Jack didn’t walk with Blythe for the following morning’s bread route, thank God, though Blythe felt a little guilty for being relieved. A little. That said, he also couldn’t help but brood over his friend’s acerbic observations.
In fact, he’d gotten so unsettled by the doubts and restlessness that had begun to fester in his belly like a heavy, rotting weight that he did what he never thought he’d ever do: seek out Mr. Ruffle for some inter-kingdom gossip. He’d encouraged the old gentleman with so much earnestness—more like sullen desperation—that the pair of them eventually settled on a couple of chairs a servant obligingly brought out. Those were set a few yards from the front door and faced east because Mr. Ruffle wanted to watch the sun rise.
“I don’t know how many more of these scenes I’ll have the pleasure of watching, my boy,” he said with a contented grin brightening his face.
“I’m sure you’ve got plenty more chances. You seem quite hale.”
“It usually depends on company. I haven’t watched the sun rise with a young person in a long, long time,” Mr. Ruffle said, his grin softening to a wistful smile. “That was with my youngest son, who’d long grown up and moved away to raise a family of his own. He’ll be a grandfather himself soon enough.”
Blythe regarded him. “I’m a poor substitute, I think,” he said with a sheepish chuckle.
“Pah! Nonsense! Every person’s worth a good deal more than he believes.”
“Even criminals?”
Mr. Ruffle nodded firmly. “Even criminals. I believe they were never told or shown their worth, and they learned to believe the worst about themselves and the rest of the world.” He paused, shrugging. “Or at the very least that’s how they begin, which makes them vulnerable to the darker influences of their fortune. Like poverty, for instance.”
“And that’s all there is to it?”
“Well, the matter’s a great deal more complicated than that, Master Blythe, but I do think that self-worth figures largely in the equation. Remember as well that a person’s worth can never be measured in gold.”
Blythe decided to simply nod despite the fact that he still needed time to turn Mr. Ruffle’s philosophy over and over in his head. Considering the godforsaken hour, he felt the need to avoid anything requiring deep thought till the next convenient time—which could be the weekend or sometime the following month or so.
“And what about our friendly neighbors, sir?” he asked. “Anything new and interesting in the continent?”
Mr. Ruffle let out a grunt of approval and slapped his knees. “Why, yes! Funny you should ask. Word’s gone out about some bad contracts made between a queen and some demon-dwarf over straw and gold.”
As the old man recounted the story, Blythe scowled upon realizing that it had something to do with riches and the shortcuts and bad decisions made in order to secure them—though, to the queen’s credit, she also needed to do what was necessary when faced with the king’s threat of death.
“It’s all luck and nothing else,” he grumbled, taking care not to let Mr. Ruffle hear him. It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. Once encouraged to chatter, the old gentleman kept on with his gossip, completely unaware of Blythe’s presence for the time being.
“Ah, and there’s this ghastly account about a false bride who was really a princess’s waiting-woman, and she’d turned the tables on her mistress, etc.” Mr. Ruffle carried on about a sordid tale involving a long-suffering goosegirl and her dead horse’s talking head.
Again, Blythe noted, the story involved wealth, luck, and in the case of that cretinous bitch of a waiting-woman, deceit. What on earth was he supposed to take away from these accounts other than the fact that they were outlandish rumors spread by dubious travelers and perhaps embellished by the wild imaginings of lonely old men?
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Ruffle, but have you anything about humble families and not kings and queens?” he asked, waiting for his companion to pause in his storytelling in order to take a few gulps of air.
“Well, there is one about a brother and sister and a witch who lured them with a pastry cottage and tried to fatten them up for her food.”
Blythe grimaced. “Lord, sounds like something Molly would do if I were to test her patience about my work.”
“I’d keep an eye on her if I were you, my boy. When she starts making plans for a pastry cottage and a large oven that can house a youngster like you, I’d run away to France unless you’ve no objections to retreating in a monastery somewhere.”
Blythe sighed, resting his chin on one hand as he watched the sun creep its way up the horizon. “Are all these horrible stories from the continent?”
“Yes. A pair of mad brothers with a flair for the romantic, I understand, are the ones either starting or spreading these rumors in their kingdom. Some folks say they come from Hesse, but who knows? They could very well be a figment of people’s imagination, given how surreal and fantastical their accounts are, and God knows where these rumors really come from. For my part, I’ll have to stick to that pair of mad brothers. It sounds much more interesting than other possibilities.” Mr. Ruffle took a deep breath of fresh, morning air, exhaled loudly with a satisfied sigh, and slapped his knees again.
Blythe turned to look at the sun again. “Makes you proud to be English, doesn’t it?”
“Indeed. We don’t have dark, sordid stories about mayhem and ghouls. We don’t need them, anyway. We have our hands full with France.”
* * * *
Because of that impromptu detour spent in Mr. Ruffle’s company, Blythe was late in selling the rest of his loaves, earning himself a good deal of scolding from irritated and hungry customers. Some even threatened to stop buying from him, but he knew better. Nobody else in town offered early morning bread sold on people’s doorsteps. It was easy and convenient, and no one would want to set off for the main square in search of bread. There was, also, the issue of taste, with Molly’s bread being a touch sweeter than what was normally sold in bakeries. People simply loved the stuff, and Blythe was sure that, for all their grumping and threats of abandonment, his customers wouldn’t dream of going through with them. If they knew what was good for them, they’d forgive him that one morning’s delay.
