So much for clever plans. By late morning, all of Upchurch knew about the giant beanstalk. Many hurried over to the Wicket cottage to gape at it and at a hysterical Mrs. Wicket, who was reported as “possessed by lesser demons” as she ran around and around the beanstalk, alternately gathering her displaced laundry and screeching for her lazy, insane son to chop the thing down.
In the end, with a few soothing glasses of good ale, she was convinced to go forward with her day doing her usual laundry work. She finally left for work, slurring threats of a thorough thrashing to Jack should she come home and see that the beanstalk—or what she now referred to as “Satan’s monstrous pizzle”—was still standing like a vulgar reminder of manly shortcomings.
That, apparently, was one person’s account of what he’d seen when he’d gone off to gawk at the magic beanstalk. He’d left the Wicket cottage to spread his bit of news, and Blythe happened to be one of those whom he’d tattled to.
“Damn,” Blythe hissed, looking at his baskets. “I want to go there now.” The temptation was truly a huge one, but he found that he couldn’t, in good conscience, lag on his duties and deprive his family of at least an average day of bread sales. So, fighting off the urge to double back and hurry to the Wicket cottage, Blythe marched forward like the determined soldier he was and continued knocking on people’s doors.
Unfortunately for him (again!), he continued to run into folks who’d gone there and were now too eager to spread all sorts of gossip about the strange, dark magic that had taken over a poor widow’s back yard and laundry. No one had seen Jack, at least from what Blythe had heard, but it was very likely that the boy had taken cover in the cottage, what with the sudden swarm of people now moving in and out every five minutes or so in his property.
From what Blythe had heard, some men and even young boys had offered to climb up the beanstalk in response to playful, maybe even drunk, dares. Oddly enough, according to wide-eyed gossips, the miraculous beanstalk kept them from going beyond five feet off the ground.
“How can anyone get up this thing? It’s too slippery to hold on to!” some had complained.
“It kept moving. Like it was trying to shake me off.”
“I swear I saw a face in the middle of the vines and leaves. It was staring at me from the shadows. It gave me a fright, let me tell you! I’m not going anywhere near that thing. No, not for any money.”
“It’s haunted! I heard a voice coming from the tangle of vines—calling my name and laughing!”
And so on and so forth. Before long, everyone who’d gone to the Wicket cottage were convinced that the beanstalk didn’t want them near it, let alone touch it. Then again, Blythe saw, at least a third of those who’d given their accounts were also drunk, and as for the rest, well, life in Upchurch was simply so excruciatingly dull that people would say anything to validate their existence. And the farther into the day they went, the wilder the stories became.
Yes, so much for clever plans.
That morning was Blythe’s worst morning for sales, and he was still left with one full basket of unsold loaves. Most of his usual customers had ignored him after hearing about the strange beanstalk. Half of those had run out to see for themselves, and the other half shooed him away while turning to their neighbors, lost in fresh morning gossip. Annoyingly enough, Blythe also had no one to blame but himself, for he’d used the beanstalk as a desperate conversation starter when faced with reluctant customers. Once their interest had been piqued, Blythe couldn’t get them to buy a single thing because mysterious gigantic beanstalks were too delicious a subject to ignore.
Yes, life in Upchurch had gotten that miserably dull, it seemed.
Once he heard the distant clock tower signal the usual hour for him to return home, Blythe drooped. Would Molly be all right with the unsold loaves? She shouldn’t blame him, should she? Blythe did try his best to sell them all, but no thanks to Jack’s giant beanstalk, all his hard work had been undermined.
“Molly knows I’ve been working very hard since my first day doing this,” he said as he paced in an agitated circle by the stone bridge, his baskets on the ground and serving as a dark reminder of his situation as an unlucky casualty in Jack Wicket’s Remarkable Turn of Fortune. No, not even the bridge’s associations of his glorious afternoon spent in Edrik’s company eased his mind. He chewed on one fingernail after another. “She can’t send me out again to sell the rest of the loaves. I’m sure she’s clever enough to come up with a plan to get rid of them without involving me.”
