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him to relent.
    Neither of them budged.
    Finally he said, “A simple explanation. Please, Vivian. Give me that and I’ll leave you alone.” His tone suddenly shifted, tender as the memory of his hand on her skin, of his lips trailing the side of her neck.
    She swatted away the thought, battled back with the truth-at least in basic form.
    “Fine, I’ll tell you,” she said, at which he nodded. “I’m tired of being hidden away like something to be ashamed of. If Mr. Mueller is such a kind benefactor, he shouldn’t take issue with our relationship. Either way, I don’t see the point of sneaking around anymore.” She tried to leave it at that but added, “Unless you’re afraid a woman who you’re truly smitten with might spot us together.”
    His eyes narrowed. “Is that what you think?”
    Honestly, she didn’t know what to believe or how to feel. But then, how could she possibly with his dwindling show of interest?
    “Whenever we’re together anymore, your mind is elsewhere. And frankly, I’ve endured enough of that with my father. So unless you can argue otherwise, it appears our relationship has run its course.”
    Through her matter-of-fact delivery, she had taken control of the situation, even mercifully provided him an easy out. The air should have lessened in weight, not turned to lead.
    Whoops and hollers burst from the front room. No doubt, the twins were escalating their antics out of boredom.
    “Vivian!” Mr. Harrington yelled. His urgency for a sale had been buoyed by the need to salvage his store.
    “Coming, sir!”
    Isaak’s jaw twitched and his Adam’s apple bobbed, as if a reply were clinging to his throat. In the silence, an infinite wavering stretch, his eyes glinted with ... something. But as swiftly as it appeared, the spark vanished.
    “Princess Beatrice,” he said.
    She blinked at him.
    “Princess Beatrice has large feet.” He moved from the threshold to permit her through. “It ought to help with your customer.”
    A fact about royal feet. That’s all he was willing to share.
    Vivian treated the appeasement with the respect it deserved, by not responding. She charged through the curtains and out to the front. She steadied her emotions as best she could.
    “Sorry for the delay. These were tucked away on an upper shelf.”
    Mr. Harrington accepted the shoes without thanks. “Here we are, madame,” he said, sliding the woman’s feet into the pair. “They are utterly lovely. Don’t you agree?”
    The heels wobbled as she stood, like thumbtacks propping a sack of flour. “Yes, yes, these are splendid indeed.” She admired them at various angles while her sons spun in place, using arms as propellers, to the point of falling down. “I do say, they are exceptionally comfortable. Are you certain these are my usual size?”
    As the woman reached down to check, an answer flew from Vivian’s mouth: “Princess Beatrice.”
    Mr. Harrington and the customer turned to her, staring.
    “Wears ... the same size,” Vivian finished. She resented using Isaak’s help-who knew if the claim was even true?—but it was too late to retract. “A smidge wider, I believe, but just as stunning.”
    “Oh?” the woman said, a tad dubious. “Is that so?”
    Mr. Harrington’s beard twitched as he cleared his throat. “Rightly so, madame. Precisely the same. Shall I wrap them up for you?”
    After minimal contemplation, the woman agreed and followed him to the counter.
    A click traveled from the hall, a sound only Vivian noticed. The closing of a door. In its wake flowed a sense of finality. She bristled at an absurd tide of angst, and her thoughts returned to Isaak’s eyes. A secret had risen from the depths, peeked into the open, and scuttled back inside. What admission had he almost made? What was so terrible that he could not say?
    Then came a creak, like that of the stepstool.
    Her imagination surely.
    Or perhaps his return.
    “I’ll be organizing the storeroom,” she told Mr.