Lydia was outside sweeping the entrance when Jon Paul arrived on the mule, Jeremiah. In his right hand was a large basket. With a swift move, that did not bobble the basket, Jon Paul dismounted. Cast in the glow of the evening sun, he looked like an angel. It was a strange trick of the light. The smile that spread across his face at the sight of her, made Lydia homesick, but she did not know why.

With a little bow, he said, “Good evening Mademoiselle Wade.”

“Good evening Monsieur Gerard.”

Jon Paul tethered Jeremiah to the hitching post. The mule did not protest as Moses Aaron was prone to do. Lydia reached out a hand to touch the mule’s velvety snout. Jeremiah looked at her with his dark eyes. There was no lack of intelligence in his gaze. It seemed he chose to accept his fate rather than struggle against it as Moses Aaron did.

Jon Paul said, “You have a way with animals.”

“Thank you.” Her fader had a way with animals too, that was why his roosters won so many cock fights. But his way, was not a good way. She did not want to think of him or the violence of his birds. She turned the attention back to Jeremiah. “This is a fine mule.”

“Oui, he is. Trust worthy loyal and always good tempered. Grandfader says he never met the like of such a mule.”

Nor had Lydia. She asked, “Shall we go inside?”

“Oui.”

They found Isabelle in the work kitchen, cutting wicks. She appraised the basket Jon Paul held and asked, “What have you brought for us to eat?”

“I have brought stewed rabbit with yeast rolls, my finest honey and a drop of mead. I would like Mademoiselle to sample my brew.”

“Indeed?” Isabelle smiled at him. “Always peddling your brew. So how does it sell at the Hot Fair?”

“Very well, Madame, very well.”

In all honesty, Lydia was not fond of mead. It was too sweet for her and it never set well on her stomach, but for Jon Paul she would give it a taste.

Isabelle rose from the table and lead them into the house kitchen. The smell of rabbit stew filled the room when Jon Paul lifted the lid on the basket he carried. Patch and Ashes appeared from the cat box with wiggling noses. He told them, “You will get a taste, in time.”

The meal was very good, even the mead.

Jon Paul asked, “So, what do you think?”

Lydia said, “It had a sweetness that is just right and the fermentation is not over powerful.”

Pleased, Jon Paul smiled. “Thank you.”

Lydia said, “Your mama is a excellent cook. It was kind of her to send this meal for us.”

With a gleam in her eye, Isabelle said, “His mama did not make this meal. He did.”

Jon Paul gave a little nod. “Why thank you both.”

He could cook? Could he make candles?

After they cleared the table, Isabelle hung back to wash the dishes. When Lydia offered to help, she said, “Oh, no go on. You two need to get started. Besides, I am really more trouble than help.”

Lydia protested, “That is not true.”

“Perhaps, go on now. I will be there in a bit.”

In truth Lydia was more than a little anxious about being alone with Jon Paul in the work kitchen. Too clear in her memory were the groping advances of Jacob. Deep down, she knew Jon Paul was not a brute, but the fear was there. Unwanted memories began reeling through her head, vivid in emotion and disgust. Reluctantly, she followed Jon Paul into the work kitchen. Once inside he asked, “What would you like me to do first?”

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Never had Fader or Jacob ever asked her what to do first. They told her what to do first. She said, “Please start with the tallow.” The tallow was a test for him. She would not let him at their good wax until she was certain he could melt without scorching or burning. He took the block of tallow and cut off an appropriate amount. He put the melting pot on and began to slowly add the tallow. Lydia turned her attention to the dipping rack to finish cutting and tying the wicks. It was taking Isabelle quite a long while to wash the few dishes they had dirtied.

