First Light

by Michele Paige Holmes

  Remembering those times, I felt a sudden yearning for home. Truth be told, I hadn’t minded those early morning hours. I remembered the warmth radiating from the stove as Mother coaxed the fire to life, the way the chickens clustered around as I traded feed for eggs, and the smell of freshly baked bread. The mornings I cooked were always best, as I was the only one in my large family who’d figured out how to manage our temperamental oven and turn the bread part way through baking so it didn’t burn. At first this seemed to vex my mother, but she’d grudgingly given in to my methods— madness, my sisters called it, to be sticking my hands into the hot oven like that— and made me take over most of the baking. On days when I hadn’t, the marvelous smell of fresh loaves had always turned to the disappointing scent of burnt bread. So hungry and homesick was I, that I imagined that unpleasant, sooty smell here, wrinkling my nose involuntarily.

  I spied what I imagined was the door to the castle kitchens, but before I came to it, the sounds of an argument reached my ears through an open window. I paused, unsure if I dared knock and interrupt.

  “As if my normal work isn’t enough, now I’ve got two royal families to feed— and you’ve gone and burned all the buns!” This outburst was followed by a vicious crack, which I imagined was a wooden spoon or roller striking someone.

  “I didn’t mean to, Maggie. I’ll make more, I’ll—”

  “You’ll get out of my kitchen, is what you’ll do.”

  I ducked, only just missing being struck by the top panel of the door as it was flung open. A second later the bottom half followed. Instinctively I crouched behind it. A young, harried-looking woman came tripping over the threshold, ducking to avoid the rolling pin swinging wildly behind her.

  “Don’t you come round here no more,” the woman holding the roller yelled. “Ain’t got no use for them 'at says they can work but don’t. No use at all. Now get!” She tilted her head heavenward, as if looking to the sky for help. “No bread. Not a lick, and two families, two troops of guards to feed. Agh!” She made a clucking noise then retreated inside, returning a minute later, arms laden with the afore-mentioned burnt buns. “And take these with you,” she called to the young woman, who was still running, quite some distance away by now. The cook tossed several short loaves of blackened bread to the dirt.

  “Now what am I to do? Magic some buns here?” The clatter of pots and pans echoed through the open window. “Sure hope the prince don’t object to porridge.”

  I knew I wouldn’t object to it. In fact… I glanced at the blackened loaves lying in the dirt a few feet away. I was so hungry that even they looked good. Crawling forward, I gathered several then hurried across the clearing to a nearby orchard. Trees bent over under the weight of overripe fruit, and the ground was littered with fallen peaches. I stooped down, picking up two. A little further in, the trees grew larger, thick and full, abundant with apples that would soon be ripe. Feeling heady with the sweet scent and the food I’d so suddenly come into possession of, I found a nice, grassy spot, then sat behind a tree and bit into a peach, savoring the flavor as juice trickled down my chin. Before I’d finished the first bite, I took another, then broke open one of the little loaves.

  I’d eaten plenty of burned bread in my life, and knew that no matter how burnt a loaf might appear on the outside, the inside might still be soft and tasty.

  Steam rose from the loaf, and not caring how hot it was, I dug my fingers into the moist center. As I’d suspected, it was delicious. “Such waste,” I mumbled to myself between bites. There were any number of things the cook might have done with this to make it into a fine breakfast…

  I froze mid-bite, looking at the loaves still nestled in my lap. I could make these into a fine breakfast. Turning around, I strained in the early morning light to see if the others remained on the ground outside the window. They did— an enormous pile of them— just waiting to be used.

  I glanced at the juicy peaches covering the ground and hanging on the trees. I wondered if there was a barn nearby with cows where I might get fresh milk and cream. Trepidation filled me as I thought of facing the fierce cook with the rolling pin, but I also had confidence in my abilities to create something out of nothing— and I wasn’t dealing with nothing anymore. Compared to what we’d had the past few years on our farm, this was plenty.

  Carefully holding the loaves, I rose and made my way through the orchard toward the kitchens. I was halfway there when the door banged open again and the cook came out, a wire basket for collecting eggs in each hand.

