Chương 52: Chapter 34: Finding Purpose - Part I

Aibell POV The eastern market smells of fresh bread. I notice it long before the bakery itself appears. The scent drifts between the crowded streets, mixing with smoke from nearby cookfires, roasted nuts from a merchant's cart and the faint sweetness of fruit being sold somewhere farther down the road. Around us, the district moves through its ordinary afternoon. Merchants argue over prices, carts rattle across uneven stones and people weave between stalls carrying baskets and bundles beneath their arms.

For a few moments, I simply walk in silence. Ciara sits beside me in her wheelchair while Merrow guides it carefully along the street, occasionally steering around uneven stones or particularly distracted pedestrians. Neither of them says anything. I suspect both of them noticed the moment I became quiet. The truth is that I noticed it myself. Because the smell reminds me of home. Not Blackthorn itself. The village always smelled of woodsmoke, damp earth and the river running beyond the fields.

But mornings at my father's inn had often smelled like this. Fresh bread arriving from the bakery. Flour drifting through the kitchens. The scent of warm ovens spreading through the streets before sunrise. For weeks I have spent so much time remembering what I lost that I never stopped to think about what still remained.

"Aibell?" Ciara's voice pulls me back and I look toward her.

"You've become unusually quiet."

"I am thinking." Merrow glances toward me over her shoulder.

"That's a dangerous habit." That earns the faintest smile. Apparently spending enough time around Kaelen eventually infects everyone, though I have a feel Merrow did need no influencing. The bakery finally comes into view at the end of the street. It is not particularly impressive. Two stories built from white stone, large windows facing the market and a faded wooden sign hanging above the entrance.

Several customers move in and out carrying wrapped loaves beneath their arms while warm air escapes each time the door opens. Ordinary, completely ordinary. For reasons I do not entirely understand, the sight makes my stomach tighten. Ciara notices immediately.

"You don't have to go inside today." I look toward her, "Yes, I do." Merrow says nothing. The healer simply rests her hands upon the wheelchair and waits. The truth is that this has very little to do with finding work. Blackthorn is gone and so is my father's inn. The life I expected to live disappeared with it. For weeks I have been surviving, walking, running, hiding and finally rebuilding. Somewhere along the way I stopped asking myself what came afterward. Now I have an answer.

I take a slow breath, "I'll only be a few minutes." Ciara smiles, "Take as long as you need." Merrow nods once, "We'll be here." The bakery door opens again as another customer steps outside carrying a wrapped loaf beneath his arm. Warm air spills into the street, carrying with it the scent of fresh bread and melted butter. For a moment, I find myself thinking of my father. Then I straighten my cloak and begin walking toward the door. A few steps from the bakery, I find myself slowing without entirely meaning to.

The building itself is not particularly impressive. Two stories of white stone stand between a butcher and a tailor while a faded wooden sign hangs above the entrance. The sounds coming from inside are ordinary enough: trays shifting against wooden tables, muffled conversation and the steady rhythm of work. The bell above the door rings softly as I step inside. Warmth immediately surrounds me.

The ovens occupy the rear of the building while shelves line the walls carrying loaves of bread, pastries and cakes dusted with sugar. Flour hangs faintly in the air and sunlight entering through the windows turns it almost golden. For a moment, the years disappear. I can almost hear my father shouting from the kitchen because somebody forgot an order or because a customer complained about the ale. I remember mornings before sunrise, carrying baskets across the inn while the village slowly woke around us.

The memories arrive so suddenly that they leave me standing motionless near the entrance. The woman behind the counter notices me after only a few moments. Flour covers both her hands and streaks of white run through her dark hair. She studies me with the same expression my father used whenever strangers entered the inn, measuring without appearing to do so.

"Can I help you?" she asks. The question should be easy to answer. Instead, I realize I had never truly thought this far ahead. I had planned to come here. I had planned to ask for work. Somehow, I had never considered the moment when someone would ask why. My fingers tighten slightly around my sleeve as I gather my thoughts.

"My name is Aibell," I say.

"I'm looking for work." The woman remains silent for several seconds before asking, "Do you have any experience in the kitchen?" I think of Blackthorn; of the inn; of years spent helping my father with meals, customers, deliveries and kitchens that never seemed to stay clean for longer than a few minutes. I think of waking before dawn and carrying bread from the baker while half the village still slept. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

"I helped run my father's inn."

"What sort of inn?"

"A small one."

"I meant what is it a busy one?" I cannot help smiling slightly.

"Usually." The woman nods once.

"Can you bake?" The answer comes immediately, certainty and confidence returning.

"Yes." The woman studies me for several moments. Not suspiciously or unkindly. She simply looks at me the same way experienced innkeepers and merchants look at unfamiliar customers, weighing answers against experience, measuring confidence against reality. Eventually, she wipes her hands against her apron and gestures toward the rear of the bakery.

"Come with me." I follow her through a narrow doorway into the kitchen. The warmth immediately intensifies. Two ovens occupy the far wall while several wooden tables stand between shelves stacked with flour, spices and baskets of ingredients. Three workers move through the room with practiced efficiency. One kneads dough, another removes trays from an oven while a younger boy carries loaves toward the front. Nobody appears hurried, yet nobody stands idle.

