She smiled. “Oh.” Only that smile fell as swiftly as it had formed. “Now I am offended that you have insulted my cake.”

“Your cake is small,” he felt inclined to point out.

“But you still needn’t speak poorly of it,” she chastised, and leaning down, she dropped her elbows upon the table, her body curved like a frame around that treat she so ardently defended.

“I’m not speaking poorly of it. I’m speaking factually about it.”

She narrowed her eyes, then straightened in a huff. “Oh, fine.” Humming to herself, she carefully stuck candle after candle within the cake, and he watched her as she worked.

How long it had been since he’d bantered. He’d not even believed himself, until this moment, capable of the feat.

When Myrtle had finished placing all the candles but for one, she picked that lone taper up and turned.

“Where are you going?” he asked, freezing her in her tracks.

She turned back, giving her eyes a slight roll. “I have to light it.”

And risk burning her fingers?

“Give me that,” he muttered, slipping it from her grasp. He proceeded over to one of the pair of sconces still lit.

“I’m quite capable, you know,” she said.

“I do not doubt it.” After all, she had survived this long without the benefit of a family or staff about. He lit the taper, then held his palm up around it to protect the flame as he made the short walk back to her side. “But I’m certain there are some rules about not lighting your own candles on your birthday.”

“There aren’t,” she informed him as he joined her at the table. “I asked my brother”—of course she had—“who asked his friend in Germany”—Curiosity appeared to run, then, in Myrtle McQuoid’s family—“and he said that he rather enjoys lighting his own candles.”

Val made quick work of lighting each candle so that a bright glow emanated from the cake, and he added the last one to the now crowded birthday treat she’d purchased herself.

Myrtle hopped onto one of the benches, and Val followed suit, positioning himself directly across from her.

They sat there . . . in silence, with Myrtle staring intently at the candles, those candles which cast a soft glow over her heart-shaped face, her tangle of dark curls having the look of a halo and giving her an ethereal look.

“Well?” he asked quietly. “Are you going to put them out?”

“You don’t put them out,” she said softly. “One blows them out . . . and only after one has made a wish.”

“And what do you intend to wish for?” he asked quietly, thoroughly and hopelessly entranced by her.