Chapter Three

At exactly nine-thirty, the front door opened and seventeen schoolchildren filed into the kitchen, followed by an excited Bardoff. Bev had seen the kids around town and knew some of them by their parents, but the schoolteacher asked each kid to introduce themselves. With only one teacher in town, they ranged in ages from tiny Tallulah Punter, who had recently turned six, to Vicky's brother Grant Hamblin, who was nearly fourteen.

"And this is Bev," Bardoff said after the group was finished. "Just Bev, right?"

"Just Bev," she replied with a nod. She didn't want to explain it was short for "Beverage Wench" because that was the job Wim McKee had given her when she'd showed up in town.

"Indeed." Bardoff took a seat. "Well, Bev. You have the floor!"

At once, seventeen pairs of young eyes faced her.

"So…" She cleared her throat. "What have you guys learned about baking so far?"

There was a chorus of mumbling Bardoff was kind enough to translate. "They know the basics. Add heat to cook things, but not the why. Thought I'd give you the honors."

"Well," Bev coughed nervously, "to be honest, I'm not sure why either."

Bardoff sprung upright, a movement he seemed quite practiced at, and addressed the students. "Students, we cook things to change their composition, right? Nobody wants to eat raw dough. Different levels of heat provide different results. Turn it too high for too long, and you end up with ash. Too low and too short, it'll be undercooked. There's an artistry to getting the temperature just right, isn't there, Bev?"

Bev had to agree. Wim had taught her the precise temperature at which to bake bread by feel alone. "And it depends on the weather, too."

"The weather?" Bardoff's smile grew as if he knew the answer to the question he was asking. "How so?"

"Well, take the rosemary bread, for example," Bev said. "If it's dreary outside, I need to add more flour or more firewood. If it's cold, too, same thing. You just sort of have to…well, know what you're doing to remember it all."

"Fascinating," Bardoff said. "So you make bread every day?"

"Mostly, though I tend to slack off in the late summer months when it gets quite hot," Bev said.

"And how do you make your famous bread?" Bardoff asked. When Bev hedged, he added, "No need to divulge any secrets, of course. Just the basics."

"I start with a bit of flour, my starter, some salt, and rosemary from my garden," Bev said. "Water, too. Some barm from the beer I brew."

"And what is starter?" Bardoff asked.

"Usually, it's a bit of bread from the day before," she said. "Helps get things going. You mix all that together, knead it for a bit, then let it proof for a few hours—depends on the weather and temperature, of course—then you'll want to shape it and get it into loaf pans for another rise. Then, about an hour or two before dinner, I'll stick it in the oven to bake. Let it cool for another hour, then it's time to cut into it." She held up one finger. "If there's one thing Wim McKee was clear about, you never cut into bread until it's completely cooled. You want it to finish cooking out of the oven. Can't do that if you let all the steam escape."

She paused, gauging the interest from the children. Grant Hamblin was whispering with two others—Valta Climber, the younger sister of the blacksmith's apprentice Gilda, and PJ Norris, the son of two farriers.

"Bev, would it be all right if the children helped you bake bread for this evening?" Bardoff asked.

"Well, I've already got this evening's batch proofing," Bev said, gesturing to her proofing baskets near the fire. "But maybe we could use a little bit of the starter and barm and make some more?"

Bev didn't have enough starter to give each kid their own ball of dough, so they had to split into groups of three or four. She meted out flour, water, starter, and salt (leaving out the rosemary), and instructed the kids to blend it then how to knead the bread.

Unfortunately, there wasn't much to instruct—as much as Bardoff kept asking "how much" or "what temperature," Bev was woefully lacking in her specifics. When it came to her famous rosemary bread, the dough came together by touch rather than by any measurement.

"See, it depends," Bev said a little tersely, when Bardoff prompted her again. "Ol' Wim McKee used to come by and touch the dough when I'd make it until I knew exactly how it was supposed to feel."

She walked over to Valta and touched the dough she was working on with Grant and PJ. "More water. See how it's a little too tacky?"

The girl glanced at her two friends, shrugging.

"It feels sticky to me?" PJ said, poking his hand in the dough.

Bev added a little more water and instructed Valta to knead it again. "See the difference?"

"No."

"Well…" Bev put her hand on her hip. "Well, there's a difference."

"If you say so."

Bardoff wasn't deterred. "Why do you think we have to knead the bread, children?"

