Passages

by Passages (epub)

  In the end, it was enough.

  Rising to the Occasion

  Jennifer Brozek

  Tressa worked the bread dough from a sticky mess into a smooth, elastic ball. Her hands and fingers knew their work as if born to it. For five years she’d apprenticed to Mariah, head baker at the Rise & Shine Bakery in Haven. It was only in the last three years that she’d been allowed to produce pastries and other baked goods for sale—starting with simple pastries, moving up to more difficult bread, and now filled pies.

  As her hands kneaded and stretched the dough, intuiting how much more she would need to work it before allowing it to rest, she listened to the customer who’d just entered.

  “Good early morning, Mariah.”

  It was Herald Arden. Tressa smiled as she eavesdropped on the conversation, already anticipating what was to come. She’d made the cheese biscuits with extra care, hoping the handsome Herald would come in.

  “Good morning, Herald. Can I get you something special, or have you come for your usual?”

  “A little of both. I need to pick up a half dozen savory pasties for a day trip, but I can’t start the day without your special cheese biscuits. If I don’t have them at least twice a week, I fade away.”

  “Thank you so much. We all appreciate your compliments.”

  Tressa’s smile became a grin. She was the only one who made the cheese biscuits these days. Ever since Herald Arden declared them his favorite in the whole of Haven . . . “No . . . the whole of Valdemar . . .” she’d made certain to make them the best she could. She did this every morning, and today her work was rewarded.

  Someday, she would tell him that she made them and thought of him when she did. The jingling of the bell announced his departure. She’d missed his good-bye in her daydream.

  “I have to have one of those cheese biscuits or I’m going to fade away . . .” Soren, another apprentice baker, declared with a wave of his sudsy hand. “Oh, please, Baker Mariah . . .”

  Mariah hmphed at him as she bustled into the back. “You should be so lucky to get the same reaction.” Pointing a finger at Inga, the youngest and newest apprentice, she asked, “Why does Herald Arden come back week after week for his cheese biscuits?”

  Inga froze in her restocking of shelves. She glanced at Tressa, eyes wide. “Uh, because he likes them . . . or who makes them?”

  Tressa felt her cheeks burn at the faint praise.

  “No.” Mariah’s voice was flat and hard. “We aren’t the only bakery near the palace with good cheese biscuits. There are prettier bakers than lovely Tressa here.” The baker turned her keen gaze on Tressa. “Why does the Herald return here week after week?”

  Tressa knew what Mariah wanted . . . the lesson that was kneaded into them every day of every week of every month of their apprenticeship. “Because I make them with the same quality ingredients, the same attention to detail, and the same care to my work every single day. I have integrity as a baker and a person. It shows in my baked goods.”

  “Exactly. Quality, care, honesty, and attention to detail. We work to the best standard every single day because that is what our product and our customers deserve—whether they be royalty, Heralds, or common folk. Each one gets the same baking. . . . And why?” This time she pointed at Soren.

  He answered by rote but kept his voice light. Mocking the lesson would have dire consequences. “Because it’s our baking reputation that counts. We do our best in everything we do. Not just baking. Cleaning, too. Our skill. Our quality. Our goods. All of it can be trusted.”

  Tressa mouthed “Our skill. Our quality. Our goods.” as Soren spoke them.

  “Exactly. We bake to the best of our ability because that is our job. We stand on the honor of our character. We don’t skimp on the ingredients. We don’t slack on the work. We don’t say “Good enough.” We do our best every single day. We are the best we can be because that is our job. Our customers trust us, and because of that, they trust what we bake.” Mariah eyed Inga. “That is why Herald Arden comes to Rise & Shine for his cheese biscuits.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Tressa felt Mariah loom over her shoulder and eye the dough balls she was putting on the tray to proof.

  The older woman nodded with a soft grunt of approval. “Soon you’ll match me. But not yet, girl. Not yet. I still have a few tricks to teach you.”