  Good. I’d use eggs, too. I waited until she’d stalked off in the opposite direction; then I ran to the kitchen. Without hesitation, I opened the door and went in, giving myself but a second to adjust to the dim light. I deposited the loaves on a long, butcher-block table and went outside to retrieve the rest of the bread. When it was all inside and brushed free of dirt, I found a bucket and hurried out to the orchard. It took only moments to fill the pail with peaches. I ran back to the kitchen, thinking of what I’d say to convince the cook to let me stay.

  Either the chickens were kept on the other side of town, or the cook had simply run off, but I guessed at least a good hour passed without anyone darkening the doorway of the kitchen. I had ample time to slice the burnt crust from the bread, cube the soft insides, and to peel and quarter several peaches. These I mashed with the bread, mixing in a little nutmeg and cinnamon— oh, the spices that were to be found in this kitchen of plenty! Then I topped the concoction with oats and brown sugar.

  I’d built up the fire first thing and left the door open to let in light and to let out the heat. With the first tray in the oven, I’d set to work on a second, when at last a shadow fell across the table. I stopped my work, gathered my courage, and turned to face the cook. Of course, it helped that I’d set the rolling pin beside me, well away from the door.

  It was not she but a young boy, his scrawny arms weighed down under the pressure of two full pails. Milk! I could have kissed him but instead rushed to relieve him of his burden. “Oh, thank you,” I said. “It’ll be ever so much better with cream.”

  “What’ll be better?” he asked, lifting his head and sniffing curiously. “Smells good in here.” He spoke as if surprised.

  “That’s peach cobbler— of sorts,” I said. “And it should smell nice in here. This is a kitchen, after all.”

  “Yeah, but…” His voice trailed off, and he looked at me, as if for the first time. “Who’re you?”

  “Adrielle,” I said. “I’m the cook’s new assistant.” This was presuming much, but given the boy’s reaction to the cobbler’s aroma, I felt I had a fair chance of getting the position. “Do you have time to stay to help me skim the cream?”

  He nodded his head up and down, then back and forth, flopping his overgrown hair in an amusing pattern. “Uh-uh. I’m not supposed to talk to strangers. And you’re not supposed to be here.” With that he turned and ran out the door, hollering at the top of his lungs.

  I was puzzled by his behavior, but also frightened, remembering the cook’s assault on her previous apprentice. Quickly I checked the cobbler in the oven then looked ruefully at the buckets of milk. The cream would have to wait. I was suddenly having a bad feeling about being caught in someone else’s kitchen. It went against grain to leave my task uncompleted and to leave a mess behind, but I could not ignore the premonition I felt. I shouldn’t be here, and I wasn’t sure what had possessed me— other than my own hunger and a serious lack of sleep— to attempt such a thing as cooking for royalty.

  I peered out the open window to see if I might make my escape and was dismayed to see the cook sauntering along the path toward the kitchen. The full egg baskets swung jauntily, as did her hips and her whole person. In fact, she looked as my brothers had after a time in the barn with a jug or two of ale.

  Her feet roamed unsteadily in a crooked pattern over the ground. More than once a basket tipped, dumping some of its precious contents so that the eggs shattered on the ground.


  “Such waste,” I muttered again. Had she never gone hungry before? And if not, didn’t she realize there were others who did and could use the excess I saw everywhere?

  Though obviously not in her best form, the cook came nearer, and I retreated into the kitchen. There was only the one door— I was trapped. Unless… I whirled around, searching for a place to hide. The long, high table offered no protection; the sacks of flour, barley, and beans were scattered haphazardly around the room and were not tall enough to hide even a small child. A broom, mop and bucket stood in the far corner near the fireplace, scant cover from anything— especially an angry, drunk cook.

  I could hear her singing now, a bawdy song of the sea, the likes of which would have made a real lady blush. I turned to face the door again, determined to meet my fate head on, when I spied the previously unnoticed rungs of a crude ladder attached to the wall near the door. I craned my neck, looking up, following its ascent into some sort of dark attic. Snatching a peach from the table, I ran to the ladder and began climbing, clinging with all my might to the worn boards that went, rather haphazardly, up the rough wall.

