“Blythe, do stop being so difficult. Get up. It’s late.”
From behind the blanket divider that, miraculously, remained up, a prolonged, languid, wheezing fart sounded. Like a mournful trumpet blast from a Herald of Hell, Blythe thought, his mood dipping all the more. He still didn’t know what Bertie consumed that would turn him into his brother’s murderer. As far as he saw, they all ate the same thing throughout the day, with Molly making sure that Bertie packed some food to take to work in order to avoid unnecessary expense.
Perhaps Blythe could somehow convince Mrs. Pugsley to part with one of her potions if she had a formula meant to cure Bertie’s flatulent ills. If not, surely she could be persuaded by the tearful pleas of an innocent fifteen-year-old whose lungs were well on their way to shriveling up into blackened lumps.
What did lungs look like again? Like slimy sacks or something like that.
Blythe wondered if he accurately remembered what he’d learned from an impromptu anatomy lesson given by a traveling surgeon who loathed children and terrorized them with horror stories about cut-up cadavers and what he found inside. Blythe was only around seven when he met the ghoulish fellow, but he could still remember the moment vividly and the gruesome details that made his mouth hang open but failed to make him run away. In fact, he’d actually shadowed the snarling grump for about half a mile outside Upchurch before his mother realized he’d wandered off and had sounded the alarm. Had it been raised too late, Blythe was now sure that he’d have ended up being one more lifeless body on the surgeon’s slab, his entrails and severed appendages scattered all over a remote countryside.
“Blythe Midwinter, I’m not joking.” Molly did sound a bit peevish. “Get yourself up and out of bed this instant, or I’ll throw you out into the cold without breakfast.”
Blythe snorted. Of course his sister would never do that. While it was true she’d threatened him with it countless times in the past, she was too soft-hearted to follow through on her threats. That said, her nagging skills were another matter altogether, and it was to Blythe’s advantage that he’d get up now before being driven mad.
“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” he snarled, throwing the blankets off him and sitting up.
Molly stood at the foot of his bed, scowling. “What on earth’s gotten into you?” she demanded. “You’ve been moody and withdrawn the past few days, and it’s getting almost impossible putting up with your sulking. Now I know how life can be a festering boil on your bottom when you’re fifteen, but this is ridiculous. What happened? Did someone bully you or something?”
Blythe winced. Molly was treading dangerous waters, and he didn’t know how to respond.
“It’s nothing,” he said. His motivation had taken a severe hit, as if they needed any more trouncing. He barely had the mental strength to do more than make himself crawl off the bed and land face first on the cold, stone floor while Molly watched with a look of morbid fascination. “I haven’t been feeling as energetic as I used to,” he added, now using his bed for a prop to drag himself to his feet. “I think I’m dangerously close to being sick.”
Did that sound convincing? Blythe hated lying to anyone, especially his family, but he didn’t want to admit to feeling shame for his poverty. For being terrified of having Edrik Vicary see how much his family struggled day to day, while he and his cousins could sail into shops meant for wealthy, discerning clients. For realizing that Jack Wicket’s hopes for good luck were now his own because he was simply too embarrassed by that accident of birth that had stuck him in such a hopeless situation.
Molly worked terribly hard to ensure that her two younger brothers were properly fed and clothed. While food remained meager and clothing was more of a luxury they could rarely afford, she’d still managed to ensure that they never went without a meal or decent castoffs on their backs.
As for Bertie—the genial giant did his part in helping them pay their bills and maintain the cottage’s integrity, inside and out. He’d never complained, though there’d always been that possibility of his marrying and settling down that had shadowed future prospects for Blythe and Molly, who’d have to find another home—or more likely rent a room somewhere. If that were to happen, Molly’s beloved oven and all her dreams of succeeding in the baking business would surely go up in smoke. Blythe hated thinking about that possibility, but there it was.
He’d been thinking about Jack’s rants. Where was the fairness in all this? How would Edrik’s cousins compare to Molly and Bertie by way of character? From what Blythe had seen, the disparity was quite glaring with the disadvantage—also glaringly unfair—being on the side of his sister and brother.
Blythe was ashamed of their poverty, but he was also more ashamed of feeling that way. He refused to talk to anyone about it, and for the last two days, he’d been tiptoeing through town, alert and on guard, ready to shrink and vanish into the shadows should he catch sight of Edrik anywhere. And perhaps the worst part of all this was the fact that what self-consciousness he felt before had tripled, and he went about his morning bread route painfully aware of doing work that yielded little results.
He followed Molly to the dining table, where his breakfast awaited him. Even the welcome, cheerful light and warmth of the hearth failed to invigorate him. In fact, catching sight of the blazing fire only reminded him of yet another sad fact: that the only reason why they could easily splurge on firewood was because of the fact that the man who provided them with ample stock was madly in love with Molly even if she continued to refuse offers of marriage from her admirers.
