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Was he trying to end her misery?
Or was he the reason for it . . .
I nibbled at my bottom lip, waiting for my gut to kick in, but no answer came. Perhaps it was best I forgot the stranger. Ezra had warned me about chasing ghosts more times than I cared to count.
Sighing, I glanced at my wicker basket before I stepped into the bakery, the bell hanging above the door announcing my arrival. The aroma of rising dough and a blast of heat occupied my senses as I took in the variety of freshly baked breads, buns, and desserts stockpiled on slanted shelves.
Behind the counter, Joseph, the owner of the shop, turned to greet me—a kind smile beneath his wiry, gray moustache. He brushed his hands on his apron, causing a waft of flour to dust the air. For someone who owned a bakery, Joe was slim and toned—not bad for a man in his early seventies. He walked towards the counter, a slight limp in his gait. “Good morning, dear. I was hoping you would stop by soon,” he said, that signature twinkle in his eye, even as he palmed his aching hip.
“Mornin’, Joe. Sorry about the wait on this one. Ezra finally got around to making it this morning.” My fingers plucked a small, clear vial from my basket—an off-white, oily substance roiling inside. I hoped Joe didn’t open it until he was at home because this batch smelled extra fishy. I set it on the counter for him to take.
“Oh, that’s quite alright. I know she can be a busy girl,” Joe said kindly as he took the vial and held it carefully, as if it were gold. I smiled at thegirlbit. Joe and Ezra had been friends since their youth, and somehow, despite the years, that’s still how he saw her—a young, wild girl. In their younger years, he had proposed to her on three separate occasions, and even though she’d turned him down, their friendship remained intact. Joe would have made a great addition to our odd little family.
I often wondered why Ezra never said yes. Then again, as someone who had no plans to get married—ever—I could not blame her. Whenever I thought of marriage, it made me feel . . . sickly. Even though I couldn’t figure out exactly why that was, I had a feeling it was to do with my Curse. What would my husband do when he found out the truth about his blushing bride? Sign me up for a one-way trip to the guillotine made of iron and flame, no doubt.
No, thanks. I was perfectly content with my little life.
Joe gathered an assortment of breads, wrapped them in a white cloth, and slid them my way. “Here you are, dear. I added an extra onion loaf—I know it’s her favorite.”
I smiled warmly as I picked up the warm goods from the counter and placed them into my basket. “I think it’s everyone’s favorite, Joe.”
It wasn’t a lie. Joe’s onion loaf usually had people lined up and down the street. And in a pinch, it could be a powerful bartering tool among the villagers, something I’d done before, although it pained me—the loaf was just that good.
“How much do I owe you?” I reached for my coin pouch.
He shook his head. “The tonic is more than enough.” He tapped his hip softly. “Keeps these old bones in working order.”
I smiled.
We made small talk as he began to work a mound of dough, and after a not so short but pleasant goodbye, I left the bakery and walked down the street, giving the merchants a wideI’m not interestedberth.
Sitting to the side of a bush void of leaves, a woman who looked not much older than I sat with a small child in her arms. The child nibbled on his sleeve. Both of their lips were pale and dry, the woman’s hair thinning at the top. Her clothes were tattered and worn, like she had gotten into a nasty fight with the thorny bush beside her. She looked up at me, hunger etched into her faded eyes, that same look mirrored in her child’s.
People glared as they walked by, hurtling names at her, labelling her, insulting her life choices—something I was certain they knew nothing about.
I crouched on bended knee, sifting my fingers through the knotted cloth, and pulled out an onion loaf—still warm. “Here,” I offered the woman, motioning for her to take it.
All she did was stare up at me, questioning what my offer might cost her, no doubt.
“You can have it,” I reassured her.
Cautiously, she took the loaf from me, uncertainty flagging her trembling fingers. “Thank you,” she replied as she carefully ripped off a chunk and gave it to the boy.
“Of course.” I glanced at the little boy, and he offered me a toothy grin before he looked to the bread and smacked his little lips. Slowly, he brought it to his mouth, and when he tasted it, his little body shivered with delight.
“Do you have a home, some place to go?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Not anymore.”
“Do you have any family? Somewhere where you and your child can stay?”
“No, it’s just us now. My husband was Cursed . . . and the king took him from us.” There was no hate or anger in her words—just a great, open, festering void.
“I’m sorry,” I offered, looking down. Not far from my shoe, an ant followed an invisible line, a small bit of leaf resting on his back as he dutifully marched back to his queen. The fable was not lost on me—by compliance or might, we all served the king—the executioner of fathers and little girls.
I looked to the woman. To the child. This was the result of our compliance.
“He had the element of Air,” the woman offered, her hand reaching towards the sky. The child looked up, little eyes watching her every move.
