The Baker's Wife--complete Read online

  Pouring only a small stream into the small pot, she closed her eyes. In her mind, she saw sparks of light swirling inside the warm water. Focusing on that fire, she reached out and, with a wave of her hand, made it swirl faster. Then, like the fire in the oven, she focused on the spell that would strengthen the medicine’s ability to regulate the temperature.

  Done with preparing the infusion, she smiled. The fire in the herb would warm the body and help kill the infection. She’d done this many times when she was ill and Lejer was out.

  She’d never done it with Lejer home before. Or used this magic on a stranger.

  Putting those thoughts out of her head, she closed up the floorboards, leaving the small bottle in her pocket. She may need it again soon if this first time wasn’t enough to break the fever.

  With soft steps to the cupboard and back, she poured the infusion into a ceramic cup, one she kept specifically for this purpose and the only thing she’d ever begged from Lejer. She’d found it worked best with infusions, better than earthenware or wood. Setting the cup on a small table near the stairs, she gently detached one of the King’s Lights from the wall and held it by its wooden handle. Up the stairs she went, cup in one hand, light in the other, each creaking step making her cringe and wince. The last thing she needed was Lejer awake and shouting at her.

  Down the hall she crept until she got back to the blue room where the stranger lay. Quietly setting the glowing light in a sconce, she put the cup on the nightstand. “Sir?” Her eyes widened. His cheeks were bright scarlet now and he seemed to be having trouble breathing. Shaking him roughly now, she said, “Sir? I’ve brought something from the healer.”

  His head rolled back and forth, his eyes twitching as if they were about to open, but didn’t. She reached forward and lifted his head. The scent of spices, warm, rich and exotic, filled her nostrils, the scent of markets and traveling and she closed her eyes. It was a wonderful scent.

  Trying to ignore it, she waved her hand over the cup and did something she hadn’t done since she was a young girl taking care of an ailing sister. She visualized the water as dough and pinched with her fingers. A small glob of water separated and lifted.

  It had been a long time and it was difficult to both move the water toward the stranger and lift him up so he wouldn’t choke. It took five tries before she managed to drop the small bit of infusion into his mouth.

  He jumped up the moment it did, sucking down breath, eyes wide. “It’s okay,” she told him, putting her hands on his shoulders. The stranger’s incredulous glare almost made her laugh. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not trying to kill you.”

  His shoulders stiffened, and she couldn’t help wondering if someone had tried to do just that in his past. I know nothing about you, she thought as he relaxed back on the bed, eyes closing. He rolled over on his side, boots still not touching the quilt. Hands on her hips, she frowned. He had to get under the covers, which meant his boots had to come off.

  The problem was that, as she looked at them, they didn’t seem to be ordinary boots. On the soles, she could make out inscriptions, circles and squares and lines and curves that she didn’t recognize but that felt as if they were magical. And familiar, though she didn’t know how. Some of the lines were worn thin, probably from walking down roads many times, as she’d seen him do before he collapsed. The question was, why were they there? Every spell she’d seen or used never needed a mark. You drew them with your hands or your fingers. Was it a reference, like the images used in spellbooks? It might. But she’d heard stories of the lords and ladies, how they drew symbols on items and it worked the same as if the symbols had been drawn in the air. Curious, she looked carefully at the King’s Light for symbols. Nothing.

  Then, it might just be a reference. On the bottom of his feet. Where they’re sure to get worn off.

  It might also by a way to keep would-be boot thieves away, in which case it might just be nothing more than drawings. Or it could be a spell that would immobilize her.

  Carrying his fiddle with the shoulder strap wrapped twice around his wrist, and now strange symbols on his boots. She had never met a minstrel before, but already they seemed strange creatures indeed.

  Deciding to take the risk, she hesitantly took hold of his boot. Then, holding his leg with one hand, gave it a gentle tug.

  The stranger sat up, surprising her more than if there really had been a spell for thieves on his boots.

  He said nothing, only looked at her with sleepy eyes.

  “You need to take off your boots,” she said. He nodded, but made no move to take them off.

  She tried again, glad he was sitting up. It allowed her to tug harder and get them off quicker. That done, she was at a loss of what to say now that he was somewhat awake.

  She needn’t have worried. Without giving a sign she existed, the minstrel got up and pulled back the covers himself, burrowing under the quilts. He didn’t bother to take off his cloak, and neither did Krysilla.

  Still trying to keep him warm, she brought out an extra quilt kept in a chest at the foot of the bed. Spreading that over him, she closed her eyes.

  So tired, she thought. But it was with a smile that she opened the vent that diverted the residual heat from the oven below into the guest room. One of the good things about being the wife of a baker.

  Taking the King’s Light from the sconce, she paused at the doorway. The stranger lay curled up under the blankets, like some strange cross between a boy and a man.

  Propriety dictated she should close the door now, with her on the side he wasn’t. It was bad enough that she had allowed the minstrel to stay when her husband had specifically said he wanted the man gone. She’d pay for that with a lecture the next day, or a Lejer so angry he’d spend all day and most of the night at the pub. No different from now, a snide voice whispered.

