Marigold has now been working in Henrietta's shop for almost four weeks, and in the entirety of that time, she is certain that there was never a day when Steven did not visit her. In some days, he comes at the pretense of looking through the merchandise; when Marigold is not working at the shop, they take quick strolls around town. He even joins Henrietta and Marigold for the occasional tea.

Today is one of those occasional tea times, and Steven has just left the two women to discuss among themselves.

"The sales improved a bit this month," Henrietta says. She smiles at Marigold's direction. "I think you played a part in that, Marigold."

"You flatter me, Etta," the girl denies, while having a vague feeling that this topic has been mentioned earlier.

"Don't underestimate the power of promotion, my child," Etta replies. "Once people see the clothes look good on you, they get interested in buying." She candidly adds, "I should commend myself for conceiving that brilliant idea, too."

"That I can agree with," says Marigold, this time with less reserve.

Etta squints at her. "You need to work on your confidence, young lady."

A brief pause.

"You have quite the dedicated suitor there," the older woman suddenly brings up.

If Marigold had not finished her tea yet, it would have spilled by now. "S-say what?" she sputters.

Henrietta chuckles. "Admit it—you know guild officers aren't required to inspect a shop everyday. Especially not someone quite high up in the ranks."

As much as Marigold tried to be modest and unassuming when it came to Steven, Etta's words do validate her fanciful thoughts. She has spent countless nights, recalling the time they were together. She keeps on wondering and wondering, why he was especially nice to her, why he would go so far for her...

The familiarity he feels with her must be part of the reason, but he also told her from the start that he enjoyed her company. She can say for certain now that Steven is interested in her, right?

A faint blush colors her cheeks. "I must admit, that is what I've been thinking..." she finally reveals. "I-I might be getting ahead of myself, but he might find me attractive," she even ventures to add.

Etta gently nudges Marigold's arm. "You gained confidence so fast."

The girl laughs. "Full of myself now, aren't I?"

"Yes, unfortunately," Etta assents, emphatically closing her eyes and nodding.

Knowing that at least Etta has been thinking the same thing, Marigold finds herself looking forward to the next day more than she ever did. Even the mere thought of meeting Steven tomorrow makes her heart flutter. What she will ever do about him, she can only know if she learned how he felt for her. Oh, if he had indeed fallen for her..!

Seeing Steven waiting for her at the plaza renders her almost breathless. His ebony hair shines in the sunlight, and so does his eyes. His head is tilted to the side, his hands in his pockets, and he is wearing the same starched shirt he had when they met in the tavern. His looks did not matter at all to her before. Or did it? He seems to be radiant in her eyes today.

They spend the first hour strolling around town, talking about mundane things, like work, books they recently read, or interesting conversations they had with other people. Marigold is constantly reminded of her friend’s lofty position in the merchants’ guild, making her mind conjure an even dreamier image of him in her fantasy. ‘Has he noticed how differently I am seeing him today? I even made a greater effort to dress myself,’ she wonders, completely oblivious to the silliness of her thoughts. If Steven did notice anything about Marigold, he is doing a splendid job in acting normal.

They arrive at a quieter place, a natural park of trees and flower shrubs where poets come to be inspired, and couples spend their romantic walks.

Their conversation lulls.

Marigold seizes the chance.

“Steven,” she begins.

“What is it?” Steven asks, calm and even.

Marigold’s heart is thudding in her chest. “Can I be frank with you?”

“Certainly.”

Marigold is losing her words. She practiced saying them in her head countless times already; now it seems she has forgotten them all. “I’m going to ask you something. Are you ready?”

Steven glances at her reddening face. “Go on,” he prompts.

“Here goes,” the girl mumbles, more to herself than to Steven. She lets out a shaky breath. “Do you…fancy me?”

Her heart is up her throat; the butterflies in her stomach summoning a tempest. She almost regrets asking him such a reckless and shameless question.

The young man takes a moment to respond. He replies with a question.

“Why do you ask?”

Marigold’s anticipation is suspended mid-air; she fumbles around her scattered thoughts for an answer. “I have been thinking that you might,” is the reply she settles on, finding her reasons possibly embarrassing to say out loud. She gets a vague inkling that she might not like what he says next.

Steven pauses to consider. “What led you to think so?”

‘If you don’t fancy me, now is the perfect moment to say it,’ she replies inwardly out of incoming dejection. But she obliges. “You told me you enjoy my company; you are especially nice to me; you visit me every day…”

“How well do you know me, then?”

“W-well enough,” she stutters, quite unsure in her answer. She feels as if she is being put on a rather difficult test.

“Do you know me well beyond the things I tell you?”

An odd question. Marigold’s eyes fly up to meet Steven’s. In that fraction of a moment, he is unguarded, his eyes having that strange depth she saw when they first met. It disappears instantly.

Marigold looks at the ground. “…No,” she finally admits.

She hears a faint laugh from him. ‘Or maybe he sighed,’ she hesitates.

He speaks. “Then, can I be frank with you, too?”

She almost says no. “…Certainly.”

Steven takes a deep breath, and exhales. “I barely know you, too.” Marigold looks at him as he stares at the sunlight between the trees. “I don’t think a month is enough for me to harbor feelings for you.”

‘A succinct stab,’ she declares in her head. She is still repeating the words, and what he adds almost flies past her. “I am sure it’s the same in your end.”

“That’s not true,” she argues, her petulance now undisguised.

“It pains me to tell you this,” he says, “but you are taken with the idea of me fancying you.”

Marigold is appalled. Her heart is no more wounded than her vanity. She opens her mouth to speak, but she comes up empty. She shuts her lips, and grits her teeth.

Without much ado, she walks away from him.