They were good people, people she had known and cared for all her life, and their fear of her had wounded her deeply. Friends. Family. She supposed she couldn’t blame them—they were farming folk who took their traditions and superstitions seriously. They couldn’t imagine magic as anything other than a force for evil—sorcery—and fear drove them to do things they might not have otherwise.
The Intelligenciers were dangerous and relentless, and had centuries of experience in hunting down users of magic. If they found out about her … She couldn’t bear to consider the consequences. She knew it was risky to use magic to aid her loaves, but how else could a girl with no family or friends, and hardly any money, get ahead in a town where a little misfortune could lead to a life on the street? It was so small a thing—surely it would continue to go unnoticed, as long as she was careful. She sighed, comforted by the smell of the cooking bread. She might be a fool, but in that moment, she was a happy one.
She closed the oven door and turned back to the work top where a book waited for her. In an hour, the doughy shapes would be the best bread in the town—perhaps the best anywhere—and she could go home with a hot loaf tucked under her arm. The baker seemed glad to not have to get up before dawn, leaving her in peace for the early morning bake, but he was not glad enough to pay her well.
She could never have guessed that something as simple as baking bread could be so satisfying, nor that she would dream of having her own bakery some day. It would take time, hard work, and sacrifice, but she had a plan now, one that gave her hope for a happy future.
The early hour was no imposition for her—no one waited for her in her small room at the back of a carpenter’s workshop, and staying busy helped her forget how alone she was. It wasn’t as if she had to get out of bed to get to the bakery, either. She worked at a nearby taproom as well, and by the time she had finished cleaning up there after the last patron stumbled out the door, it was time to light the ovens at the bakery.
Lighting a fire was not a problem when you had a special gift, so she was able to get the ovens up to heat quickly. With the dough safely deposited, she could relax and lose herself in whatever she was reading. This was her favourite part of the day, the time where she could let go of her problems, let them drift far away.
Solène scooped several mugs into the crook of her arm and wiped the table with the damp cloth in her other hand. No sooner was the table ready than it was filled by new occupants. The taproom was full and noisy, as it was most evenings. The owner served good wine and cider at fair prices, making it the most popular tavern in the district. She navigated her way through the press of bodies and deposited her burden on the counter, then headed out to repeat the process.
Although Trelain was the capital of the duchy it resided in, it was what a character in one of her favourite books would have called parochial. It might have been as cosmopolitan as could be found in western Mirabaya, but the vast majority of the people living there were from the town, and Solène’s accent—though only subtly different from theirs—gave her away as an outsider, and it was very obvious that that mattered to the locals. It meant making friends was a challenge and she was lonely at times, but she hoped this job would help her integrate.
Every evening, the patrons saw her in the taproom and her face and accent grew a little more familiar. When she had enough saved, she would open her bakery, and they would be comfortable enough to buy her bread. Once they’d tasted it, they’d never buy bread anywhere else. She recalled something from a book of philosophies she had read several years before, while still a teenager, that gave her comfort when the difficulties in her path seemed too many: great things aren’t achieved in a day, and the things that can be are not great. In that, at least, the philosopher had been correct.
“Get me a jug of last season’s red,” said a man, part of a group at the next table, pulling Solène from her day dreams as she gathered another batch of empty mugs for washing.
“I don’t work the bar,” she responded. “You know that, Arnoul.”
The other men at the table looked uncomfortable with his behaviour. Arnoul seemed to need to order other people around to make himself look big in front of his friends. He kept trying to show off, every time he came to the tavern, but never seemed to impress his drinking companions, and tonight was no different. He was either stubborn or stupid. Solène suspected the latter.
“Why don’t you come over here and keep me company then,” Arnoul said. He laughed, looking at his friends, clearly expecting them to join in. They didn’t, and Solène wondered why he couldn’t tell his behaviour wasn’t impressing them.
“I don’t do that either,” she said. “Go to the bar to order, like everyone else. Go to the brothel if you’re looking for company.”
That drew some chuckles from his friends and Arnoul’s face darkened. He grabbed Solène by the leg. When she pulled free, one of the mugs fell from the crook of her arm, splashing wine all over Arnoul’s trousers and shirt. His face twisted with anger, but Solène could not restrain the tongue that had so often gotten her in trouble.
“That looks like last season’s red to me,” she said. “Enjoy.”
Laughter erupted from the other men at the table. Arnoul smouldered. Solène gathered up the fallen mug and disappeared into the crowd, wishing she’d smashed the mug on his thick skull.
Solène didn’t think for a moment that being given the keys to the tavern indicated the owner’s growing trust; it merely meant everyone else working there wanted to get home as early as possible. By the time she finished cleaning, they were all tucked up in bed. Nonetheless, it gave her the chance to prove she was trustworthy, another small battle in the war to integrate. It might mean a promotion to the bar, more pay, and her bakery a few weeks or months sooner. After double-checking the lock, she started the short walk to the bakery.
Usually she avoided the shortcut, a narrow lane clogged with rubbish, but tonight she was running later than usual and the ovens needed to be lit. A fight in the tavern had resulted in a bloody nose and it had taken an age to scrub the blood from the floorboards. She picked her way down the lane, through the debris as best she could by moonlight, and froze when she heard a voice.
“Big city bitch.”
The voice came from the darkness, but Solène knew who it was. Only Arnoul could be ignorant enough to think her accent came from a big city.
“Think you’re funny?” he said.
“Your friends did,” Solène said, backing out of the laneway. She put her foot in something squishy and forced herself not to react.
He loomed out of the darkness, his face twisted with anger. “I’m a big man around here. You can’t speak to me like that. I’m going to give you something to help you remember your manners.” When he raised his hand, she saw moonlight reflected on the blade of a knife. She could tell from the look on his face that he meant to do what he threatened.