Yes, Molly was a genius as a baker and an amateur businesswoman, and given the opportunity, she could rise above everyone and be just as successful as Mrs. Brainswell. It was just unfortunate that Molly’s road to success was long, meandering, and unpaved.
On his way home, Blythe decided to spend a bit more idle time lounging about town, mostly to pay his respects to Mr. Barnfield and ask a few meek questions about tailoring. The kindly old man was busy attending a couple of customers, however, so Blythe was obliged to retreat after thanking him for a lovely jacket. When he stepped outside, a touch disappointed, he told himself to come back another day and engage Mr. Barnfield in an illuminating conversation about his trade. Perhaps, Blythe thought, that was where his future lay. It only made sense, seeing as how his interest had been stoked from the first moment he’d set foot inside the little dark shop, and he found that questions about particulars kept coming whenever he inspected his new jacket.
“That’s a start,” he said, his spirits rising.
Still feeling the need for some lazy time, he wandered about the main square, even venturing down side streets and narrow lanes to explore what those areas offered by way of shopping experiences. As he made his way down one of the larger streets in which shops catering to wealthy customers were situated, he spotted Mrs. Brainswell’s bakery, which was conveniently located just a couple of doors from the junction of the main square and the side street.
Even with other bakeries scattered everywhere, it was easy to find this one, for a great big sign hung above the door, the ornate letters painted in vivid colors: Brainswell’s Baked Beauties.
Blythe stood at the window for a moment, eyeing the baked goods on display. “Molly can do these, I’m sure,” he muttered, impressed.
So far his sister had only shown her skills in baking excellent bread and equally excellent but basic cakes. Perhaps it was high time for her to expand her offerings. Blythe entered the shop, flinching a little at the sudden jingling of the bell above the door and the attention he drew from customers who turned to see who’d just come in. He found it a touch difficult not only opening the door while carrying two large baskets, but also maneuvering around, deftly avoiding accidents. It didn’t take him long to realize that he needed to move slowly and look around a lot, ensuring that he didn’t touch any of the displays and risk catastrophe.
The bakery’s interior was gorgeous, to say the least. Every inch of dark wood was polished to perfection. There was nothing overdone or ostentatious in the decorative details of the interior. If anything, the bakery seemed to be devoid of those things, with Mrs. Brainswell smartly opting to let her own creations be the decorative elements. Mouth-watering and colorful confections, pastries, and cakes all seemed to clamor for his attention, and Blythe was only too happy to admire them as close as he possibly could without causing any damage.
“Pardon me, young man, but you must be in the wrong shop. Old Mr. Hodge’s bakery’s in Taggart Lane. I’m sure you’ll find what you’re looking for there,” a voice said, clear and sharp.
Blythe turned around, startled. He didn’t know if he was looking at Mrs. Brainswell as he’d never seen her before, but a thin woman stood behind the counter, eyeing him with undisguised disdain.
“Oh—I was only looking, ma’am,” he stammered.
A few customers were in the shop when he entered, and while most opted to ignore him, there were a few who stared, looking him over from head to foot before leaning close to each other and whispering. They were three young ladies about his age, all fashionably dressed.
“Yes, I know, and while I appreciate your interest, I’m afraid I can’t help you. Like I said, though, Mr. Hodge will most certainly have what you need.”
Nothing quite sank in with Blythe at the moment, and all he felt was some confusion at being told that Mrs. Brainswell’s bakery had nothing to offer him. He saw several pastries and cakes, in fact, that he found delectable and that he wished he could afford to buy.
The small group of people had stopped their whispers and sniggering and had moved on to deciding what to buy.
“Thank you,” he said, his confusion slowly wavering as something more unsavory began to tickle the edges of his mind. “You have some excellent selections.”
“Of course I do,” the woman retorted, her words clipped. “I only make the best for my customers.”
So this was the legendary Mrs. Brainswell, then? Was now a good time to mention Molly? Something told him not to.
“I quite like the sugar dolls. They almost look good enough to play with, and I’d probably do it if I were much, much younger.” Blythe had never been one for eloquence, and he stumbled a good deal finding the right words as he gave his effusive praise for the remarkable treats he’d seen.
The woman only listened, the hard look on her face turning stone-like, while the small group of young customers erupted in wild giggling, glancing over their shoulders to regard him with amazement. Blythe watched them titter and snort, his confusion returning, and with it, that awful feeling that swelled with every look shot in his direction.
“Like I said, young man, I’m afraid I don’t have anything here to suit you. Good day,” the woman finally said, her face turning red and her jaw tightening.
Blythe made his way to the door, once again taking care to keep his baskets—his old, soiled, and weathered baskets—from hitting a table or a neatly arranged delicacy. He said nothing and looked at no one when he left the bakery, and he barely even noticed the brightness of the outside when he stood in the sun. His mind seemed to have emptied itself so that nothing but a hollow darkness remained, though the past several moments continued to play themselves out in a never ending cycle of amusement, contempt, and rejection. A weight now pressed down on his chest, and he moved aimlessly forward, eventually pausing before a shoemaker’s shop.