  There was no need to answer her boss, even though Tressa felt the swell of pride that came with Mariah’s rare compliments. Still, one of these days, she was going to tell that handsome Herald who really did the baking he enjoyed so often.

  * * *

  * * *

  “I need you to close down the shop today and do the final clean,” Mariah said without preamble. “Inga got called home. Her mam is sick. You and Soren will pick up her duties.”

  Tressa wrinkled her nose at the thought as she wiped down the wooden counter she’d been working on. Closing down the shop was a good couple of hours of cleaning. It was a top down clean . . . starting with the baking racks and ending with the floor and trash.

  “None of that, now . . .” Mariah said with a kind smile. “A shop like this could all be yours someday. Will be. But until you make enough of a reputation to have apprentices of your own, you’ll be doing all your own cleaning—opening and closing. Long hours. Also, it’s a good reminder of where you’ve come from. Especially after this morning.”

  Tressa glanced up, saw the twinkle in the older woman’s eyes, and scowled. She felt the heat of her flush in her cheeks. “I won’t let his compliments go to my head. I make every biscuit the same.”

  Mariah cawed laughter. “Yeah, like every biscuit will be eaten by him!” She sobered. “But that’s the trick of it. Never forget this lesson.”

  Tressa tilted her head, not quite understanding.

  “You make every single biscuit as if that handsome Herald will eat it. At the time, it doesn’t matter to you if he does or not. It’s the potential that drives you to do your best. It’s how you should bake everything here. As if that one particular man is your sole customer. If you continue to bake everything as if it will be eaten by someone you love—” she glanced at Tressa’s cheeks, “—or at least admire . . . keep that integrity in everything you do, and you will never go wrong.”

  Tressa blinked at the realization. It was so simple, so obvious—and yet it had taken too many years to suddenly realize what had been right before her face. Her eyes wide, she nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now, clean up. Soren will take the extra to the Temple after you take what you want.” The baker tossed her apron to the counter and walked out.

  Tressa glanced at the leftovers and chose two things: a pasty and a cheese biscuit—just like what Herald Arden chose—and put them aside. She was glad Mariah had already left. She didn’t think she could handle anymore teasing today. Especially since it was true.

  One thing about this apprenticeship, though, she hadn’t gone hungry since she’d started it. For that, she was grateful. She lived in a tiny room in a boarding house with an indifferent landlady. After her parents died, she’d made do with whatever she could to keep her alive. It was pure luck that Mariah had seen her eyeing the stale bread meant for the slop before she’d succumbed to her stomach’s rumblings. She’d given Tressa a fresh meat pie, then directed her to the Temple.

  The next week, Tressa had returned to the shop and begged for work. She didn’t think the baker would give it to her, and the best she could hope for was a fresh biscuit. But she’d been wrong. Mariah had offered something more: the apprenticeship. With that, Tressa’s life had changed for the better.

  Mariah was the first person in a long time who cared who she was, what she did, and how she did it. It made Tressa work that much harder when she remembered what her life had once been like.

  With a sigh, she got to work. As always, she started with putting the
excess bread, pastries, and other baked goods in the basket for Soren to take when he finished his chores. It had taken her a full year of apprenticeship to realize that Mariah knew almost exactly what she sold each day and made enough to donate to the local church each night to help feed the poor. They’d never talked about it, but Tressa figured it was one way Mariah gave back to the community that served her well.

  It had been a long time since she’d closed down the shop for the day. Her back complained at the extra work, but Tressa continued to do her best. For three reasons: Mariah would notice if the shop wasn’t up to her standards in the morning; Because someday she would have a shop of her own, and she might not have an apprentice to take on the grunt work in the beginning; And, finally, if she did a bad job, both Soren and Inga would know it. Mariah would make an example of her. That was something she did not want to happen.