“How long have you been feeling like this?” she asked as Blythe sat at the table and poured himself some coffee.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. It just crept up on me all gradual-like. I can’t really say.” That much was true enough, at least with regard to the progression of his mental state.
“Tsk. Why didn’t you say something before?”
“I didn’t think it was going to get this bad. Besides, I didn’t want to worry you.” So many lies kept pouring out of him that Blythe was amazed he hadn’t swallowed his tongue yet.
Molly walked up to him and pressed a hand against his forehead. “I don’t feel anything, but that doesn’t mean you’re well.” She paused, narrowing her eyes as she looked at him more closely. “You do look tired and haggard.”
“I don’t feel well,” he muttered, but it was in reference to his conscience and the thrashing it was going through every time he opened his mouth to talk.
“Well, then, it’s best to prevent a catastrophe from happening.”
“It’s a little too late now,” Blythe murmured, sagging at the table.
“While you’re out, I’ll go to Mrs. Pugsley and have her mix a potion for you.” Molly kissed the top of Blythe’s rumpled head and walked off to continue packing the baskets.
Blythe sighed, making a face at his coffee. With any luck, Mrs. Pugsley would put together a potion that induced forgetfulness. God only knew, there was much to be said about ignorance and bliss, and if Blythe could go about his days as thoughtless and as ignorant of the world as a newborn babe, he’d be deliriously happy.
Molly went on and on about variations of potions that she believed would benefit her brother. From the farthest corner of the cottage, another languid trumpet call ripped through the air. Blythe couldn’t help but eye Molly’s flour-dusted rolling pin sitting on the table. Surely, he thought, that thing would work wonders as something to shove up Bertie’s offending arse.
* * * *
The dreary week finally ended, those days spent in bleak self-awareness climaxing with what threatened to be an equally dreary Saturday. Blythe had spent Friday helping Molly bake and wrap the cakes, flabbergasted by the fact that she’d decided to “improve” on her decorative wrapping with something a bit more costly.
She’d moved from simple “cake paper” as it was called to one that was patterned, the ribbon holding everything together also enjoying a bit of an upgrade to one that looked and felt like silk.
“Are you sure you don’t want to bring the price up?” he asked Molly as he stared in disbelief at the growing collection of prettily wrapped cakes.
“Blythe, this is an investment. Yes, our profit will go down compared to last time, but that’s only natural.” Molly, covered with flour and sugar from head to toe, went about her work diligently and with careful, methodical precision. Blythe sat across the table from her, doing his utmost to wrap cakes as well as she did. “If you’d like to know, Mrs. Brainswell said that was how things were with her when she first started her business. In fact, she was in a great deal of debt for three or four years before her profits finally caught up and surpassed her expenses.”
He stared at her, jaw hanging. “Three or four years?” he echoed. “How on earth can we afford to do the same for even a year?”
“Oh, stop being such a pessimist. Business requires a great deal of tactical skill and risk, Mrs. Brainswell said, and judging from the looks of things where her business is concerned, I say I’m quite up to the task. If you want to get ahead in this world, you need to take chances and not be afraid of failure.” Molly paused to get up and check on that evening’s meal (soup!), which was boiling in the hearth. “As for what we can do to offset lean times, we’ve got our bread sales and Bertie’s woodwork.”
Blythe tied a ribbon around a cake he’d just wrapped. “I suppose you’re very lucky to have a guide like Mrs. Brainswell.”
“Oh, absolutely. I’m still quite shocked that she’s taking the time to advise me like this. She could easily have ignored me as an amateur competitor of hers but she didn’t. I’m so humbled and honored.”
“I never see her at the market. What does she look like?” Blythe cautiously glanced up, but Molly’s back still faced him as she fussed over the soup.
“Mrs. Brainswell? She’s quite tall and thin—very stately, in fact, the way she carries herself, and I think that’s nicely reflective of her strength and determination to succeed. She told me that she started with nothing, you know—quite poor, no better than us—and look where she is now. If I only had half her virtues…”
Molly’s words faded into an embarrassed chuckle. Blythe had never told her his adventures in Mrs. Brainswell’s bakery, and he was convinced that he shouldn’t compromise Molly’s good standing in the woman’s eyes by making his sister turn against her mentor. Blythe might have been treated badly, but he understood how valuable Mrs. Brainswell’s success was to Molly, and he resigned himself to holding his tongue while the two women’s professional friendship flourished.
“Did you go have lunch with her like you said? Have you been inside her bakery yet?”
“No, I haven’t. I’m still waiting for her to make good her promise. But you know, love, she’s a very busy woman. I really shouldn’t impose.”