A few shrugs, a couple of bored sighs, and one small giggle came from the group.

"Bev, what happens if you don't knead the bread enough?" Bardoff asked.

"Uh… Well, to tell you the truth, I never deviated from what Wim told me, so I'm—"

Bardoff sighed. "The bread doesn't rise correctly! You'll get a flat bread that tastes all right, but isn't quite what you want. Bev, how long do you usually knead your bread?"

Bev did actually know that answer. "Ten minutes, give or take. It's really more based on feel than time."

"And what do you do after you finish kneading it?" Bardoff asked.

"Put it in a warm spot to proof," Bev said. "That takes a few hours, depending on the temperature—and no, Bardoff, I don't know what temperature it is. You just kind of know what's too warm and too cold after you do it for a few years."

"Perhaps we could try an experiment," Bardoff said. "Could we put our bread in the oven now and see what happens?"

Bev rubbed the back of her neck. "I'm not sure that's a good idea," she said. "I don't want to mess with the oven. I'm using it to proof tonight's bread, and you don't want to see Etheldra if there isn't any rosemary bread."

"Well, perhaps the children can take their dough home and try it there," Bardoff said with a thin smile. "Children, why don't you get back to kneading your dough, and we can talk about how the texture changes. Bev, you can…um…tend to the night's bread."

There wasn't much to tend to yet, but she did show the children what it looked like mid-proof and the difference between that and the dough they were working on. They seemed about as interested as PJ, Valta, and Grant, who weren't as much kneading their dough as smearing it into the table (That'll be fun to clean up, Bev thought with a grimace). The only one who looked to be having fun was tiny Tallulah, who was squealing in delight as she squeezed the dough between her fingers.

Bev crossed the room to speak with Bardoff, who seemed oblivious to the discontent in his ranks. "Bardoff," she said in a low voice. "I'm not quite sure they're getting much out of this…er…lesson."

"Nonsense," he said with a satisfied smile. "They're learning about bread."

Bev glanced at where Valta and PJ were throwing pieces of dough at each other. "Are they, though?"

"It might not seem like it," he said. "But hands-on experience is so important."

Grant had joined in, tossing little pellets of dough at his two friends.

"Did you learn that at Queen's Capital?" Bev asked. "All about baking and rise and dough formation?"

"Oh, yes. We had all manner of classes at the university," he said. "Lots of instruction on how to teach, but also learning ourselves. Several sessions on the sciences—the queen is very interested in science and engineering."

Just not magic, Bev thought idly.

"We also studied math and history." He paused. "Well, some history. The war's effects hit the scholars like everyone else."

Bev didn't know enough to ask what he meant by that. "It sounds like you really enjoyed your time there."

He nodded. "It really was a transformative experience for a farm kid like me. I'd love it if even one of my students gets to see the world outside their farms."

"Well, Valta's sister's a blacksmith's apprentice," Bev said, pointing at the girl who was laughing as she tried to smear dough over her friend's face. "That's a bit off the farm, isn't it?"

"Bev, you need to think bigger! Surely, you know…" He paused, perhaps remembering Bev had no memory of the world outside Pigsend. "Well, maybe you don't know, but there's so much to explore and see and do. These kids need to understand they can be anything they want to be."

"And what if what they want to be is a simple farmer?"

Bardoff sighed, and some of his optimistic facade fell away. "Most of them will be, to be honest. It's a miracle if I can get them to come to class—most of them disappear in the spring when the planting starts and again in the fall during the harvest. The winter months are the only time I can get their undivided attention. So I try to expose them to as many options as possible under the guise of learning and hope maybe one of them is inspired, as I was."

"I'm afraid I'm not doing much inspiring," Bev said. "Most of them could learn to bake at their parents' houses. And 'innkeeper' isn't a job that's in high demand."

"Well, perhaps learning about some of the science will inspire them to—" Bardoff's face changed. "Knock it off."

She turned. Valta, PJ, and Grant's dough pellet throwing had turned into tossing large wads at each other—and getting flour involved, too. But Bardoff's admonition was ignored by the trio, and the other kids joined in.

"Stop!" Bardoff called, running to the center. "Stop it this instant!"

Bev watched helplessly as the kitchen disappeared in a plume of flour, punctuated by the sound of children's laughter. Biscuit, aroused from his slumber by the excitement, began barking and running around, gathering white dust on his golden fur.