After several moments of awful doubt and desperate hope, Blythe made himself stop so much useless thinking in spite of his ongoing doubts. He couldn’t afford to waste more time. Jack was waiting for him, and they both needed to go off on their first grand adventure together as the best of best friends before Mrs. Wicket came home. Gathering his baskets, he took a deep breath and jogged back home, his long and detailed excuse ready to spill out of him.
* * * *
Molly, as feared, was quite upset—a good deal more than Blythe had anticipated, in fact.
“What are we going to do with all these?” she cried, unpacking the basket. “We can’t sell these tomorrow morning! They won’t be fresh!”
Blythe stood awkwardly by the hearth. Fidgeting with the hem of his jacket, he said, “But can’t we give them away somewhere? Or turn them into something else—like pudding?”
“Why would I do that, for heaven’s sake? Do you want me to lose out on profits?”
“I thought we could afford to lose a little. Isn’t that what you’ve been telling me when you started wrapping your cakes for market day?”
Molly shook her head, the look of distress on her face quite alarming. She stared at the loaves before her, her complexion a sickly pale shade. “Yes, but we can’t afford to lose any more, Blythe. These bread loaves earn us far more than the cakes, and if we’re losing on market day, we have to make up for it the rest of the week.”
Blythe frowned as he watched her closely. “Are we losing more than you expected on market day?”
“I’m afraid so,” Molly replied, sighing deeply. “There was some resistance to the wrapper idea, and we didn’t sell as many as I wanted. Given that we’ve also sacrificed a couple of cakes for people to sample, we didn’t take home as much as I’d like, even with the expected loss.”
“I’d hate to be unsympathetic, Molly, but I wish you never listened to Mrs. Brainswell. Her methods might have worked for her, but it doesn’t mean it’ll be just as good for someone else.”
Molly raised a hand to silence him. “No more talk about her, Blythe. I don’t want to hear it.”
He narrowed his eyes at her further. There was something else she wasn’t saying, and it was obviously weighing her down. Did it have something to do with her much-admired mentor? It must have, or she wouldn’t have shut him up so abruptly. What on earth did Mrs. Brainswell tell her this time? That she was useless if she didn’t earn such-and-such in profits by such-and-such time? He wouldn’t put it past her, given what he’d seen of her character.
“Molly, what did Mrs. Stringer say to you?” he asked, suddenly remembering the kindly old woman and her harried state at the market. “She appeared really upset when I saw her.”
Molly blinked in surprise and looked at him. For a moment she remained silent but then surrendered, and she sagged, looking distressed and haggard. “I shouldn’t keep this from either you or Bertie, I suppose. Considering what you two have done for me, I owe you this much. The thing is, Blythe, Mrs. Brainswell wasn’t intending to help me at all. Mrs. Stringer had heard her talk badly about us and how gullible I am to ‘suggestions’ she’d made.” She sighed and looked at the bread. “Those suggestions weren’t made to help me. She wanted to ruin me by making me lose profits.”
“Where did Mrs. Stringer hear this?”
“At Mrs. Brainswell’s bakery, of course. Mrs. Stringer was there earlier that day, looking for something special for her husband’s birthday, and—well—apparently Mrs. Brainswell started gossiping with a friend who’d entered while Mrs. Stringer was deciding, and there it was.” Molly shook her head. “I feel incredibly stupid for thinking that someone would want to be so generous toward a complete stranger. I’ve never done anything to hurt her. She’s got her own business, and it’s not as if there’s no room for one more baker. I might not even be as successful as she is, no matter what I do, but she still…”
“She’s a damned predator, Molly. I’m sorry you had to put up with her nonsense like this, but I’m glad you found out about it soon enough.”
“I know, dearest. I know. I still can’t help but feel so stupid and dirty for being so gullible.”
No, it wasn’t Molly’s fault, but Blythe knew better than to push the subject, so he kept quiet even if his mind continued to whirl, and a new resolution started to form.
