But there’s no certainty he’s even here. You don’t have to take this on.”
“Take it on?” Lily gave a soft smile. “No—if anything, it’s taken hold of me. I feel as if I’m alight. Purpose is burning through me.”
“Then perhaps you don’t need to burn quite so…brightly.”
“Oh, but I must,” Lily said. “And when I tell my family, I know the flame will catch in them too.” A single clear tear slid down her cheek. “We owe you a debt, Sophie. All of us. This is our chance to repay it. Please—let us do this for you. There’s no family better suited for it in this entire district.”
Something sharp and warm stirred in Sophie’s chest. She looked at Lily, and as their eyes met, a tear of her own slipped free.
This one caught the light, glinting orange, just like that old classroom evening all those years ago.
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✶✶✶
“I’M bored.”
Isadora sprawled across Sophie’s couch, long legs stretched out and bare, occupying nearly the entire length of it.
“Don’t you feel embarrassed lying around like that?” Sophie asked. “It’s improper for a woman.”
“Improper?” Isadora snorted. “Honey, did you forget I dance with my clothes off for a living?”
“Ah. Right.”
It was the following day. Isadora had returned to the salon to join Sophie in their ongoing efforts, hopeful for good news. She’d brought little Al along, but hardly had they stepped inside before Sherlotte appeared and spirited him off to be looked after.
When Sophie explained the situation to her mother, the only replies she received were a calm “I see,” and a measured “I hope you find him.”
“Sophie, tell me a story or something,” Isadora moaned. “I’m so bored I could die.”
Sophie stared at her.
“If you don’t start talking,” Isadora warned, “I’m going to start dancing.”
That, apparently, was motivation enough. Sophie scrambled to think of a topic.
A story…
The story.
The one she’d always wanted to tell someone, but never had.
“Ms. Isadora?”
“Mm?”
“I do have one story…”
My very own.