Chapter 11
Matthias had not slept.
He told himself it was because of the cocoa.
Near midnight the night before, when his arms were burning with the effort of grinding the cocoa paste in the stone cup, he had finally started to see some progress.
The dark paste had caught the lamplight with a faint sheen instead of the dull, gritty matte he had been fighting for weeks.
Excited as he was to see the change, he had been physically unable to continue moving his arm in the small, circular motions.
So he had scraped the cocoa into a clean jar, sealed it, and placed it in a dark corner of the cellar where it would remain safe and cool until he had the chance to work with it again.
He had returned to his room, his mind mulling over the possibilities that the smooth paste presented. But if he was honest with himself, those were not the thoughts that had plagued his mind and kept him awake for the rest of the night.
No. He could not unsee the way that Una had fled from the bakehouse.
He had watched her flee from the garden—twice that first afternoon—with her nose turned and her back straight. That had been a matter of pride, a performance almost. But last night had been different.
He had seen the way her hands shook as she gathered her tools, dumping a perfectly good mash of fresh herbs into the wastebin without a second glance.
And she had picked up the plain loaf, the one Renaud had made her, and clutched it to her chest as though it were the most precious thing in the world to her.
He had spent the better part of the last few weeks studying her, testing the way she reacted to things the same way he flicked a drop of water into a pot to read how hot the copper was.
And whatever had happened last night, was the most real thing he had ever witnessed in her. He had seen her upset, angry, indifferent, even happy—that morning when the crow had eaten out of her hand. Last night, she appeared . . . almost broken.
When Matthias arrived at the bakehouse, just before dawn as Renaud had instructed, he noticed instantly that Una was not present among the crowd of flouriers like she usually was.
Instead, Master Cabot had waved him over to the large center counter and set him to work on weighing out the flour for the evening loaves.
As he carefully worked the flour and water into a feasible dough, his mind continued to replay everything he had seen the night before.
The only odd thing about the evening had been the way she had eaten that loaf her father had made for her. She had enjoyed eating it.
He had, of course, seen her eat over the last few weeks.
But it was never something from the bakehouse.
She loved to gnaw on carrots, or sip a bowl of soup.
She also frequently came into the bakehouse late at night to brew a cup of fresh herbal tea.
But she always left as soon as the tea was made, he assumed she enjoyed drinking it but he had never witnessed it.
The bread her father had made her, though. She was delighted by it. He had watched her savor the scent, relish every bite.
Then, something had happened and everything changed. She fled.
Working the large amount of dough was difficult with his arms already sore from grinding the cocoa late into the night, but Matthias kept at it until the flour was properly incorporated.
He kept looking up, hoping to see Una enter the bakehouse, even though her short stint as his teacher was over.
He had not been prepared for it to end. Other than his notebook of ideas for new flavors and recipes, she was the interesting part of his day.
He had grown fond of her predictable unpredictability.
And while she had yet to even come close to trying any of the myriad of things he had baked under her watch, he was confident that he would break her.
No, not break her. Just get past the stony exterior she hid behind. Get to the girl who had been excited to feed a crow. The girl who had fled in terror from the bakehouse last night.
When several batches of bread dough were settled into large baskets to proof, Master Cabot had sent Matthias to break his fast.
Slipping out of his apron, Matthias did not head toward the kitchen. Instead, he moved toward the back door of the bakehouse, out toward the herb garden. He had not seen Una pass through the bakehouse to get there, but there were several other ways to get into the outdoor space.
He stopped just outside the door, standing in the shade of the wall behind him while wiping the perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve.
The sun had only been up for an hour, but the air in the garden was already hot and humid.
He had been hoping for a reprieve from the bakehouse heat, but it appeared as though summer days had officially arrived.
Looking across the bushy plants, he saw what—or whom—he had been looking for.
She was sitting on the wrought-iron bench near the back of the garden. The leaves of the apple tree shading her from the rising sun.
In her lap sat a round, crusty loaf of bread. Even from a distance, Matthias could see the dark specks of chopped herbs that flecked each piece she tore from the loaf. Her father's loaf.
But she was not eating it. She was creating a pile of small pieces on her skirt in front of her.
On the far side of the bench, watching her hands with rapt attention, stood the crow.
Mathias did not step forward to reveal himself. So as not to frighten the crow, of course. She had told him that crows remember faces.
Una held out her hand, palm up, filled with pieces of bread. "There," she said, her quiet voice just barely audible from a distance. "I hope you are hungry."
The crow stepped forward with a small hop, bobbing his head in a way that accentuated the movement.
"You may as well have all of it," Una said, keeping her hand perfectly still.
The crow stopped moving as soon as he was close enough to tilt forward and peck at a piece of bread.
Matthias looked quickly to Una's face. Her eyes were distant. The crow was literally eating out of her hand and she was not even smiling.
"Tilde once said I eat like a horse," she said. "Carrots and oats." She looked down at the crow, still not smiling. "I would rather eat like a bird. Birds eat so much better, look at you." She crooned the last few words.
The crow was pecking at the bread, eating it right there instead of flying off with his spoils.
