Noelle saw the woman do a surreptitious perusal of her body, her eyes lighting in interest. She felt a little fizzle in her stomach. She would have absolutely sworn five minutes ago that the morning of Cass’s funeral was the last time and place on Earth she would ever feel a spark of interest in a woman, but that was before this elven person had walked into the kitchen.

“Is there coffee—” the elf asked, her voice still fuzzy with sleep.

At the same time, Noelle said, “I’m sorry, this is rude, but what on Earth are you wearing?”

The elf huffed out a little sound that could have been a laugh. “I’d just come back from a trip when I got the call about Cass, I left my house in a hurry. None of my clothes are even clean, much less suitable for sitting shiva,” she explained. “I took the sweater from my best friend. It used to light up, so I guess small blessings?”

“Very small. Hot cocoa?” Noelle offered, as the woman settled warily on a stool, looking behind her like she was bracing for something unpleasant.

The elf raised her eyebrows and scowled. “Is there…espresso…in the hot cocoa? Because otherwise, definitely no.” With her face scrunched up, she looked like a grumpy cat meme. Noelle found it oddly charming.

“There isn’t currently, but I think I can make it happen.” Noelle flipped a kitchen towel over her shoulder. Espresso, she could do. Espresso was mindless, and let her turn her back on the strange, interesting woman interrupting her grief.

“You’re my new favorite person,” the elf said happily, before laying her head on top of her folded arms. God, she was cute. Noelle told her brain to pipe down. This was a Rosenstein, here to mourn. She didn’t even know the woman’s name. She should be hospitable, and not a creeper, even if the elf had looked at her with stark interest.

“Bagel? Muffin? Croissant? I have about fifteen freshly baked carbohydrates available for consumption.” She pointed to a serving platter covered in choices. “Or, if I know Mrs. Matthews, there will be challah French toast in the dining room soon.”

“Are they from Rosenstein’s?” the woman asked, perking up. Cass’s family had made their money and reputation in a bakery that was now famous for traditional Jewish baked goods. Noelle had learned fast that all the extended family tree was fiercely loyal about their pastries.

She pretended affront. “Would they be anything else?”

“I will have a muffin now and also some French toast later,” the woman announced, as if she were deciding something of grave import. Noelle handed her the cup of hot cocoa containing two perfectly pulled shots of espresso, and an orange cranberry muffin.

The elf sighed happily. Noelle’s stomach flipped.

Then Hannah walked in.