“Especially me!” the young Rena would say (her recurring line).
“Especially you,” Topa would say.
No one else in Mylea had been brave enough to give up their soft lives; everyone knew how bad living conditions were in the big cities, the industrial centers, and the mining camps. No one wanted to take a risk.
But bravery was not always enough, or so the story went. One night, someone made a mistake or, possibly, the Cardassians just got lucky. Lariah and Jiram had not returned from their mission to free a group of prisoners, so baby Rena went to live with Marja and Topa. Somewhere along the line, she had learned that Topa, too, worked for the resistance, but had the sense or the luck to not be caught. As she grew older and understood things more clearly, there came a point when he would say, “They were the bravest people in town,” and she would mentally append, Except for you.
Enough,Rena thought, unknotting her hair and trying to rake the wild locks into submission with her fingers. This was all twenty years ago. You don’t even remember them. The Cardassians are gone now.Padding back into the bedroom, she took the clothes she would wear today from the hooks on the back of the door: black skirt (or pants), black shoes, black or gray shirt (or sweater, depending on the chill in the air), and a white pullover with purple fluting. Now all she needed was her apron and the transformation would be complete. Seeing herself in the mirror, she said, “Hello, Bakery Shop Girl,” and started downstairs to help Marja.
Every late spring, the intercoastal salt marshes north of Mylea were infused with newly warmed seawater from a southerly warm current bringing along the immense schools of tiny fish that, in turn, brought the bigger game fish. At almost the same time, give or take a week, a mass of damp, cool air descended from the mountains and mingled with the warm sea air, creating a dense white fog of such peculiar perspicacity that it was renowned around the planet and treasured by artists, holographers, and, in particular, lovers.
Before leaving Mylea for university, Rena had often enough read the expression “tendrils of fog” in stories and assumed that the author had described a condition that he had seen. Now that she had been away, Rena knew the truth: Most writers didn’t know realfog. In other towns, fog was wispy and insubstantial. In Mylea, you could practically wrap it around you and wear it like a coat. In other places, fog was merely the ghost of a cloud; in Mylea, fog was like an ambassador of the ocean coming up onto land to remind it who was really in charge.
Lovers walking in Mylean fogs were almost always sure to lose themselves and wander into shadowy gardens and secluded corners. The lonely and the lovelorn claimed to feel soothed by visions of those they had lost too soon or never known. Harsh breezes never disturbed the vapors, but soft breezes would often waft through the streets, making the tendrils curl and dance like ocean waves. Even after the sun rose, the fog would linger and shroud the shops and houses in a translucent silvery veil. In Mylea, in the proper season, at the right hour, those who were open to wonder could find anything there they could possibly wish to see.
As she passed the round window on the stairway down to the bakery, Rena yawned hugely. Outside, the sky was just beginning to turn pinkish gray as the first rays of light began to rend the low morning clouds. She had seen enough early-morning fogs to know it would be a beautiful day, though she might not see much of it if Marja was in a punishing mood. “Here we go,” she muttered, and pushed open the heavy wood door that led to the main kitchen.
The heavy door creaked as Rena walked in. Marja, bent over a tray of specialty breads with a glazing brush, glanced up, waved absently, then went back to what she was doing. Except for their pale skin, the same spray of freckles over the nose, and (so Rena was told) the same laugh, the sisters Marja and Lariah could not have been more unalike. Where Lariah had been willowy and tall, Marja was broad-shouldered and buxom, her arms thick with ropy muscle. Where Lariah had been fair, Marja’s cheeks and nose were perpetually red, the result of a sensitivity to raw prusinseed enzymes, a condition that might have been eradicated if Federation medicine had been available to her in her youth. She walked with a slight limp from a childhood break that never properly healed. Rena’s father had been the dark-skinned one, and though she was built more like her mother, only the most observant could see any resemblance between her and her aunt. “Is there any tea?”
“Just put the water on,” her aunt said, still fussing with her bread.
“What do you need me to do?” Rena asked, looking directly overhead.
“If you can stay focused, glaze the buns.”
It was an old complaint. Rena rolled her eyes. “What do you mean ‘focused’?”
Marja shrugged. “No painting the buns with tinted glaze, no decorative flower patterns with the nuts and candies. No concocting experiments with the sweet bread recipes. We’re not creating art, we’re feeding people. Fofen Genn’s replicators broke down. He’s a houseful of boarders with no way to feed them. You’ll need to take down a few baskets of rolls to hold them over while he waits for the repair person to arrive.” Without actually looking up at Rena, she asked, “So did your trip purge that wandering impulse from you once and for all? I hope it did, because Kail came over every day when you were gone and I just know he’s ready to make your engagement official.”
“We’re not even unofficially engaged,” Rena said. “And he comes over here because you feed him.”
“I hope at least that you finished the design for Topa’s memorial. Every time I see him at shrine services, Vlahi from the foundry tells me he’s ready to make the mold.” Marja’s voice was sharp with frustration.
Rena winced, recalling her destroyed sketchbook. “No, Auntie. I’m going to have to start over. But I promise I’ll have it done before next week.” She looked more closely at Marja, noting the tension in her shoulders. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I was leaving for Kenda. I contacted you as soon as I could—”
Marja held up a hand to shush her. “After all these years, I should be used to your bouts of wanderlust. But I have to confess this last disappearance surprised even me. Not even a week after Topa’s passing. I know he asked you to go on his behalf, but there’s work for the living to be done, Rena.” She tsked. “And then on the heels of abandoning Kail at the shrine—”
Rena blurted, “I never agreed to go to the vedek with Kail!” Closing her eyes, she gritted her teeth and counted backward until she’d regained emotional control. She was so tired of having this discussion. “I left school for Mylea. Told my professors I wasn’t coming back because I was needed at home. Isn’t that enough?”
“Enough? Your parents gave their lives so that Mylea could be preserved and Rena asks if she’s done enough?”
Rena let Marja’s words hang in the air, restraining herself from pursuing an argument. She suspected that her aunt lashed out from her own pain. Marja had buried her grief deep inside her: she missed her father terribly. That Marja was frustrated with her inability to commit to Kail wasn’t new. Though it was pretty close to the same conclusion she had recently come to about herself, Rena did not feel like giving her aunt the opportunity to stand with her hands on her wide hips and lecture her further.
“Kail wants me to go to Yyn for the Auster pageant next week.”
“Good,” Marja said shortly.
A buzzer saved both women from having to pursue the matter. Marja tapped a series of commands into the kitchen controls that unlocked and opened the ovens. Dozens of wire racks loaded with bun-filled trays glided out into the open air, accompanied by clouds of yeasty steam.