Chapter Six
Within the hour, Alora had become blissfully absorbed in her work.
She'd finished separating the flowers—which weren’t terrible picks when considering what she'd been subjected to in acquiring them—and they’d each been re-potted in attractive clay pots.
She'd planned to hang them on the outside wall in a random fashion, and once finished, and pending the arrival of his oven, Mr. Whitters’ new bakery would be open for business.
Without any bias in the matter, she was excited. His cinnamon buns were frosted, sugar-infected delights.
As if summoning the confection, Mr. Whitters approached on his bicycle, tufts of white hair lifting in sync with the uneven terrain of the cobbles. He slowed as he neared, smiling at where she knelt, finishing his window boxes.
“Miss Pennigrim, this is picturesque!”
Alora beamed, brushing off her gardening gloves. “Thank you, Mister Whitters. It’s really coming together.”
She watched him dig within the bicycle’s basket and retrieve a pastry box.
“For you,” he said and placed it in her hands before she could protest. Turning, he stared at the clay pots lined in a row, hands clasped at his back. “Would you like me to fetch the ladder?”
“Oh no, you’ve done enough,” said Alora, inhaling the scents of cinnamon and cream.
The old man chuckled before waving her off. Heading inside, he retrieved the ladder while she deposited the pastries in her wagon. He settled it against the wall, both feet on the rungs, when he turned to Alora and said, “Hand me up one of those pots.”
“Mister Whitters, please. I’m sure you’ve more important things to do. What is the status of your oven?”
“Be here in a week. A pot, Miss Pennigrim.”
Alora huffed. Seeing no help for it, she handed the baker his flowers. He scurried to the top, where he hung it carefully and without mishap. Moving back down, he said, “Another.”
Shaking her head, Alora selected one from the line. “You know, Mister Whitters,” she began, deciding on which to give him next. “I think—”
“Miss Pennigrim!”
Alora leapt back on instinct as a pot whistled past her nose and shattered on the ground.
“Oh, my dear Miss Pennigrim! Are you injured? Please say no!”
Alora shook her head, attempting to calm her jagged breaths. Blood pounded in her ears. “Um, no. No, Mister Whitters, I’m fine.” She bent to retrieve the broken pieces of the pot as the old baker hurried down the ladder.
“Careful of those edges,” he said.
With the remains of the pot stacked precariously in her hands, she smiled at him. If it was a touch shaky, well, rightfully so. She’d nearly gotten her head split apart. “I’ll just pop over to the wagon. I have a spare pot in case of such things.”
Mr. Whitters nodded, clearly shaken himself. His wide eyes darted around the mess of soil. “I’ll fetch a broom then.”
“Sure. Good thinking.”
Alora darted off to the wagon she’d parked out of the way on an infrequently used side street. She didn’t have another pot. It would have been the smart thing to do, but she’d not anticipated needing one, and it wasn’t as if she’d the space of her own shop yet to keep spares for later use.
“Almost finished here, George,” she said in an attempt to placate what must be a bored donkey, his ears fallen back. But when she circled around to his face, she discovered he was asleep.
Smiling affectionately at his drooped eyelids, she adjusted the broken pot in her grip.
Then she imagined it whole. Opening her eyes, the pot rested in her hands, good as new.
She stared down at it in relief, brushing a bit of dirt from its surface where her glove had smudged it, when a wash of regret doused her cold.
Weeks had gone by, even entire months, where she’d successfully managed to repress her enchantment, and today she’d used it repeatedly.
If she didn’t want to be found out and her business discredited before it’d even truly began, then she needed to regather her self-control.
With such a vivid brain, she could well imagine the range of reactions she would receive.
Fear, over what she could bring into the world on a whim.
Anger, from who knows how many dubious previous clients she’d worked alongside.
Envy, of those who wished her gift for themselves and cursed her for it.
And rejection, the worst of all. Because what vendors would work with her knowing she could duplicate their products with a singular thought?
She’d like to say she’d never do it, but the proof sat literally and fully intact in her hands.
She shook herself. No, it will be fine. She’d manage herself a little better, avoid any and all distractions. She’d get her shop.
She made to turn back when a muffled shout sounded from down the empty street.
Abruptly cut off, Alora couldn’t decide whether it’d come from indoors or one of the many shadowed stoops.
She held her breath, listening a moment more, but when nothing else came of it, she decided it must have been an accident.
Someone stubbing a toe on a bit of furniture and now nursing it back to health. Maybe a tumble down the stairs.
A hulking shadow shifted down the way. Alora stilled.
When it moved again, she backed up a step herself.
It could simply be someone utilizing their back door, a shortcut to whatever part of town they wished to venture to, but the prickle on the back of her neck warned her maybe not.
A sudden thwack rent the air, the sound of something being hit, and Alora decided right then that she’d run for the constable.
Better to be wrong than to have done nothing at all.
Her lips clamped down around a yelp when a hand gripped her shoulder. She spun around to the familiar face of the baker, his expression harried.
“Miss Pennigrim. Best you come back out of there.”
Eyes wide and shifting between the now-motionless shadow beyond and Mr. Whitters, Alora followed him. Safe in front of his bakery, she rushed to ask, “Did you hear that too? Is someone in danger?”
“Yes,” said the baker, his sparse eyebrows downturned in worry. “But it’s not for you to investigate.”
“Well that much I know,” agreed Alora, setting down the pot. “My thought was to get the constable.”
Mr. Whitters shook his head. “You certainly could. But it won’t do any good.”
“Why ever not?” Alora was sure her own eyebrows must be buried in her hair.
“Urchins, Miss Pennigrim. Not even the constable will mess with those miscreants.” When Alora only continued staring, he wrung his hands. “Call them what you will, a gang or a cult, but it doesn’t change the fact they’re dangerous, and you don’t want them noticing you.”
“A gang? In Enver? What are they? Thieves?”
The baker shrugged. “Not as far as anyone can tell. Truth is, not much is known about them, and every victim of theirs doesn’t remember. Some have lost entire years of their lives!”
“Mister Whitters! I’ve lived here almost two years. Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”
“It isn’t talked about in polite day-to-day conversation. Rather, I’m more curious how none of your friends have whispered of it. It’s quite a topic of fascination among the young folk who grew up here; it’s been ongoing nearly a decade at least.”
Alora’s mouth pressed firmly closed. Well, that was all the reasoning she required.
She’d not had the time to make any close friends.
Though, if she ever decided to be more truthful about the matter, it was more that she’d not even tried.
Becoming a hometown pariah at a young age for a most unfortunate incident had certainly done a number on her social confidence.
“Should someone at least have a doctor see whomever we heard?”
“Yes, yes,” agreed Mr. Whitters. “I’ll do that. Leave you to—” He eyed the ladder with some discomfort.
“I won’t be long.”
“And neither will I,” said the baker, a crooked finger raised in the air.
As he swung onto his bicycle, Alora flung herself into her work. She must be long finished by the time he returned lest he think to help her again.
It ended up being a hard finish to meet, however, with her inability to quit peering into the shadows every few seconds.
A gang stealing memories in Enver. Sounded a lot like thievery to her.
What a horrid idea.
But also…
What a mystery.