"Stop! Children, stop! You're not being very good guests!" Bardoff was rushing around in the chaos, but he didn't seem to be doing much to stop the frenzied throwing of flour.

Finally, Bev put her fingers to her mouth and whistled loudly. Immediately, the laughter stopped, though the flour took longer to settle. When it did, a light sheen of dust covered every inch of the kitchen, from the herb tins on the top shelf to the stone floor.

"Children," Bardoff said through gritted teeth. Bev had never seen the schoolmaster look so angry. He seemed unable to form words as he pointed to the wall by the door. The children followed his unspoken command and queued up single-file against the wall, their heads hanging in shame. Bardoff walked along the line and plucked the three instigators from it, marching them to stand in front of Bev.

"Apologize," he said, his grip firm on Valta and PJ's shoulders, Grant squeezed in between them. "Now."

"Sorry, Bev," the trio muttered.

"It's gonna take me a bit to clean this up," Bev said. "Probably could use some help."

"Good idea," Bardoff said, walking to face the three with murder on his face. "You will clean this kitchen until Bev says it's okay to leave. I don't care if it takes all day and night."

"But—" PJ began, earning a silencing glare from Bardoff.

"You know," Bev said, after a long pause, "I find the best lessons come from the natural consequences of our actions. So, perhaps it was a good idea for the kids to be here today." She gave Bardoff a kind smile. "I'll see you at dinner tonight?"

~

Bev wasn't sure how much she'd have to keep on the kids, but she was actually impressed with their work ethic. All three set to scrubbing every inch of the kitchen, leaving no pot or shelf untouched. To their credit, they kept their heads down and didn't speak a word to each other, or to Bev. Even Biscuit seemed to keep his distance, watching them work with his curious golden eyes.

When the clock struck five, Bev decided to let them off the hook. There were still a few spots of flour, but nothing she couldn't tackle during the deep clean she still had to do.

"That's fine for this evening," Bev said, turning to them with her hands on her hips. "Hope you three learned your lesson about wasting good flour."

Grant elbowed his compatriots. "Um… We're really sorry we made a mess in here, Bev."

Valta nodded. "Sorry, Bev."

"Sorry," PJ mumbled after Valta elbowed him.

Bev nodded to the basket of warm rosemary bread she'd just pulled from the oven. "Now get on home. And no more cutting up during Bardoff's lessons, do you understand?"

They snatched a slice each and tumbled through the kitchen door. Bev watched them with a little smile on her face. Kids would be kids, after all.

Bev spent the next hour finalizing dinner while the rest of the rosemary bread cooled. Etheldra would be pleased with the beef roast and carrots, and there would be plenty for even the hearty appetites of the grannies, who'd already come down and were waiting patiently in the dining room.

At five past six, Bardoff, Etheldra, and Earl arrived, and Etheldra let out a harrumph of appreciation when she scented the night's meal. Bardoff split from them and walked over to Bev, weariness on his face.

"I hope that Grant, PJ, and Valta did a good job," he said.

Bev nodded. "They did. They're good kids. Just got a bit too excited."

"I agree. They're my three brightest students. I'd hate for them to go down the wrong path."

"Go eat and take a load off," Bev said with a nod. "All's well that ends well."

He nodded gratefully and plated his food. As soon as he was gone, the grannies swarmed and filled their plates with the rest of the food. Bev couldn't believe the quantities they packed in—especially as she'd asked Ida to send over more than the usual amount. But they'd paid another two gold coins for their rooms, so she really couldn't—

A loud rumbling filled the room, turning every head.

"What in the…?" Earl said, looking up.

Bev braced herself for the ground to start shaking, but even when it didn't, she didn't feel any better.

"Do you think it's another sinkhole?" Bardoff asked.

"It was definitely something," Etheldra said, casting her suspicious gaze at the three grannies.

"Certainly loud enough." None of the grannies looked pleased. "Perhaps we should go check on it."

All seven of those in the inn walked outside. Bev expected to see a gaping hole in front of the inn—but there wasn't. A gust of wind blew by, bringing with it the scent of burning timber. A red tint edged the sky, and the group turned north at the sound of shrieking. Bev's heart went out to Earl as the old carpenter led the group, his face growing more and more concerned as they drew closer to his part of town, his street, his house…

His workshop was up in flames.