Once upon a Dream by Nora Roberts

much she and Flynn had in common. Considering the circumstance and all that differed between them, it was an amazing thing that they found any topic to discuss or explore.
    But then, Flynn hadn’t sat idle for five hundred years. His love of something well made, even if its purpose was only for beauty, struck home with her. All of her life she’d been exposed to craftsmanship and aesthetics—the history of a table, the societal purpose of an enameled snuffbox, or the heritage of a serving platter. The few pieces she’d allowed herself to collect were special to her, not only because of their beauty but also because of their continuity.
    She and Flynn had enjoyed many of the same booksand films, though he had read and viewed far more for the simple enjoyment of it than she.
    He listened to her, posing questions about various phases of her life, until she was picking them apart for him and remembering events and things she’d seen or done or experienced that she’d long ago forgotten.
    No one had ever been so interested in her before, in who she was and what she thought. What she felt. If he didn’t agree, he would lure her into a debate or tease her into exploring a lighter side of herself rarely given expression.
    It seemed she did the same for him, nudging him out of his brooding silences, or leaving him be until the mood had passed on its own.
    But whenever she made a comment or asked a question about the future, those silences lasted long.
    So she wouldn’t ask, she told herself. She didn’t need to know. What had planning and preciseness gotten her, really, but a life of sameness? Whatever happened when the week was up—God, why couldn’t she remember what day it was—she would be content.
    For now, every moment was precious.
    He’d given her so much. Smiling, she wandered the house, running her fingers along the exquisite pearls, which she hadn’t taken off since he’d put them around her neck. Not the gifts, she thought, though she treasured them, but romance, possibilities, and above all, a vision.
    She had never seen so clearly before.
    Love answered all questions.
    What could she give him? Gifts? She had nothing. What little she still possessed was in the car she’d left abandoned in the wood. There was so little there, really, of the woman she’d become, and was still becoming.
    She wanted to do something for him. Something that would make him smile.
    Food. Delighted with the idea, she hurried back toward the kitchen. She’d never known anyone to appreciate a single bite of apple as much as Flynn.
    Of course, since there wasn’t any stove, she hadn’t a clue what she could prepare, but…She swung into the kitchen, stopped short in astonishment.
    There certainly was one beauty of a stove now. White and gleaming. All she’d done was mutter about having to boil water for tea over a fire and—poof!—he’d made a stove.
    Well, she thought, and pushed up her sleeves, she would see just what she could do with it.
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    In his workroom, Flynn gazed through one of his windows on the world. He’d intended to focus on Kayleen’s home so that he could replicate some of her things for her. He knew what it was to be without what you had, what had mattered to you.
    For a time he lost himself there, moving his mind through the rooms where she had once lived, studying the way she’d placed her furniture, what books were on her shelves, what colors she’d favored.
    How tidy it all was, he thought with a great surge in his heart. Everything so neatly in place, and so tastefully done. Did it upset her sense of order to be in the midst of his hodgepodge?
    He would ask her. They could make some adjustments. But why the hell hadn’t the woman had more color around her? And look at the clothes in the closet. All of them more suited to a spinster—no, that wasn’t the word used well these days. Plain attire without