Page 79 of The Amber House

Mathieu gave a rough laugh, reaching into the refrigerated case to pull out two heavy bricks wrapped in greaseproof paper. "You learn fast. Most tourists buy the sweet butter and ruin their crust."

"Sweet butter is for enfants," Emma countered without missing a beat, handing over the coins.

She took her butter, stopped at the fruit merchant to select four firm conference pears that yielded slightly near the stem, and walked down the rue de Charonne toward the flat.

The apartment sat on the fifth floor of an ancient building with a leaning stairwell. It belonged to Camille, who had spent three weeks at The Amber House four years ago during a brutal breakup. When Emma had called her from London train station a month ago, shaking so hard she could barely hold the receiver, Camille had simply asked what time the Eurostar arrived.

Emma pushed the warped wooden door open. The flat was small, smelling of roasted coffee, turpentine from Camille’s drafting desk, and the vanilla extract Emma had spilled into the floorboards during her first week.

"You're late," Camille called from the sofa. She was sorting through fabric swatches, her dark curls pinned up with an architect's pencil. "Did Laurent execute someone today?"

"He ate my croissant and didn't throw it in the trash," Emma said, dropping her tote onto the counter of the kitchenette.

Camille dropped her swatches, her eyes wide. "He ate it? The whole bite?"

"Half of it. Said the lamination was even."

"Mon dieu," Camille groaned, tossing her head back against the cushions. "We are opening the good wine tonight. Go shower. You smell like an industrial bakery."

Emma laughed, unlacing her clogs by the door. The tiny bathroom was tiled in chipped white ceramic. She stood under the hot water, watching the pale flour wash off her shins and swirl down the drain. She scrubbed her wrists with verbena soap, though she knew the butter and almond extract had settled into her pores permanently.

When she stepped into the bedroom, pulling on dark denim and a heavy charcoal sweater, Camille was leaning against the kitchen counter, examining a notebook Emma had left open near the kettle.

It was an unlined sketchbook Emma had bought three weeks ago. The pages were covered in dense handwriting, conversion tables, and floor plans. Not the floor plans of The Amber House, but sketches of an open-concept bakery: counter heights, display cases angled for natural light, and a double-deck oven labeled with its electrical requirements in red ink.

Camille tapped the paper with a nail. "What is this?"

Emma reached past her to grab her mug. "Just ideas. Homework."

"This is not homework," Camille said, turning the book toward her. "I don’t think Laurent makes you calculate the margin on morning buns down to the centime… in pounds."

Emma stopped with the mug halfway to her mouth. She leaned back against the small fridge, watching steam rise into the cool air of the kitchenette.

"Old habits," Emma murmured.

Camille studied her face. Her expression softened, losing its usual ironic bite. "You look different from when I picked you up at Gare du Nord weeks ago, you know?”

"Yeah, now I have bags under my eyes."

"No, now you stand straight," Camille corrected, crossing her arms. "When you got off the train, you looked like a wounded dog waiting for someone to kick it. You jumped every time an email pinged on your phone. You walked into a room like you were apologizing for taking up floor space."

Emma looked down at her hands. The calluses on the inside of her thumbs were thick now, formed by the handles of French rolling pins and cast-iron pans.

"Camille, the money cleared three days ago," Emma said quietly.

The words hung in the narrow kitchen. Camille didn't interrupt.

"The wire from the solicitor," Emma continued, tracing the blue ring on her ceramic mug. "My fifty percent of the estate. When Arthur sent the confirmation, I looked at the balance on the screen, and I threw up in the bathroom sink."

Camille tilted her head. "Because it felt real?"

"Because it felt dirty," Emma whispered, the admission scraping her throat. "For fifteen years, The Amber House was the only thing that kept me from floating away. I thought if I stayed there, if I kept the fire lit, I was being loyal to Joe. Accepting that payout felt like taking thirty pieces of silver for selling out the only person who ever took me in."

"And now? What changed?" Camille asked gently.

Emma took a slow sip of her tea. She thought about the endless hours spent hauling luggage up stairs with broken treads. She thought about the draft that froze her knees every winter, and the suffocating terror of waiting for a boiler to explode because they couldn't afford a technician.

"Now I think Joe would have told me I was an idiot for staying that long," Emma said, her voice steady. "He stayed because of his memories. But he left me the deed, Camille. Half of it. He didn't give me a prison sentence; he gave me an exit. That money isn't blood money. It's a way out."