Chapter 9
MARIS
By mid-morning, I know something is wrong.
The first sign is Dora the weaver. She comes as far as the bakery window, looks in, and then turns and walks away without slowing down. She has bought bread here every morning for two years without missing a day unless she was ill or traveling. I watch her go and tell myself it means nothing.
The second sign is the Hatch boy, who comes for his family's weekly order and won't meet my eyes when I hand it over.
He takes the parcel, puts his coins on the counter instead of passing them to my hand, and leaves without the usual comment about whether I have any of the cinnamon rolls his mother likes.
By the lunch hour I've had four customers instead of the usual twelve. Two of those four stood in the doorway long enough to reconsider, then came in anyway, bought quickly, and left.
I keep the counter clean and the remaining loaves arranged and my face neutral, and I watch the square through the front window.
People pass. Several slow as they approach, glance toward the bakery, and find reasons to cross to the other side of the lane.
A woman I've sold bread to for three years pulls her child close as she passes as if the building itself is something to steer around.
Elin is upstairs, where I've kept her all morning. She hasn't complained. She's been quieter than usual, which is its own small worry.
Brennor Clay comes in just before the noon hour, which is later than his usual stop.
He fills the doorframe, broad and flour-dusted, his grey-streaked beard grown longer since winter.
He sets his basket on the counter and looks at the selection without speaking, which isn't unusual.
Brennor communicates mostly through silence and occasional grunts of approval.
I wrap his standing order — two loaves of dark bread, a half-dozen sweet rolls that his wife likes — and set them in his basket before he's asked.
"Brennor." I busy my hands with the paper and twine. "What are people saying?"
He looks up from the basket.
"You were here yesterday," I say. "And the day before. You hear things I don't."
He's quiet for a moment. His big hands settle on the counter edge. "The livestock," he says finally. "More found this morning. Farmer Geld, on the north pasture. Four sheep."
"They've been finding them for a while."
"They have." He picks up one of the sweet rolls and examines it as if checking for flaws. "But this morning someone started saying they know what's causing it."
I wait.
"Dark magic." He sets the roll down. "That's what they're saying. Something drawing life out of the animals. Ritual work, maybe, or a cursed object. Or—" He stops.
"Or what?"
He meets my eyes. Brennor is not a man who softens things, which is one of the reasons I've always trusted him. He doesn't do it now. "Or a cursed creature living close by. Something that draws that kind of energy naturally, without meaning to."
The bakery is very quiet. Outside, the square goes about its business.
"That's what they're saying," I repeat.
"Some of them." He picks up the basket. "Not everyone. Plenty of sensible people in this town, Maris. But the ones who aren't sensible are talking loudly, and the sensible ones aren't talking much at all, which amounts to the same problem."
"Who started it?"
He considers the question. "Hard to say. It's the kind of thing that seems to come from everywhere at once, once it gets going." He adjusts the basket on his arm. "Porwick's wife was telling it yesterday evening. Don't know who she heard it from."
I count out his change and set it on the counter. He takes it without counting it, which means he's more unsettled than he's letting on.
"Brennor." I hold his gaze. "Do you believe it?"
He's quiet for long enough that I get my answer before he speaks. "I believe there are things I don't understand," he says. "And I believe you run an honest bakery and have done for years, and that counts for something."
"Brennor." I catch him before grabs his basket, already wearing the look of a man who knows what's coming. "Does any of it involve Elin?"
"Maris—"
"Does it?"
The basket handle creaks in his grasp. His eyes cast to the floor. Looks at the wall. His beard is getting more grey than brown, I notice, and his eyes carry the discomfort of someone who cares about a person and is about to tell them something they don't want to hear.
"Brennor." I grab his basket off the counter and from his grasp and hold it at my side.
He exhales through his nose. "There's talk," he says, "that the child is the source. That her nature — what she is — draws dark energy. Corrupts things nearby." He holds out his hand for the bags without looking at me. "That's what some are saying."
I put the bags in his hand. "Thank you for telling me."
He nods once, tight and uncomfortable, and goes out.
I stay close to the counter and listen to the door settle. The square outside is early-evening quiet, the market mostly packed down, a few people crossing toward home. Ordinary. Peaceful. Completely unaware of how much has changed in three days.
Soft footsteps on the stairs bring me back.
Elin comes around the corner with her blanket trailing behind her and her cloth doll tucked under her chin.
Her curls have come loose from where I braided them this morning and her scarf is askew.
She stops in the middle of the kitchen and looks at me with the attention she usually reserves for things that are broken or wrong.
"Is everything okay?" she asks.
I cross to her and crouch down, smoothing her curls gently over her ears, tucking the scarf back into place. She holds still and lets me do it.
"We'll be okay," I tell her.
She studies my face for another moment, decides to accept this, and wanders toward her stool with the blanket dragging behind her.
I watch her climb up and arrange the blanket around herself and the doll, and I let myself think the thing I've been pushing aside since Brennor walked out.
We could leave. It wouldn't be simple — the bakery, the equipment, three years of regulars and routine and a building I inherited from my grandmother.
Starting over somewhere larger, somewhere with enough diversity that Elin's appearance wouldn't draw this kind of attention.
It would cost everything I've built. But I would do it. I would do it today if I had to.
What bothers me most isn't the leaving. It's the speed.
Three days from a neighbor's startled look to a full town narrative about curses and dark magic.
Rumors don't move that fast on their own.
Fear can spread quickly, but this has direction.
Someone is pointing it. Someone who benefits from the town looking at Elin instead of looking at something else.
The front door opens.
Kaedrin steps inside and closes it behind him. He takes in the mostly empty room, the turned sign, my position at the counter with the cloth moving in circles over a surface I've already wiped twice.
"Bakery's closed," I say.
"I'm not here for bread." He stays near the door, which I'll give him credit for.
"So I've heard before." I move down the counter to the next section and keep wiping.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." The cloth moves in a tight circle. "I'm not comfortable around you. That's all."
"That's not all." He says it without heat or challenge. Just a statement of fact from a man who watches people for a living. "And you're entitled to your privacy."
I set the cloth down and look at him.
"But," he continues, "if something is happening in this town that concerns you or Elin, I can offer protection. For you both, and the bakery."
Elin looks up from her stool at the sound of her name. She registers Kaedrin and straightens slightly, suddenly more interested in the room.
I look at Kaedrin's face. He's heard it, then. The rumors, the cursed child, all of it. He wouldn't be here otherwise, not at closing time, not with that careful steadiness in his expression.
I take up the cloth again. Put it down again.
"The bakery," I say finally. "Not us. We're fine."
"The bakery, then."
He waits. I look at the window, at the empty square outside, at the counter I've cleaned into submission.
"Fine," I say. "But you stay outside."
Something that might almost be agreement crosses his face. He nods once, turns, and lets himself out.
I stand near the counter, looking at the closed door for a moment. Then I look at Elin, who is watching me with wide eyes.
"Was that the grey man?" she asks.
"Yes."
She considers this. "Good," she says, and goes back to her doll.