When it came time for dipping she let Jon Paul do it. She watched him carefully. He had a solid working knowledge of candle making, but she noticed as the candles formed they were quite common looking, but not crude. They would fetch a fair price. While he could turn out a serviceable candle, they lacked the artistry that Fader’s had, the artistry that he had passed down to Lydia. She wondered if her candle making was more than a skill. Was it possible it was her art? She thought of Antone’s mother’s work.Those paintings with their expressive eyes and faces had other worldly quality about them. They were more than representations of humans. They conveyed the spirit within. She thought of Aunt Rachel’s way with flora and fauna and the potions and cures she had made. It took creativity and insight to have healing power. Had Beatrice and Aunt Rachel felt about their work the way she felt about hers?

When Jon Paul completed the dipping tallow candles he put them on the tallow cooling rack. Lydia turned her attention to the wax melting pot. It was smaller than the tallow pot. Fader had taught her to never use the same vessel for wax as tallow. The tallow could corrupt the wax. When it came to wax preparation Jon Paul’s true skill manifested itself. He was better at it than she or Fader were. Lydia secured the wicks on the dipping rack while Jon Paul tended to the melting. “It is ready,” he said.

Now, for the thing that Lydia enjoyed most in all the world. She lowered the strings into the pot. Slowly, patiently, she watched the candles grow on the wicks. Their sides were smooth, the wax was growing evenly thicker. As she dipped, she felt the weight of the candles grow heavier and then the moment came when instinct told her they had reached completeness. Unaware that Jon Paul had been watching her, she placed them on the cooling rack.

In a reverent voice he said, “I have seen many a candle made in my day, but I have never seen anyone make them like you. It was a sacred act.”

For Lydia it was. It was a sacred act she would practice and perfect as long as life allowed her too. She said, “Thank you. I think that is the best compliment I have ever received.”

He smiled at her and said, “It is true. Isabelle was right, you are a force when making candles.”

Lydia surveyed her work. What she produced was excellent, but it was also telling. A worried frown creased her brow. If Fader saw these candles at the Hot Fair he would know they were hers. These candles could lead him straight to her.

Concerned by her expression, Jon Paul asked, “Is something troubling you?”

She nodded her head. “Oui, I am worried.”

“About what?”

Did she dare make a confession to him? For her own safety, she felt she must. “The candles I just made cannot be taken to the Hot Fair. I am worried that if my fader sees them he might recognize my work. As I look at the lot, I feel in my liver that he would indeed know they were mine. He would ask you where you had gotten them. If you told him, he would come for me.”

Concern grew in Jon Paul’s eyes. He asked, “To what end?”

“If he found me, he would force me to marry the boorish man I am betrothed to. He very much wants me, and any children I might bear to carry on the work in his shop.” Her voice broke as she said, “He does not believe in heaven, so he wants me to give him a legacy on earth.”

The concern in Jon Paul’s eyes changed to righteous indignation. “While I breathe that will never happen to you.”

That was quite a promise and one that Lydia believed he just might be able to make good on it.

With a tremor in his voice he continued, “I vow that I will not even speak your name before him, for I shall surely see him. Between his cocks and his candles he is a staple at the Hot Fair. He also purchases my wax. He has for years.”

Astonished, Lydia asked, “You mean I have made candles with your wax before? I do not remember any wax I used being as beautiful as the wax I have been using here.”

“Oui, you have used my wax, but I never sold your fader my finest. I reserve my finest wax for those who deserve to use the best product of my bees.”

There was a tension in the space between them. Something inside of Lydia wanted to cross that space, but before she could make a move, Isabelle entered the work kitchen followed by Ashes and Patch. Patch mewed ever so piteously to be held. Lydia stooped down and picked her up. Her tiny tongue licked, Lydia’s cheek.

Isabelle surveyed the tables and said, “The two of you have finished two batches already. I am astonished.” She yawned. “I am sorry I did not help. I just meant to rest my eyes for a moment, and the next thing I knew the sun had set and all the windows were dark.”

Lydia was not sure if Isabelle was telling the truth about falling asleep, but what did it matter. She had very much enjoyed working with Jon Paul.