He watches her. Subtly at first, but he watches her.

-

He watches her walk into the new cottage they built. She has the baby in her arms and is humming softly to him. A large basket of vegetables is swung over one elbow. She pushes a rock against the door with her foot in order to keep it open. The early autumn breeze is fresh and pleasant. She starts as she looks around and sees him watching her. Recovering quickly, she walks over to him.

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

He just nods. She hands him the child, who begins to cry, and sets the basket down on the table with a small smile. He sits down and begins to rock the baby gently, and she takes the vegetable out and neatly sets them on the shelf over the counter.

-

Later she is baking, bread for all of them. He pauses in the doorway to watch her. She has flour in her hair and on her face, and is frantically searching the cupboards. When she closes the last door, she turns to look at him, completely unsurprised by his presence this time.

“We’re out of flour. I just used the last bit.” He clears his throat to respond.

“I’ll get more tomorrow when I go into town.”

“Take Jack with you, will you? He’s been dying to get out of this house for weeks.”

She cringes almost instantly at her word choice.

“I apologize. I didn’t mean-”

He shakes his head to brush her apology aside.

“Of course not.”

There is always a silent agreement between them not to bring up the past.

They share a moment of silence, not altogether unpleasant, before the child’s screams erupt from the next room. She quickly cleans her hands with her apron and, brushing past him, steps into the bedroom. She lifts the baby and soothes him, pressing him close to her and swaying softly. She glances up and catches the Baker’s eyes on her. He quickly looks away, but his gaze leaves her slightly breathless.

-

The storm is raging outside. The little girl is sitting on the hearthrug with a book, but she stares into the fire instead of at the pages. The woman sits at the table, picking at small flecks on the rough, worn surface, nearly sick with worry.

At the sound of the door swinging open, both jump up. Jack steps in, the Baker following. Letting out a gasp of relief, Cinderella runs to them. She flings her arms first around Jack, and then around the Baker, color returning to her face and breathing almost returning to normal. The Baker, unsure how to react, awkwardly returns the embrace.

She quickly pulls away; avoiding his eyes at first, and speaks to Jack.

“We were worried. The weather got so terrible so fast…” Her eyes snap to the Baker’s.

“…We thought we might have lost you.” The Baker lets her words sink in for a moment before turning to Jack and the girl.

“You two should get to bed. The princess and I will unload the goods from town.”

The two race off to their bedrooms at the opposite end of the cottage and Cinderella reaches for her shawl and wraps it tightly around her.

“I’ve told you before, you really must stop calling me “Princess.” I am no longer royalty; I was not even really to begin with. Please.” Her eyes are sincere, sad and almost longing.

“I’ll try.”

As they step out into the rain, they instinctively walk closer for protection and warmth.

In the makeshift shed the Baker had constructed, they unload the baking supplies and other necessities from the small cart and place them on their respective shelves. She waits for him under the skies while he closes the doors and bars them against the wind.

By the time they return to inside the house, both are soaked and shivering. The Baker takes off his vest, jacket, hat, and scarf and hangs them off hooks over the fire. He looks around to see her staring into the flames, wet hair plastered to her face and a blank look in her eyes.

He catches her gaze and she looks away, peeling off the dripping shawl and stepping out of her shoes. He takes them from her and hangs them over the fire. She mutters a barely coherent ‘thank you’ and steps back to lean against the wall of the cottage.

He studies her a moment before speaking.

“You were truly worried?” She looks at him.

“Yes, of course. The gusts of wind were so strong that we had to bar the shutters, and all the lanterns beside the shed blew out long ago. We were frightened-” Here her voice almost breaks and she takes a second to regain composure.

“We thought you might have been lost. And not coming back.”

He steps close, a mere arm’s length away. He reaches out and brushes a few strands of hair back from her face and eyes, to behind her ear. She shudders slightly at the contact.

“You won’t lose us, Cinderella. We have too much to come home to.” He walks away, into the bedroom, and shuts the door.

Absorbing and weighing the possible connotations of his words, it is almost a quarter hour before she moves, softly padding to her own bedroom in bare feet, and even more time before she sinks into bed, the feeling of him being so close still lingering.

-

It is months before he can finally collect the courage, and then find the proper moment.

It appears out of nowhere, most unexpectedly.

She is cutting vegetables at the counter, evenly and crisply, when Jack chases the girl into the kitchen. She bumps Cinderella and the knife slips from her fingers, slicing open her palm instead of the tomato. Blood splatters the counter and vegetables.

Mortified, both children are full of apologies. She smiles and shakes her head and sends them out of the kitchen. Taking a strip of cloth from a drawer, she walks out to the well. Sitting on the edge of it, she raises a bucket of water, pouring it over her hand.

She winces as the fluid passes through and over the gash, and quickly tries to tie the cloth around it.

Three failed attempts later, the Baker approaches her, eyes worried as he sees the blood seeping from her clenched fist and the look of concentrated frustration on her face, mixed with the pain.

She relays the story to him as he tenderly wraps the bandage around her palm. He gingerly helps her to her feet and they set off back towards the house.

“I’m sorry for ruining your vegetables.” He is shocked by this statement. Stopping in the middle of the yard, he turns to her.

“You stand there with a bleeding hand and apologize for the vegetables?”

A small smile passes over her lips, one he hasn’t seen in a few days.

“It’s not bleeding anymore. And the vegetables were our supper.”