  There might be some unknown danger up there in the dark, and it was a sight higher than the barn rafter Father had insisted I climb, but I’d take my chances against those fears rather than facing the danger I heard outside, a few steps from the door.

  The rungs seemed to go on forever, and they grew farther apart as I climbed. From below, the kitchen ceiling had appeared higher than usual, but it wasn’t until I finally pulled myself up into the attic and peered down that I realized how very high it was. There was no time to fret about it or how I would eventually get down, as I’d scarce tucked my skirts beneath me when the cook’s shadow fell across the doorway.

  “An’ we’ll all have a frolic tonight—” Her singing stopped abruptly, mouth agape as she took in the enormous mess I’d made in her kitchen— peach pits and skins piled high on the table, juice running sticky to the floor, mixing with the crumbs from the burnt crusts I’d hastily removed.

  Well, I was in a hurry, I reasoned, feeling the tiniest bit guilty about the disorder I’d left behind.

  “Mercy!” The baskets slipped from her hands and dropped to the floor.

  I winced. So much for the eggs. If the woman had any presence of mind, she’d gather them quickly and save at least some in a pan to scramble. But it was obvious the eggs were forgotten.

  “Heaven save me,” she muttered, taking another step into the room.

  Carefully, quietly, I eased myself backward, raising one leg at a time, stretching out flat on my stomach— no easy feat on the rough, uneven wood— and turned my head so I might see more of the room, while not being seen myself. It was a good thing I was lying down because it was certain the dizzying view wouldn’t have left me standing for long.

  The cook swiped her fingers across the worktable, collecting a handful of crumbs. With her mouth pinched together, her other hand lifted a piece of the burnt crust. “I’ll skin that girl alive for coming back in here. I’ll have her flayed. I’ll—” She broke off, lifting her head and sniffing.

  I shrank back into the shadows, keeping my face well away from the opening, relying only on my ears now.

  “Oh, my. He does have mercy,” was followed by the sound of a pan being taken from the oven and set on the table with a heavy thud. More sniffing. Then silence.

  I dared to peek again and watched as the cook poked a spoon into the hot cobbler, lifted out a bite and brought it to her mouth. I braced myself, preparing for her shout, for I thought surely it would scald her tongue. But to my surprise, her lips closed over the spoon, and a look of bliss crossed her face.

  “I’m saved. I’m saved!” she shouted, flinging her hands out and laughing wildly.

  “Saved from what, Maggie?” Another woman stood in the doorway with the boy I’d met earlier, clinging to her skirt.

  “Fifty lashes, the pit— the axe.” Maggie’s eyes bulged, and she drew her finger across her throat in a dramatic fashion.

  The other woman moved into the kitchen, stepping carefully around the puddle of egg oozing from the baskets on the floor. The boy followed, still clinging to her as his eyes darted around the room, searching, most likely, for me.

  The woman I guessed to be his mother leaned over the table, her face near Maggie’s. “Yer drunk,” she accused. “Sun’s barely up, and you’re three sheets to the wind already.”

  Maggie squared her shoulders and looked the other woman in the eyes. “If you thought you were to meet your Maker afore the clock struck noon, I imagine you’d indulge in a cup or two yourself.”

  “Hmmf.” The woman lifted her chin and looked around the kitchen, a disapproving gleam in her eye. “If you did your work more efficiently— and neatly— Margaret, you wouldn’t always find yourself in fear of meeting your Maker.”

  “It weren’t me that made this mess, Roseanne,” Maggie said defensively. “Though I praise the one who did. Must have been the angels themselves— or the fairies.” She snapped her fingers suddenly as a look of inspiration crossed her face. “No. Not them, either. It were the elves, that’s who.”

  “It was a girl,” the boy said.

