Brother Ambrose softly hefted the bag of newly ground rye over his shoulder muttering yet another prayer.
Everyone was at Matins, so he was safe. This would make many loaves of bread for the orphan children in the village.
In the seven years he’d been at the monastery, he’d stolen countless bushels of food. If the abbot, discovered his theft he’d be punished for a year, he was sure; but, aye, it would be worth it to see the foundlings eat.
His only justification was that somewhere out there one of those foundling children might be his own.
“The first and best apple pie I ever ate was in this diner.”
“Really? I thought Grandma’s was your favorite.”
I scowled in confusion.
“My dear, Lily got her first job here when she was only sixteen. I came every day. She made the apple pies herself from her mother’s recipe.”
“You married her for her pie,” I laughed.
I pretended not to see his eyes mist up.
Grandpa had us, but I knew he was lonely these days. He still comes to the diner every day.
Memories, I suppose.
But now he orders only coconut cream pie.
“Look at you.” Sara stamped her feet and closed the door behind her, shutting out the icy winter wind. “You look cozy. Nice fire, and what a gorgeous view.”
“Thanks. I love watching the horses. Oh look, there’s deer too. Have some tea and a slice of cake. Here’s a blanket. Curl up here in the other chair beside me.”
“Wow. You’re going all out here. Love all the candles, and those socks. You’re Grandma made those for you, didn’t she?”
“Yes, a few years ago.”
“You’ve certainly created an atmosphere, haven’t you? I love it.”
“Yep. I’m celebrating hygge*.”
The chandelier’s crystals gleamed like chunks of ice casting their reflections across the ballroom. Miss Strandforth glided down the spiral staircase, looking like a sweet confection at the county fair.
Her frosty blue eyes gleamed as she sought out Randall Cranston across the room. Her smile could melt the polar icecap.
Little do they know the wintry blood that runs in her veins. She’s a girl who gets what she wants. And she wants the same things I do.
Cecilia’s hands folded into tight fists around her canes, remembering the day Clementine Strandforth pushed her down these cold marble stairs.