“There’s more where they came from.” He says. Her smile widens a bit and she looks down, away from his gaze. She can sense him getting closer. His fingers lift her chin and turn her head and suddenly he is right there.

“I don’t care for tomatoes much anyway.”

With this, he lowers his lips to hers.

The sensation is powerful but not overwhelming, seeping into and throughout her veins like honey, and she shifts closer to him to deepen the kiss.

It is only moments before they realize what is happening.

At the realization, he pulls away.

“What are we doing?” He asks, voice worried and breathless. She shakes her head.

“I don’t know.” Pulling him back to her, she kisses him this time, and his arms wrap tightly around her after a few moments.

When they finally pause for air, she lays her head on his chest and he closes his eyes to savor the moment, both knowing it cannot be.

She is the first to say it, raising her head and stepping back, though his hands still rest on her waist and hers are poised on his arms.

“We can’t.” He does not respond.

“Please. Your wife has been dead less that six months. That isn’t a long time. Not a long enough time. I left my prince…the prince…that same time ago and things are just beginning to become stable again. If…”

He nods once.

“I know. You’re right of course. This can’t happen.”

Just for a moment, he pulls her close again, just to feel her in his arms. She breathes in his scent of bread and warmth and smiles against his embrace.

When they pull apart, each walks in a different direction, determined not to look back.

-

The gash on her palm has long since healed. Now only a scar. On cold days, she closes her eyes and tries to remember exactly what his lips feel like. On most days, she tries to be thankful it never went any further.

She pauses just inside the door, studiously reading the letter in her hand. Pursing her lips slightly, she re-folds it and sets it down on the table, between the candles and bowls.

Later, when he comes inside, hands almost blue from the cold, she pours him a cup of thick tea and spills some. As she tries to wipe it away, he picks up the letter. Despite her protests, he opens it and reads it.

Lowering it slowly, he looks at her.

“Are you going to go?” She looks out the window, where snow is falling.

“Do you want me to?” Her voice is soft.

“I think you know the answer to that.” She still will not look at him.

“I don’t want to be a burden to you. Having to feed four of us in addition to yourself can’t be easy. If you want me to go-”

“You sound as though you want to leave.”

“No!” She whirls around, her tone almost vehement. He is right there, beside her, and she staggers backward. He reaches out to catch her, and the feeling of his hands on her waist is almost more than she can bear. She pulls away.

“No. I want to stay. I left my Prince…the Prince…long ago. And he had left me long before that. The fact that he wants me back means little to me. I chose this life because I wanted it.”

“And you still want it?” She finally looks at him.

“Yes.” She takes the letter from him. The ink glimmers in the glow from the fire, but all she can see is an invisible nobody. He is nothing to her anymore. She casts the parchment into the flames, and crosses her arms across her chest as it catches and curls.

-

The baby has been crying for the past three hours.

If he continues at this rate, she thinks, we’ll all drown.

She gets up, wraps a shawl around her shoulders, and sets off toward the bedroom.

The Baker sits on the edge of the bed, desperately attempting to calm his son. She halts in the doorway to watch him for a moment. Certain the wails are not going to stop, she steps to his side.

He looks up, a mixture of guilt and utter relief etching his features.

“I’m sorry he woke you. He…he always cries when I hold him. Now he won’t stop. I don’t…I don’t know what’s wrong.” She reaches out her arms and takes the baby. Though the crying does not stop, the volume at least lessens.

He smiles and asks her if she would like tea. With her response, he returns to the kitchen, lights a lamp, and begins to make the hot beverage.

When he returns, twenty minutes later, she is fast asleep, the baby alike in her arms. He pauses uncertainly for just a minute before deciding what to do.

-

She wakes in the middle of the night, slightly alarmed and disoriented.

She is in his room, on his bed, and he is next to her, close, his arms around her. She closes her eyes, just for a moment. She feels protected, safe, complete. This is the in-between she wanted. It’s perfect.

But she knows perfection is unattainable. Even for a Princess.

So she debates.

Decides.

She moves closer to him, and his arms tighten automatically around her. For a few more hours, at least.

When will it stop being too soon, she wonders, and start being too late.

-

She feels lucky she wakes up first. Gently, she removes herself from his tangled grip and rolls off of the bed. Leaning back over, she presses her lips lightly to his, a fleeting kiss.

She steps softly out of the room.

-

They don’t speak of the incident, lovely thing that it was, for nearly six months. They become avoidant of each other.

Over a year has passed since the woods. There have been multiple scares and tears, and suddenly it becomes too much to bear.

News of a traveler found dead in the woods. The two older children are away at school, the youngest asleep in the back bedroom, where Cinderella had been cleaning.

The report is vague; nothing suggesting it is he who was killed.

And nothing suggesting it isn’t.

When he comes through the door, their eyes immediately meet. She drops the rag she is using and rushes to him. His arms embrace her tightly. She turns to speak but doesn’t have time. His lips ease over hers, frantically, desperately.

After a moment’s hesitation, she returns the kiss, pulling him closer and closer.

He picks her up, carries her to the bedroom, shuts the door.

-

They are lying, wrapped in each other’s embrace, a few short hours later. Every so often he will turn and kiss her, and she still gets chills.

This is it, she thinks. In a few moments he’ll leave, and we’ll be back to where we started. This is it.

But this is not it.

They carry on from here.

And perhaps they finally find the chasm between “too soon” and “too late.”

They fall, headfirst, into it.

And hope it’s a long way down.