  “Not Beth.” Maggie shook her head. “I’ve no doubt she could create such a fine mess, but a pig would sooner fly than that girl could make something tasty like this.” Maggie plunged the spoon into the cobbler once more then stuck a second, over-large bite in her mouth.

  “Are you telling me you don’t know who’s made that and— you’re eating it?” Roseanne grabbed up a towel from the table and snatched the hot pan out of Maggie’s reach.

  “I know exactly who made it,” Maggie said, reaching across the table to pull the pan back to her side. “I left this ‘ere kitchen an hour ago, with naught but Beth’s burnt buns to offer the king and his guests this morn. I knew I was done for, but I sent a plea to the heavens just the same.”

  The woman scoffed. “As if you’d get an answer.”

  “Oh, hush, Rose.” Maggie bent down, took a bucket from the floor and began dropping the discarded crusts into it. Over the rim she eyed the boy. “Isn’t as if you’ve got cause to be all high and mighty yourself.”

  Rose made a gasping noise at this, then grabbed the boy’s arm and turned toward the door.

  Over his shoulder he called to Maggie, “It wasn’t Beth, but a different girl. A pretty one.”

  I smiled at his compliment. He was the second male to say such about me in as many days. Perhaps pale hair, muddy eyes, and freckles were considered attractive in this part of Canelia.

  “Well then,” Maggie said matter-of-factly, placing her hands on her hips. “I imagine elves can be girls as well as boys.” She took the second pan of cobbler from the oven. “And I don’t right care which they are, if they saved my hide with this fine breakfast.”

  “Such nonsense I’ve never heard.” Rose marched the boy toward the door. “Mark my words, you’ll be sorry if you go serving food from who-knows-where to the royal families. Why, it might be poisoned. They might die!”

  In response, Maggie plunged the spoon in the cobbler a third time and stuck it into her wide mouth. “Then at least they’ll die happy,” she mumbled, a not altogether unpleasant grin spreading across her face.

  The rest of that day proved long and miserable. Tired though I was, there was no way to sleep comfortably on the floor of the attic where I hid. Hungry as I was, the peach I’d brought with me did little to satisfy my stomach. But I dared not come down.

  The kitchen remained busy all day. People came and went, and Maggie told her tale of elves to as many who would listen. It seemed she had a certain cousin residing in Tallinyne— a shoemaker by profession— who had, some years ago, shared a story of his own about elves coming at night when he was asleep and making beautiful pairs of shoes for him to sell. His shop was saved from ruin, and his family from poverty, because of these blessed creatures. Maggie was determined it was the same elves who’d saved h
er from disgrace, punishment, and possible death this morning.

  I wasn’t about to tell her otherwise.

  But as I sat, uncomfortable, all day, a plan had formed in my mind. Why couldn’t I be an elf? Why could I not, in the middle of the night, sneak into the kitchen and bake bread for the following day? It seemed they’d liked the cobbler well enough, so it reasoned that the breads and muffins I was accustomed to baking would also be well-received. And if they were, after some time of secrecy, perhaps I would have the courage to show myself to the eccentric cook, and perhaps she would accept me as regular kitchen help.

  The only difficulty I saw with this idea was that I could not go on indefinitely— or possibly even one more night— without sleep. If I was to play at being an elf, I would have to find a place to sleep during the day. And, I thought as my stomach growled yet again. I’ll have to make certain I have bread enough for myself.

  The sun had been down for hours when the final dish was washed, the table wiped, and the floor swept. The two maids who assisted Maggie with these tasks looked like wilted flowers when at last she excused them for the night. Looking around with a satisfied smile, Maggie untied her apron strings.

  “Tomorrow they’ll see I was right,” she said as she left the kitchen, shutting the door behind her.

  I listened as the key turned in the lock, but I did not come down for some time. All was dark now, save for the faintest glow from the embers of the fire. Night’s chill had reached the attic, driving away the warm air that had risen throughout the day. When all had been silent for several minutes, I made my way to the opening and swung one foot down. Trembling, I felt in the dark for the misplaced rungs staggered along the wall. The shadows made for a slow, treacherous descent, but at last my feet touched the bare floor.