Molly sat down by the table and folded her arms on it, resting her chin with an air of dejection that was uncharacteristic for her. Blythe found that he couldn’t—dare not—move from where he stood, the intense discomfort keeping him from doing something despite the urge to ease himself with even a simple walk around the cottage. Guilt had also cemented his feet in place, and the fact that he didn’t know what to tell his sister to make things better for her only added to his frozen, useless state. He squirmed, glumly regarding the bread loaves, his mind also tearing itself as it wandered back to his promise to Jack.
If he went with his friend and returned with treasure, all this nonsense about being mentored by a despicably snobby baker wouldn’t even be a concern. Molly wouldn’t need to have thirteen loaves sold every day. She’d buy her own bakery and dazzle everyone with her skills, hopefully putting Mrs. Brainswell to shame with her recipes. Even Bertie wouldn’t need to pursue woodwork if he wished; he could settle down—if he’d actually found a girl, but that was unlikely—and live comfortably enough to ensure that his wife and children would never want for anything.
He could still ask her to give him the afternoon off. He wanted to surprise her with the solution to her livelihood problems, and things would be fine with them. He cleared his throat and said, “Molly, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d like to have the afternoon off, please.”
Molly sat up and shook her head. “Dearest, I wish I could give you the time off, but we simply can’t afford it.” She stood up and started gathering the loaves and filling up the basket again, making Blythe’s jaw hang low. “No, you can have tomorrow afternoon off, but for today, I need you to go back out there and sell these.”
“But—it’s too late for anyone to buy these loaves, isn’t it? These are meant to be sold in the morning like you’ve always said.”
“I know what I’ve said, and considering how many are left, I think we should take advantage of every chance we’ve got to sell bread. Just take the basket and try again, and don’t come back until you only have one or two loaves left. We can waste that much if we have to.”
Blythe tugged at his jacket again as he furiously tried to come up with a way out of this. “But there’s nowhere else for me to go, Molly. I’ve already been through the main town.”
“Not the north side, though. That’s never been in our plans, but I’m afraid we’ll have to use it as a last resort. Blythe, don’t look at me like that. Just do it. No more arguing. I’ve got so many things to do still.”
Numbly, Blythe picked up the basket again and walked toward the door, his steps heavy and dragging, delaying as much as he could. He couldn’t find a way out of this mad scheme of his sister; if he were to set the basket aside, ignore her orders, and follow Jack to unknown places, what guarantee did he have that he’d return with enough gold to buy themselves out of their current difficulties? He couldn’t even guarantee that to himself! And if he returned home with the basket still full, what story would he give? The truth, he supposed, but that would also mean a great deal of grief, considering the way Molly regarded their loss of profits as more catastrophic than expected.
“Ugh,” he whispered, scrunching his face and forcing himself to refrain from hitting the side of his head with the heel of his free hand. “I can’t think of anything! This is so stupid!”
If there was one thing Blythe Midwinter was terrible at, it would be clear-headedness during moments of emergency. When he paused at the door, glancing back to find Molly watching him with her brows raised high, her expression both questioning and challenging, he gave up. He sighed, waved goodbye, and slipped through the door.
“So stupid,” he grumbled, this time hitting the side of his head with the heel of his free hand.
* * * *
“Oh, isn’t this quaint? A little ragged boy at our doorstep! And he’s selling bread! Doubly quaint!”
Blythe pursed his lips as he suffered through ten million different variations of that startled yet delighted exclamation from servants of households from the north side of Upchurch—the wealthy side of Upchurch. If he wondered why on earth Molly never included this part of town in her daily bread route, he knew why now. Why couldn’t these servants say yes or no and be done with it? He wasn’t looking for conversation, let alone deep, abiding friendship. All he wanted was to make up for his earlier difficulties in the shortest amount of time as possible and then run off to join his friend, who was quite likely chewing a hole through the cottage walls as his patience wore out, waiting for Blythe.