* * * *
Market day turned out to be as busy as the last one, but there was a palpable difference. Blythe saw that, while customers found the new wrapping to be quite pretty, not everyone who’d purchased from them in the past didn’t question what was inside. A few returning customers frowned and demanded a confirmation from Molly that the cakes inside were the same as what she’d sold before.
“How do we know that you’re not cheating us by hiding it behind colorful wrapping?”
“I need to open one up and make sure.”
“It was far easier for me to determine the quality of your cakes when you didn’t have them wrapped.”
“Is all this really necessary? Wait—is the cake smaller this time around? It looks to be that way.”
New customers were also intrigued by the packaging but in the end asked for the same guarantee, and Molly was obliged to sacrifice a couple of cakes. She unwrapped one first and cut it up into slices for people to sample since they couldn’t see the cakes’ quality now that they were safely hidden away. A second cake had to be unwrapped and used as a sample when the first one was completely eaten up by customers. Blythe noticed that only half of those who needed convincing bought something from their table, the newest customers looking disappointed on their sampling of cake slices.
He wasn’t sure if he’d heard correctly, given the noise around them, but he thought a couple who’d sampled a slice walked away without purchasing a cake, saying, “The cake doesn’t do justice to the wrapping. What a pity.”
Molly, however, remained unfazed as if she didn’t hear anyone’s complaints. She continued to smile and cajole and praise her creations to the heavens, and she also had their winning appearances to fall back to—on a subtler level, that is. Blythe was obliged to wear his new jacket, and Molly had taken care to cut his and Bertie’s hair the day before despite their protests. While Blythe was previously admired as a “young gentleman,” he now withered under praise of him looking like a “gentleboy” (or was it “gentlechild”?). And he did look like a child with his previously shaggy mop trimmed short and neat, though Molly had insisted his haircut now highlighted his eyes.
His only consolation was the fact that at least he wasn’t as big and broad as Bertie, which made looking like a gentlechild a little less awkward. Poor Bertie, for his part, couldn’t be described with much precision beyond looking like a “hulking, robust, and sunburnt ten-year-old.” For better or for worse, that only seemed to stoke girls’ protective instincts, and they fawned all over the flustered young man.
Edrik hadn’t appeared—yet. Blythe was anxious about the possibility of the other boy showing up because he was at a loss as to how to converse with him, now that Edrik’s cousins had recounted Blythe’s humiliating experience in Mrs. Brainswell’s bakery. He wondered if they stretched the truth for titillation’s sake; he wouldn’t put it past them, judging from their behavior in and out of the bakery.
At the same time, though, a quieter and calmer voice argued, “He’s already seen you working at the market, and your position didn’t change the fact that he enjoys your company and is keen on developing your friendship. What kind of a scurvy rat are you, thinking the worst of him when he’s shown you nothing but good?”
Blythe sighed as he brought more cakes to the able to fill in the gaps, which weren’t many. The self-consciousness was still there, and he wasn’t sure if it was going to go away anytime soon. His experiences at the bakery affected him in a way that nothing else beside his parents’ deaths had. And he didn’t know what it would take for him to get over the shame that now bore down on him.
“Midwinter! Hey!”
Blythe gave a start and looked up, blinking away the haze of self-indulgent brooding. There were no customers at their table for the moment, and Molly was resting and chatting with Mrs. Pugsley, while Bertie had sauntered off to the cart to get something to eat.
Not too far away stood Jack—with a cow. Jack waved at him and then beckoned him over.
“Blimey,” Blythe muttered as he waved back. He went up to Molly to beg some rest time, and Molly allowed it but not without giving Jack and his cow a puzzled but dubious look.
“I hope to God your friend didn’t steal that poor animal,” she said.
“No, he means to sell her.”
Molly fell silent and stared at Blythe, looking at a loss. “Jack Wicket’s doing something productive?”
“I know. I’m just as much in shock as you are.”
He walked around the table and picked his way past other folks to reach Jack’s side. “So this is the day, eh?” Blythe stroked Sarah’s neck.
“Yes. As to how Mama expects me to do this without a damned stall or pen with other livestock, I don’t know.” Jack stooped down to pick up a sizable rectangular board and gave it to Blythe. “All I could think of was to make a sign and find a spot somewhere.”
Blythe looked down at the sign he held. In bright red paint—symbolic of Jack’s spiritual agony, he was sure—the words “cow fur sell” were scrawled in forceful, tragic strokes.
“Jack, I don’t know if they’ll let you stand around with poor Sarah.”
“Then they’ll have to take it up with Mama,” Jack retorted, rolling his eyes as Blythe gave him back his sign. Giving the rope he held a gentle tug, he said, “Come along, my darling. Let’s get this over with.”
Sarah obligingly followed, tail swishing, leaving a trail of great, steaming piles behind her. And judging from the sudden cries of disgust and dismay that rose around him, Blythe guessed that Sarah had slyly shat along the main foot path leading up to Molly’s table.