My stall with books and tourist trinkets was situated right next to Caro’s stall so I could be on hand if she needed me. Her hands shook as she set everything up. After scouring the internet, Caro had found clear cabinets to display her baked goods all the while keeping them fresh. Mini chalkboards were placed in front of each row detailing what they were and how much they cost. The kitchen at my apartment looked like a hurricane had passed through it because her aunt Helena, furious about the market, wouldn’t let her use the kitchen at home to bake. Caro had used mine through the night so that her food would still be fresh for sale.

I was keeping a careful eye on her, worried that she hadn’t slept. Even more worried at the sight of those shaking hands.

“Can I help?” I asked, approaching her cautiously.

Her lovely red hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, mostly because she’d had little time to get dressed this morning, and it softened her. Wisps of hair curled around her face, so different from the severe bun she usually wore.

She’d only brought a sweater with her to wear with her long skirt, and I’d somehow managed to convince her she’d be too hot. I’d given her a plain white crew-neck T-shirt of mine. It was too big, so I’d pulled it tight and knotted it at the base of her spine. The knot-tied shirt worked nicely with the loose, flowing skirt and showed off Caro’s teeny-tiny waist. For once she looked effortlessly stylish and her age. When she’d seen her appearance, her mouth opened in obvious protest but quickly clamped shut as she narrowed her gaze on her reflection.

After a quick perusal, she’d tilted her head in thought and smoothed her hands down her skirt. In that moment, I knew she’d made the decision to be brave and wear something her aunt would disapprove of. We’d left the apartment to load up carts, or trolleys as they called them here, with our stuff without another word.

Roane had been in the square with a few other villagers, setting up the stalls we’d rented. He’d left to park the rental van that had transported the stalls at his farm, and we hadn’t seen him since.

“I’m quite all right,” Caro replied softly, her eyebrows pinched together in a frown as her gaze darted toward the crowd that was waiting for us to announce the market was open. Annie Foster and her wife, Liz, had their stall of Liz’s artwork set up nearest to the crowd. Every now and then when someone would take a step toward the market, Annie would cough, look deliberately at her watch, and then glare at them.

I smirked as she did it again.