The entire room moves with the quiet rhythm of people who have repeated the same work every morning for years. The woman folds her arms, "My name is Helena." I nod. She points toward an empty table.

"Show me." The simplicity of the request catches me slightly off guard. There are no further questions. No discussion about wages or references. No requests for recommendations yet. Simple show of skill. Somehow that proves easier than any interview would have. The kitchen feels familiar in a way the front room never could. Ovens, flour, wooden tables and dough make sense. They always have. One of the workers places a bowl of flour upon the table while another brings water and yeast. Nobody says anything.

They simply watch. For a few moments I stand motionless, staring down at the ingredients. The strange part is not that I have forgotten what to do. It is that I remember too much. I remember rising before dawn because my father had overslept again. I remember carrying flour-sacks larger than myself across the inn kitchen while he complained that I was making too much noise. I remember the village baker correcting my measurements and insisting that bread cared very little for impatience.

I remember mornings in Blackthorn before the guests had awakened, when the entire village belonged to the smell of bread and woodsmoke. My hands move before I consciously decide to begin. Towards water; flour, yeast and salt. The motions return so naturally that time seem to disappear. I knead the dough while the noise of the kitchen gradually fades into the background. The pressure against my palms feels familiar. The resistance of the dough feels familiar.

The workers continue their own tasks, though I occasionally notice one or two of them watching. Helena says nothing. She simply stands nearby with her arms folded while I work. There is something oddly comforting about that. She does not ask where I came from or why I arrived in Fallowspire. The kitchen only cares whether I can bake. Eventually, I step back. Helena examines the dough for several moments before looking toward me.

"When was the last time you did this?" The question forces me to think. Before the attack. The realization lands harder than I expect.

"Several weeks ago." She studies me for another moment.

"You said your father owned an inn."

"He did." The woman nods once.

"And now?" I glance toward the ovens. For a brief moment I consider answering differently. The truth, however, seems easier.

"The village burned." The kitchen grows slightly quieter. Nobody stops working entirely, yet the atmosphere changes. Helena does not offer sympathy. None of the workers tell me how sorry they feel. Nobody asks how it happened. For some reason, I find myself grateful. Instead, Helena simply says, "The dough is good." The answer surprises me, "That's all?" She raises an eyebrow.

"Were you expecting applause?" A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.

"No."

"Good. Bread doesn't care where you came from." The statement settles quietly inside me. Perhaps because it feels true. The bakery only cares whether the bread rises. The dough eventually goes into the oven while I help one of the workers prepare another batch. Helena gestures me to continue working and goes back out to the front. Time passes differently inside the kitchen. Customers enter and leave. Bread cools upon racks. Flour settles over sleeves and tables alike.

Somewhere during the next hour, I stop feeling like a visitor. When Helena finally returns, she carries a knife and a freshly baked loaf. She cuts through the bread and offers me a piece. I take it. The crust cracks softly beneath my fingers. The bread itself is warm enough that steam still rises from the center. I taste it and suddenly I am home. It is the first time in weeks; I have done something that belongs entirely to me. Honest work that I can understand. Helena watches me carefully.

"We do need another pair of hands." I look up. Helena folds her arms.

"Early mornings," she says.

"And long hours. The market opens at sunrise, which means we do before it. Most days you'll work until the afternoon rush ends." I nod.

"And the pay?"

"Eight copper a day." The answer arrives simply.

"If business is good, sometimes ten. During festivals or feasts, perhaps more." For a moment, I simply stare at her. Eight copper feels considerably larger than it should. Helena notices my expression.

"What?"

"No, it is nothing." She raises an eyebrow.

"You look disappointed."

"I was trying to determine whether that is supposed to be good." That finally earns a laugh.

"For a baker?" she asks.

"It is respectable."

"Then that's enough. I'm not trying to become rich."

"Good," Helena says.

"Bakers rarely do." For several moments she says nothing. Then she extends her hand.

"Can you start tomorrow?" The question feels strangely important. Weeks ago, the answer would have been uncertain. Now I think of the Silverwood, of Kaelen collecting his payment at the guild, of Ciara waiting outside with Merrow, of Eammon and Aine beneath the canopy and even of Garrick pretending not to be pleased with his new scabbard. Tomorrow feels real. I take her hand.

"Yes." The answer comes easily. When I finally step back into the street, the afternoon has begun fading toward evening. The market remains busy, though the crowds have thinned slightly. Ciara and Merrow still wait where I left them. Merrow stands behind the wheelchair while Ciara watches the people moving through the square. Neither of them speaks immediately when they see me approaching. Somehow, I think they already know. Ciara is the first to smile.

"Well?" I stop beside them. For a moment, I look back toward the bakery. The sign still hangs above the door while warm light spills onto the street each time someone enters.

"I start tomorrow." The smile that spreads across Ciara's face feels brighter than the setting sun while Merrow simply nods, as though the outcome had never truly been in doubt. We begin making our way back through the market together and I realize that I am walking toward something instead of away from it.