Blythe looked at his reflection in the window’s glass. He appeared a little disheveled, his hair slightly unkempt and his old clothes rumpled and dusty. The baskets provided an absurd touch to the image, and he couldn’t quite come up with the right words for it. He glanced up and saw his eyes—large and a touch haunted, definitely edged with pain and that same confusion he first felt inside the bakery.
“Well, well, Blythe Midwinter! What a surprise!”
He gave a start and whirled around. Edrik stood before him, grinning with unabashed pleasure. Dressed as always like a young gentleman, Edrik looked in every way Blythe’s counter image. Every article of clothing fitted him perfectly, not drape over his body like a too-roomy sack. Not a speck of dirt seemed to touch his skin and neatly combed hair. Blythe gave up at the idea of observing Edrik’s shoes because he didn’t think he had the stomach for it.
The more Edrik drew himself up, squaring his shoulders, and lifted his chin, the more Blythe sagged and slouched, his head drooping and his feet shuffling lightly or toeing the ground.
“I’m on my way home,” he said, meeting Edrik’s gaze once before looking away.
“With empty baskets? Shouldn’t you be filling them up first before you go home?”
Blythe hesitated for a moment, wincing inwardly and fixing his gaze on a carriage that slowly drove past. He looked at Edrik again and then at something else, shrugging. “I sell bread loaves for a living. I’m done now and want to go home.”
“Oh—well, if you’ll give me a moment, I can escort you.”
Blythe nearly choked on his tongue. “No,” he said, almost grimacing as his gaze darted back to meet Edrik’s, this time for good. “No, I’ll be perfectly fine. Besides, I can’t stay long. I’ve got things to do, and my sister’s waiting for me.”
“But I won’t be a moment,” Edrik said. He appeared to remain oblivious to Blythe’s discomfort. Then again, Blythe silently berated himself, he must be too subtle in conveying his distress. “I only need to take my leave of someone, and I’ll be all yours.”
There was something in the way Edrik said “all yours” that made Blythe’s heart skip a beat, leaving him confused—yet again—and for entirely different reasons now. It certainly didn’t help that Edrik not only stepped closer, but also softened his grin into something else. A fond little smile or something like.
Blythe gulped, hoping Edrik didn’t hear it. “I swear I’ll be perfectly all right. You really don’t need to trouble yourself.”
The smile wavered, and a faint shadow of regret dimmed Edrik’s features. “Pity. I was looking forward to spending some time in your company.”
Blythe sighed, drooping again, turning his gaze back to the busy square as he shuffled and toed the ground, utterly torn. The very idea of Edrik Vicary clapping eyes on his family’s cottage was enough to send him into a near-apoplectic fit. Being seen walking around with those confounded baskets, disheveled and dusty, didn’t improve matters for him, given what had just transpired in Mrs. Brainswell’s bakery.
All the same, he couldn’t help but feel ashamed of his response, with Edrik being so solicitous and all…
“Oh, all right, then,” he said after another moment of going back and forth with his conscience. He looked back at Edrik and was a little aghast at seeing the other boy smile so brightly. Damn, he thought. I can’t take that back now.
“Brilliant! Wait here, while I look for my sisters and cousins. They’ve all split up, pillaging different shops and threatening me with countless hours spent in indecision. I’ll look for Edith, and she can tell the others.”
Edrik bounded off, quick and energetic as a young buck, and Blythe watched him in helpless admiration. Blythe moved off to the side to allow passersby more room while reassuring himself that it shouldn’t hurt having his life, in a manner of speaking, laid bare to a boy he barely knew but he now realized he liked a great deal.
A swarm of people momentarily blocked his view, but Blythe waited until the scene cleared to search for Edrik again.
He found him, all right—talking to Edith, whom Blythe recognized even from a distance. She was once again dressed oddly, and it was very likely that she’d been out searching for inspiration for her art. Brother and sister stood before a book shop, lost in conversation, but they weren’t alone for long.
From around a corner a small group of girls appeared, and Blythe recognized them to be the same ones in Mrs. Brainswell’s bakery. To his horror, he watched them approach Blythe and Edith, interrupting their conversation as they chattered and showed off their purchases. Edrik cut them off, laughing and talking, and turned to point in Blythe’s direction. When the girls followed his finger and saw Blythe, their eyes widened, and they all dissolved into another fit of hysterical giggling. One of them tugged at Edrik’s arm, pulling Edrik close to whisper something to him while the others continued to laugh and look at Blythe with contemptuous amusement. Edith appeared baffled by everything, her look of surprise turning to a slight frown as she listened to them.
Thank God for the midday bustle. Another wave of people blocked Blythe’s view, and he took full advantage of the protective cover they offered. Turning on his heels, he ran off, taking a longer, more roundabout route back home through the narrower and dingier alleys that he figured Edrik wasn’t familiar with. Surely there was no way Edrik would be able to follow him.