Staring dully at the servant who’d even let out a girlish squeal upon opening the door and seeing him there in all his dusty glory, he asked, “Would you be interested in buying some homemade bread, Miss? It’s fresh, and it’s uh—round shaped, which I think is more interesting to look at than the typical rectangular shaped loaf.” He paused as he wracked his brain for more nonsense to use. Then he snapped his fingers. “Oh! The oven used for baking this was made during Charles I’s reign!”
The girl just listened to him, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet in utter delight. When he’d done, she held up an emphatic hand.
“Wait here while I tell my mistress. I’m sure she’d love to buy one or two from you.”
She turned and vanished in the great house’s shadows. Blythe sighed as he waited, glancing around him, his impatience growing every time his gaze caught the beanstalk in the distance. No matter where he was in Upchurch, he could see the infernal thing, shooting up and disappearing into the strange low-hanging gray cloud as though mocking him.
After what felt like an eternity, the servant reappeared, money in hand, and the wicker basket gave up two loaves, much to Blythe’s delight and relief.
“Oh, do come back,” the girl trilled as she held the bread as though they were gold. “We never, ever have poor people come around, which makes it so dull hereabouts.” She paused, mulling over something. “Just make sure to be your sweet little self, or you’ll be threatened with the dog.”
The door slammed shut, and Blythe turned around, now dreading the next doorstep he needed to blacken with his presence. “Oh, lord,” he muttered as he forced his feet to move, a grimly determined soldier on his way to the battlefield with no hope of coming back alive.
“Oh, my goodness, what do we have here? A darling little chimney-sweep? No, you don’t have a broom, and you look cleaner. Alice, come quick! There a sweet creature at the door, trying to sell us something! Hurry!”
* * * *
One of the houses he visited—if one were to call it that—turned out to be a surprise of the unpleasant variety. It was really too bad he only had one loaf left to sell, and this had to be the next house he needed to get to.
“My mistress doesn’t need your bread, thank you. She’s more than capable of making her own.” The servant paused, her eyes moving up and down Blythe’s person. “And she earns plenty enough through her bakery. I’m sure you’ve heard of Brainswell’s Baked Beauties.”
“I have, yes.”
“Then you understand what I mean.”
Blythe smirked. “Oh, surely your mistress hasn’t forgotten about her past. You know, where she came from and how much she struggled before getting this successful.”
The servant looked genuinely shocked. “Mrs. Brainswell? What gave you that idea? She’s always had money, for heaven’s sake. She married well and was given the bakery because she had so much time on her hands and needed something to do. Poor, you say?” She burst out laughing. “Oh, dear, the things that gossips would say about her.”
Blythe carefully catalogued that in his mind. “I’m sure her competition’s falling away one by one if she’s so good.”
“Yes, I’d like to think so. You don’t stay on top without being ruthless toward your rivals.”
“Like deliberately tell them to do things that’ll ensure their failure, I suppose?”
The servant shrugged. Blythe had suspected as much. “It’s a hard world, dearie. If you want to be ahead, you’ll do everything to make sure that everyone else falls behind. Now go along. I’ve got plenty of work to do.”
The door slammed in his face, and Blythe regarded it icily. “And so do I, Miss.”
* * * *
Blythe ran toward the Wicket cottage, his basket emptied of its contents, finally, and swinging wildly. He had no idea what time it was, but he was mortified at being so late in joining his friend. Mrs. Wicket would still be away, but now, they didn’t have much time to do what they wanted to do. Heaven knew how long it’d take them to climb that confounded beanstalk, which meant that they’d probably only have no more than an hour left to explore the clouds. That is, if they were lucky. Things could still happen along the way as they clambered up that monstrous plant, delaying them further.
“Maybe he’ll agree to waiting till the next day,” Blythe panted as he stumbled up the dirt path, finally, toward the cottage door.
A handful of gawkers stood by the beanstalk, talking among themselves and pointing at the clouds. Blythe ignored them as he walked up to the door, where he suddenly noticed a piece of torn paper nailed to the wood.
Surprised, he stared at it and realized it was a note.
Couldn’t wait and had two goe. Will tell you all about it two morrow. Jack.
Blythe tore the note off the nail as he reread it, blood boiling. “Oh, you scum-bastard!”