Page 72 of The Winter Princess

I straighten and glance around his kitchen. It’s more modern than my taste but there are touches here and there which feel chosen with an artistic eye–a rustic jar holding a collection of wooden spoons, the hand-painted salt and pepper shakers resembling Pavian pottery.

“You haven’t decorated for Christmas.”

“No time.”

“You’re too busy for Christmas?”

He lifts an uncertain hand, finally pushing it through his hair, a gesture unlike the purposeful, deliberate movements he uses in his restoration studio. When I take a step into the room, he inches back, the action almost imperceptible.

He straightens his stack of books. “I didn’t do the decorations.”

I give a short nod. “You and your father lived here?” I ask.

“Mm.”

Oskar leans against the counter, and for once, his hands aren’t in his pockets. His arms are folded over his chest, and he wishes I would stop asking questions. I can’t. I want to inspect him the same way I want to poke around his flat, turning over letters and pulling books from the shelves.

“I didn’t realize you lived in the same building as Uncle Timo.”

“He’s Uncle Timo now?”

“He won’t let me be formal.”

“He owns the building. Everyone’s Pavian.”

I’m not. I touch a wall he may not even realize exists, but I smile. “That’s why he can play music so loud. He knows you won’t call the police.” Oskar’s expression lightens. “This was your family home?”

“Mm.”

If we’re playing a game of snakes and ladders, I’ve slid back to square one.

I’m struck by all the things I don’t see. Family photos cluttering a side table, piles of old magazines, faded art prints left on the walls too long, signs of the life this flat had before Oskar’s father died—the anchor of memories.

“Come down to dinner,” I invite. “Uncle Timo wants you. A cute Uni student wants you—” I say this with a laugh, but I watch his reaction closely. He has no idea what I mean. I feel relief—like I’ve been crossing a stream on my tiptoes, almost going under, and coming out of it on the other side.

“I’m busy.” He nods to the stack of books.

My brow furrows. “You wouldn’t have to live like a monastic scribe if you could study while you work.”

“You don’t say.” He offers this with a flashing smile.

“I could help.” These words must have caused a disturbance in the ether because I can almost hear Ella in my head.Oh, sweet summer child. If he plopped you on square one, go find another game board.“It’s only fair since I’ll be monopolizing your weekends for the next month.”

I don’t want another board. I likethisboard.

He tips his head. “You would quiz me while I scrape conservation adhesives? Hit the books while we drive to our on-site locations?”

“This I so vow.” I make the sign my mother did when taking the coronation oath as I repeat her words. “All you have to do is come down for dinner.”

He lifts his chin, trying to avoid the smile taking hold of his lips. “I like it when you strike bargains.” He bumps away from the counter and crosses his arms, tugging his sweater over his head and crowding me against the door. I can’t breathe.

“What are you doing?” I ask—I can’t help but ask, staring at the line of his shoulders.

He drops the sweater onto a chair. “It’s going to get hot.”

Swiss comportment school never covered what to do if I turned into a hyperventilating nitwit. My mother should be entitled to a refund.

“On a night like this?” I glance at the window and the pounding rain.