  And yet, she could tell from the stranger’s posture that he was now fighting chills. She’d never encountered a situation where a healing spell didn’t take the first time, but she had only given him a little and it had been a long time since she’d tried to heal someone else. It might take a few more doses before his body started to regulate itself again. It wasn’t right to leave him before she knew he was out of the worst of it.

  Putting the light back in the sconce, she cracked the door open, even though it would let some of the warmth out. Better that than the things a closed door would imply. Quietly, she took out the small watch her mother had given her as a wedding present. Taking note of the time, she sat down in a small chair in a corner, one built for rocking a baby that refused to go to sleep. Laying the open watch in her lap, she took a nearby shawl, also kept for the same purpose as the chair, and wrapped herself in it.

  Quarter of an hour and she’d check on him again, give him more medicine if need be. In spite of her exhaustion, her resolve kept her awake until that time.

  Just think of him as the child you never had, she told herself. But when she held his heavy head, felt the breadth of his shoulders as she helped him sit up, it was impossible to believe that, or to be unaware of the scandalous circumstances she was creating. But each time she gave him another dose of the infusion she felt no guilt or shame. He was ill, and she could no more ignore him than any other creature in this green world.

  It took four doses before the chills and fever left him. His face was peaceful and he stretched out under the covers around the time Krysilla decided to finally leave the room.

  Keeping the tincture hidden, she set the mug in the washing basin’s cupboard. Making a note to add hot water to two basins in the morning instead of just one, she once again took the Light from the wall and walked softly back to her own room.

  She didn’t bother to do more than strip down to her underthings. Climbing under the covers, she snuggled next to her husband, trying to get some of his warmth without waking him up. He was always a bear when he’d been drinking.

  In spite of her exhaustion, sleep didn’t come easily. Each faint creak from the h
ouse woke her. Each murmur of the wind wove itself through her dreams and in those dreams she was standing at the edge of a chasm. In its depths, the river swirled, white foam crashing against sharp rocks. She wanted to step back, and yet she knew if she did, it would be worse for her. The wind blew her closer to the edge, her bare feet gripping the rock because there was nothing nearby for her to hold onto.

  Someone stepped behind her, a man, though she had no reason to know this. She simply knew.

  He stepped closer and she felt a nudge.

  “Krysilla?”

  “No,” she whispered as the nudge pushed her closer to the edge. She threw out her arms, though she knew there was nothing to stop her from falling.

  “Krysilla?!” The man behind her grabbed her shoulder.

  She blinked. Darkness filled her bedroom, lit only by the King’s Light. She felt someone bending over her and turned quickly.

  Lejer peered at her from above, bleary-eyed. “Time to get up,” he said, then winced and rubbed his forehead.

  Slipping out of bed, she got dressed with shaking fingers. It still felt as if the edge of the chasm was at her feet and she was about to fall in. Grabbing a brush, she worked the tangles out of her hair before braiding it.

  Standing in front of the door, she knew something felt wrong. She’d forgotten something important.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. She couldn’t think.

  Blue. Rushing back to her stool, she grabbed the blue sash and tied it tight around her waist.

  “Krysilla,” Lejer mumbled, startling her.

  “Yes?” Would he ask about the stranger? Krysilla moved closer to the door, ready to bar it if Lejer tried to throw an ill man out in the cold, stranger or not.

  “Make sure the report is taken of the ovens today.”

  She relaxed. “All right.” Slowly closing the door behind her, she heard him call her again. Trying not to sound annoyed, she answered, “Yes?”

  “Those reports are very important.”

  “I’ll make sure the inspector gets the report on all the ovens.” She tried to close the door again. He started talking and she bit both lips to keep her frustration in check.

  “This isn’t like the cinnamon, Krysilla. Those reports are what allow us to have a bakery at all.”

  “Yes, Lejer.”

  With a look that said he didn’t trust her to remember anything he’d just said, he rolled over and went back to sleep.

  She went downstairs and started the fires for the ovens, moving as if she had slept well for months. In the kitchen, she made a thick porridge, then poured it into three bowls. Two, she put on the table. One, she put to the side and covered with a clean cloth.

  Racing upstairs with the covered porridge and a spoon, she prayed no one would come with business until after she checked on the stranger. If he was still here.

  She had gotten to the top of the stairs when she thought that, and stopped entirely, porridge still in her hand, burning it. The pain forced her to move. He wouldn’t leave, she told herself. He had a fever.

  And what did it matter to her if he did? She had a husband, she shared his magic. That was more than some women had.

  She opened the door to the Blue Room, her stomach in knots. The stranger hadn’t moved since she last saw him. She let go of a breath she had thought she wouldn’t hold, her relief making her hand tremble as she set the porridge down on the nightstand.

  For one insane moment, she wondered what life would be like, married to the minstrel. Probably full of mismatched schedules and worry, she told herself. And yet, it would be so easy to think it might work. His hair caught the early rays of sunlight that filtered through a gap in the curtains, shimmering gold and brown. He stirred and her heart stopped at the sight of it. Hold it together, girl, she told herself. He rolled on to his back and she could almost hear their morning conversations. As if you would be any less tired around him, her more practical side said, drowned out in the sight of his eyes slowly opening.

