Page 1 of The Amber House

Prologue

13 years ago

Two hundred and fifty grams of flour. Twelve grams of fresh yeast. A pinch of sea salt.

Emma drove the heels of her hands into the dough, establishing a quiet, steady rhythm against the heavy oak of the kitchen island. Fold, push, turn.

At eighteen, the world outside the thick stone walls of the bed and breakfast felt loud, unpredictable, and entirely out of her control. But here, surrounded by the rich, earthy scent of browned butter and cardamom, her mind finally went quiet. The kitchen was her sanctuary. Pastry was a simple, honest contract: measure the exact ingredients, respect the temperature of the room, knead the dough until it fought back just enough, leave it in the oven for twenty-five minutes at 180°C, and you were guaranteed a perfect result.

Pastry never lied. Pastry always stayed exactly where you put it.

"If you get wood shavings in my cinnamon rolls, Joe, I’m baking your flat cap tomorrow morning."

Emma didn't look up, keeping her focus fully on shaping the pale dough into a flawlessly smooth sphere.

From the wingback chair by the hearth, a low, gravelly huff of amusement broke the sharp crackle of the fire. Grandpa Joe—who wasn't her grandfather at all, just the stubborn old man who owned the inn and had given her a roof and a job when she needed it most—didn't stop the precise, agonizingly slow movement of the chisel in his hand.

"A little linden wood builds character, girl," he muttered, his voice thick with age and pipe tobacco. He blew a puff of pale dust from the tiny wooden object he was carving. "Besides, you stomp around this kitchen like a drafted soldier. The floorboards are complaining, and the vibrations are throwing off my hands."

"My kitchen, my rules," Emma shot back. She slapped a damp linen cloth over the glass bowl to let the dough proof, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "And your hands are fine. You just refuse to wear your glasses because you think they make you look old. Newsflash, Joe: you're already ancient."

"Respect your elders," he countered, though she could hear the smile hiding in the rough edges of his voice.

She wiped her floury hands on her apron, her chest warming with a familiar, quiet affection. She moved toward the hearth to pour him a fresh mug of Earl Grey, her boots stepping lightly over the specific slate tiles she knew wouldn't creak. She reached for the brass teapot resting on the side table next to his chair.

That was when she saw them.

Her hand stopped mid-air, her knuckles brushing the warm metal of the teapot. Next to the reading lamp, sitting in a neat, mocking stack, were five thick envelopes. They were addressed in Joe’s elegant, fountain-pen cursive to a corporate firm in New York.

Victoria Sterling.

Emma recognized the name. It was the granddaughter. The one whose mother had died in a car crash about fifteen years ago. The one who had been swallowed up by her rich, tyrannical stepfather's world. Joe never spoke of Victoria with anger, only with a quiet, heavy sorrow that seemed to seep into the walls of the house.

But it wasn't the name that made Emma's stomach drop. It was the stamps defacing every single envelope.

RETURN TO SENDER – REFUSED

Emma stared at the top envelope. The edges were battered, the paper slightly water-stained from its transatlantic journey. It looked like a casualty of a war the other side refused to acknowledge fighting. She looked from the rejected mail to the object in Joe’s gnarled, arthritis-swollen hands.

It was a wooden carousel horse. It was small enough to fit in the palm of a hand, carved with a microscopic, loving detail that made Emma’s throat tighten painfully. The mane was perfectly textured, the legs caught mid-gallop.

A sharp, territorial anger spiked in her chest.

"Joe." The playful, teasing edge vanished from her voice completely, replaced by a cold snap. "The postman brought the new batch back. Again."

Joe stopped sanding the wooden mane. The rhythmic, scraping noise ceased, leaving the kitchen suddenly, suffocatingly quiet, save for the rain hammering against the glass. His broad shoulders seemed to sink just an inch under his dark green sweater.

He slowly placed the wooden horse on the armrest. He didn't look at the stack of envelopes. Instead, he reached for a new padded mailer, sliding the little toy inside with a gentleness that made Emma want to scream.

"I know." Joe said quietly.

"Then why?" Emma stepped closer, her fists clenching at her sides, leaving small dustings of flour on her apron. "Why do you keep making these? She is a grown woman, Joe. She’s twenty-nine years old. She doesn't want wooden toys, and she clearly doesn't want these letters!"

Joe picked up his walking stick. His knuckles turned white as he forced himself up from the chair. His joints popped, a harsh sound in the quiet room. He looked at her, his dark brown eyes clear and entirely unwavering.

"When my Emily died, that husband of hers made it very clear my girls belonged to him," Joe murmured, leaning heavily on the cane. "Harrison sent a letter telling me Victoria was a Sterling now. That she had a new life, a rich life, and that she didn't want to hear from a provincial old man."

Emma swallowed hard. "And she's proving him right, Joe. She is the one returning them. She doesn't want them."