  She finished mopping the floor and opened the back door, then stopped. Soren was still out there, though she thought he’d left some time ago. He stood in the alleyway, looking around as he lifted the large basket they used to carry the leftovers to the Temple, gesturing it toward passersby. She almost called out to him, but she stepped back as he looked around with a shifty expression she’d never seen on his face.

  A woman in poor but well mended clothing came up and talked to him. While Tressa watched, Soren showed the woman a loaf of bread. She nodded, handed over a coin, and took the bread. Soren gave her a small bow and turned to come back into the shop.

  He stopped as he saw Tressa watching him. They stared at each other. Tressa’s mind whirled. Had Soren just sold the leftovers to someone on the street? The leftovers meant to feed the poor? She stepped back into the shop and waited.

  Soren dumped the crumbs from the basket into the alleyway, then sauntered on in. “I thought you’d gone home.”

  “I thought you’d gone to the Temple.” Tressa eyed the empty basket he put on the counter.

  “Well, you know . . .”

  “No. I don’t. What were you doing?”

  Soren looked away. “Wasn’t hurting no one. Just providing a service they need.”

  “Those goods were meant to feed the poor.”

  “My customers are poor. But they still have their pride. They don’t want to take from people who can’t even afford to pay a little.” Soren offered open hands, a plea to understand and accept.

  “But they are . . . you are . . . doing just that. I can’t believe you. That basket was meant for the poor that the Temple feeds. Not to line your pocket.”

  “Every single bakery in Haven sends their leftovers to the Temple. They aren’t wanting for anything. These people, my customers, can’t afford to pay full price, but they want to pay something. What’s the harm in helping them out, too?”

  Tressa frowned. “It’s stealing.”

  “No, it’s not. Not when Mariah’s giving it away. Nothing goes to waste. I swear. Anything I can’t sell, I take to the Temple. There’s no crime here.”

  Tressa shook her head. Part of her could almost see where he was coming from. Part of her knew what he’d been doing was against everything they’d been taught.

  Soren blinked at her, his eyes growing wet. “I’m sorry. Don’t tell her. My da’s sick. I just need to bring home a little extra for the medicine. My family needs the money, but I’ll cut you in. We can split what little I get. It’s not much.”

  Tressa retreated farther into the kitchen, horrified. “No.”

  He hung his head. “I’ll stop then. I’ll just go back to taking the leftovers to the Temple. I’ll stop. I promise. Please don’t tell on me. I need this apprenticeship. I’ll figure some other way to get the money.”

  She nodded, not sure what else to do. Watching him walk away, Tressa wondered when his dad had gotten sick and why he hadn’t said anything to them. She thought they were better friends than that. She was sure Mariah would help . . . if he just asked.

  * * *

  * * *

  The next couple of days were awkward and stiff between them, but everything seemed to go back to normal when Inga returned, her mother on the mend. Even so, Mariah made certain to send extra bakery goods home with the girl for a couple of days longer.

  Tressa had given Soren significant looks during all such exchanges between Mariah and Inga, but her friend and peer either didn’t see them or ignored her. He still did the main job of taking the shop leftovers to the Temple each night, and she’d stopped watching him leave in the evening. But the doubt remained. Though the awkward stiffness lessened between them, Tressa still didn’t trust Soren, and that bothered her.

  A fortnight after she’d caught him selling the Temple donations, Tressa decided to prove things to herself once and for all. Without thinking too deeply about what she was doing, she followed Soren. When he proved her wrong, she would beg his forgiveness, then convince him to talk to Mariah about his sick father.

  Soren walked directly toward the Temple, and Tressa smiled. Then he turned a corner before he got there, and her heart sank. Cutting through another alleyway, she followed him from a distance until he stopped. On the corner of a smaller street, he gestured the basket of bakery goods toward the people passing by. Some stopped. From the easy conversation between them and the exchange of coin for baked goods, this was his new spot for selling the leftovers. He hadn’t stopped. He’d lied and hidden his thievery from them all.