  He blinked, and frowned. Muttering a curse, he tried to stand.

  “No!” She put her hand on his shoulder and he stared at her in confusion.

  “My fiddle,” he said. When she only stood there, eyes wide, he said, “Where is my fiddle?”

  “It’s safe.” Had to be. It had spent all night covered in the back of a cart owned by the most conscientious man in the village. Lejer never left anything out.

  She wasn’t worried about the safety of his fiddle. What worried her was the panic she felt at his leaving.

  “I need it. I must go into town.” He tried to stand and immediately sat back down.

  “You had a bad fever.”

  “And I thank you for healing me.” Whatever flirtation she’d received from him before, at the market, no longer existed in his aquamarine eyes. Or were they gray? “But I really must be gone.”

  Less from panic, and more from honest concern, she said, “You can hardly stand.”

  From below, she heard the ring of the bell that announced a customer. Her head turned and one foot stepped toward the door from habit. The rest of her stayed put.

  “I’m already keeping you,” the minstrel smiled, signs of exhaustion from his fever still in the corners of his eyes.

  The bell rang again. “Krysilla!” Lejer called out.

  “I’ll be back.” Giving him a stern look, she said, “Don’t move. You still need to heal.”

  She closed the door behind her and had only gone two steps when Lejer, with bloodshot eyes and a hand to his head, opened the door. “Circle be damned,” he whispered, “can you keep it down?”

  Can you stop drinking so much? She had to bite her lips to keep the words from tumbling out. Running down the stairs, she got to the bottom by the third ring.

  Waiting patiently by the scales was a man dressed in the finer clothes that all servants of the Felldesh manor wore. She pasted a smile on her face and apologized profusely for the wait, knowing how furious Lejer would be when he found out.

  The servant barely accepted her apologies, if the haughty look on his face was any indication. “I have come to tell you that the day on our order has changed.”

  “Ah.” She got out a piece of paper and a pencil. “And what is the new date?”

  “New Moon.”

  Four days away. And on a New Moon, a day most people took off. The day before would be extremely busy with requests for extra bread. She’d have her hands full just trying to keep pace with the regular demand.

  Bitterness rose in her heart once more. Of course they wouldn’t know how busy we are, living in their fine palace. Her smile tight, she thanked the servant for the information and assured him they would be ready.

  He bowed and thanked her. Above them, feet moved quickly and two men (Lejer and the stranger from the sound of it) spoke with raised voices.

  She took note of the servant’s stare at the ceiling. “We will have your delivery on New Moon.”

  Without taking his eyes from the ceiling, he nodded and left. Didn’t even seem to notice me, she thought and charged back up the stairs just as Lejer was backing out of the Blue Room. He must have heard her approach because he turned and, with eyes wide, pointed inside the room. “I told you to get rid of him.”

  “He had a fever.”

  “A wife is supposed to obey her husband.”

  “He had a fever.”

  “Yes, you said that. And that is exactly why I didn’t want him here.”

  “He hasn’t been anywhere near the ovens.”

  “Little girl, you send him to the healer, to the inn, to the pub, even, but not here.”

  Little girl. For many years, Krysilla had borne degrading words like this with silence. It had been easy enough. They were rarely around others at the same time, and when they were Lejer rarely spoke to her. Now, though, now that she had been embarrassed in front of a servant of Lord Felldesh and, more importantly, in front of the minstrel, something in her snapped. Hands on her hips she said, “Do you want your w
ife wandering the streets with a strange man?”

  Lejer’s eyes went wide.

  “That would certainly be good for business, wouldn’t it?” She spat the word “business” as if it were a curse. “‘Look at Lejer’s wife. What’s that man doing leaning on her shoulder? Why, she didn’t even bother to take off her blue sash.’” She stayed in place, afraid that if she moved, she would see the minstrel’s face.

  These were the kinds of words no good wife would say. These were the things that only came out of the mouth of a harridan, a woman who nagged her husband day and night until he ran away to the pub. And proof that she had never used words like this was in Lejer’s stare, as if she had been replaced by someone else while he slept.

  Lejer already lives in the pub, she thought. I’m not driving him anywhere he hasn’t already gone.

  He didn’t move. Terrified of what more the minstrel might see or hear, she gestured for him to follow her into their room. Once he was inside, eyes still wide and staring at her as if she’d been replaced with a horrifying Ornic, she continued, and tried to stay calm while doing it. “We’ve both stayed here when we were sick. We go to the healer, take the herbs, and at most, take a day off and sleep upstairs. If we had children, would you expect me to send them off—”

  “Is that what this is about?”

  She stopped, unsure how to read his tone. Was he trying to understand her? “No.” Ignoring the pain that question caused, she pushed on. “I’m just trying to point out that we aren’t risking anything by having him here until he’s well enough to travel.”

  He nodded, still staring. “No.”

  “You’d turn out someone who’s ill?”

  He sneered. “I’m not heartless, Krysilla. There are healers who can take care of him.”

  “Le—”