  Tressa walked away, her heart heavy and her mind confused. If he lied to her about this, did he lie about his dad being sick? Did it matter? Of course it did. Mariah would’ve helped him just as she’d helped Inga. Would it make any difference if she followed Soren home and discovered his dad ill and Soren too prideful to ask? He had still lied and taken from people who needed the food most.

  She sat on a low stone wall and watched people head home from the work day and tried not to feel anything. She didn’t know what to do now. Soren had lied, and he was still stealing from Mariah . . . from the poor. From someone. From someone like me before Mariah took a chance on me.

  Pulling a meat pie from her satchel, she stared at it. She’d made this one today. She’d graduated from just baked goods to filled ones to be sold. It made her proud that Mariah trusted her enough to do so.

  As she took a bite, she looked up and saw a snowy white horse wearing a white and blue bridle with a matching saddle blanket. There was no rider astride the beautiful horse. In Haven, that was not unusual. It was a Companion, the symbol of Haven’s—of Valdemar’s—goodness and a representative of the monarch. She continued to watch until the beautiful horse trotted out of sight on its way to do whatever it was that Companions did.

  At one time, she prayed that she’d be Chosen. To become a Herald like those in the legends. In the end, she wasn’t Chosen by a Companion but by Mariah. The apprenticeship was nearly at an end. She would have the pain, and the opportunity, to strike out on her own, and to adhere to no one’s standards but her own.

  Sensing eyes upon her, Tressa turned and saw a small, dirty child watching her. Or, rather, watching her barely touched meat pie. With a smile, she broke the pastry in half and offered the untouched bit to the little boy. As he took it and stuffed the entire thing in his mouth, she made a decision. Breaking off another piece, she handed it to the child before finishing her diminished meal.

  She had her own standards to adhere to.

  * * *

  * * *

  Feeling sick to her stomach, Tressa waited until almost the end of the day to touch Mariah’s arm and whisper, “I need to talk to you before you leave. After we close the shop. Alone.”

  Her mentor and boss tilted her head before nodding. A few minutes later, she sent Inga home early with another basketful of goods for the family—just to make sure all was well. The two of them worked together to close the shop after she sent Soren off with the leftover donations.

  When they got to the end
of the cleaning and Mariah came back in from throwing out the trash, Tressa didn’t know if she could go through with it. She scrubbed the clean floor all the more, trying to find the words.

  “Well, then,” Mariah asked, “what is it? Are you getting married to our favorite Herald?”

  Tressa shook her head. She couldn’t find it in her to smile at the jest. “It’s . . .” She took a breath and looked Mariah in the face. “It’s Soren.”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s selling the temple donations. He said he was doing it for money for his family. I caught him a couple weeks ago. He promised to stop.”

  The older woman crossed her arms, her face a neutral mask. “But?”

  “But he didn’t.” Tressa shrugged. “I . . . couldn’t trust his word. I don’t know why not. I followed him yesterday. I’m sorry. But I found him doing it again. Just in a different place.”

  Mariah nodded. “I thought there was something between you two. Why couldn’t you trust his word?”

  “He said his dad was sick. That’s why he needed the money. But we both saw how good you were to Inga and her mom. If he was actually sick . . . Soren could’ve talked to you. Should’ve talked to you.”

  “Would it matter if his da was sick?”

  Tressa felt her cheeks flush. “Yes! No. I mean . . . not really. He should’ve done things the right way. He’s taking advantage of you and your generosity. If his dad was sick . . . or is sick, we could help. He should’ve told us. Told you. As it is, he’s stealing from those who have nothing to give. I don’t care if every bakery in Haven gave all they had left over to the same temple. You bake enough to donate to them every night . . . and he stole it from them. From you.”

  Mariah nodded. “Why are you so upset about this?”

  “Because it’s against everything you’ve ever taught us. To have integrity in everything we do. To be honest with each other and ourselves.” The tears came despite her trying to keep them at bay.