"He made this for me," Una continued. "He even boiled the rue with the water." She lifted up a piece of the bread with her hand, examining it between her fingers. Her face was slowly beginning to scrunch as though she was holding back tears.
Matthias reached for the wall behind him, slowly backing away. But he did not want to move too quickly, did not want her or the crow to notice his presence.
The bush of sage in front of him, warmed by the hot sun, was emitting a fragrant, peppery scent. He could feel sweat starting to drip down the side of his nose and he wiped his face against his shoulder, wanting to avoid a sneeze.
The crow had finished pecking at his piece, having dropped most of it in a crumbly mess at his feet. He leaned forward to pick up a fresh chunk from her outstretched hand.
"Yes," Una said. "Eat it all. At least one of us should have it. I know you love it, you don't have to pretend with me."
Matthias sidestepped toward the open bakehouse door, remembering something else from the night before.
When Renaud handed her the bread, he had listed the ingredients he hadn't used. Cream. Butter. Sugar. Eggs. The ingredients that would have elevated the simple sourdough loaf to a true work of codex mastery.
Matthias narrowed his eyes. His body was covered in a slight sheen of sweat from the bright summer sun. But Una was wearing a full dress, her sleeves covering her arms all the way down to her wrists.
Cream. Butter. Sugar. Eggs.
His mind ran through the notes he had taken—on her—in his notebook. The list of foods she had refused to eat.
Cream. Butter. Sugar. Eggs.
He stopped moving as his mind worked frantically. He was still staring at her across the fragrant herbs, but he had entirely forgotten where he was standing.
The choux pastry. The croissants. The tart.
Even the chocolate sphere he had made for her.
All of them were rich, sweet, and creamy.
All of them she had refused to eat. She hadn't been too proud to eat the cocoa.
She hadn't even wanted to eat the gloire cake, but the king had offered it to her from his own fork.
He had written the list as a critic's contempt. But he had been the critic filled with contempt.
She wasn't just refusing to eat those foods, she couldn't eat them.
Matthias' eyes focused in on her face. Drops of water were sliding down her cheeks. Tears, maybe. But the whole of her face was shiny with sweat.
Matthias stepped forward, his plan to leave before she noticed him forgotten.
The bird noticed him first, flapping his wings in alarm and opening his beak to let out a loud squawk of alarm. The movement caused him to drop the bread from his mouth, but he was already several feet into the air, escaping to safety.
Una jumped to her feet, her shoulders straightening as the sadness on her face instantly transformed to anger. Pieces of bread scattered to the ground at her feet.
"You!" She all but snarled the word.
"Your sleeves," Matthias said, pointing to her hands which were clenched into tight fists.
Her sleeves were buttoned to the wrist. She was even wearing a shawl, wrapped over her shoulders so tightly that it covered all the skin up to her neck.
When she sat in the bakehouse, day after day, her neck stiff and not a button out of place, he had taken it for vanity. Everyone else, from the masters, to the scullery staff, wore loose sleeves and open collars, sprinkling water on themselves to manage the sweltering heat from the massive oven.
But last night, her sleeves had been rolled back, relaxed. Until she had panicked and frantically buttoned them up before she left the room.
"You scared Sable," she said, her voice quite angry. "Again."
He had stopped walking, standing directly in front of her, still looking down at her hands.
She could not step back, crushed against the bench as she was. But she crossed her arms.
"What are you doing?" she snapped.
His eyes finally found her face.
"Shouldn't you be in the bakehouse?" She stepped to the side, moving to get away from him. "Helping Master Cabot with the evening loaves?"
Matthias reached out, blocking her path but not touching her. "Show me your arm," he said. He did not realize how demanding his tone was until he heard the sound of his own voice.
"No," she said, vehemently. She moved to brush past his hand, but he reflexively gripped her upper shoulder.
She flinched and he immediately let go.
Her eyes went wide at her own reaction, as though she realized she had revealed too much.
For the smallest fraction of a moment, the panic from last night appeared in her eyes. Then she turned and was running away from him.
"Wait!" he yelled. "Una!"
She stopped, keeping her back to him. In all their weeks together, he had never called her by her name before.
"Why do you keep your arms covered?" he asked. He kept his voice gentle, mimicking the tone she used with the crow.
She didn't turn back toward him. Nor did she keep walking away.
Matthias took a step toward her. "I had a friend," he said, talking slowly. "Back in Kanask. He ate a rare mushroom once, while out hunting. He came back as red as a berry, from head to toe. He never ate a mushroom again, of any type."
Una's shoulders dropped slightly.
Matthias was standing directly behind her now. "Show me your arm, Una?" he asked.
She slowly turned toward him. Her eyebrows were drawn tight and her mouth was pinched. Even with her face tilted down as it was, her nose still managed to point at the sky defiantly.
Her arms were still crossed.
Matthias reached forward, gently slipping his left hand under her curled fingers.
She neither helped him nor resisted him.
He slowly tugged at her hand, pulling it away from her body and naturally uncrossing her arms.
She looked up at his eyes, her gaze less defiant. She bit her lower lip.
Matthias looked down again. With his free hand, he gently loosened the button at her cuff, fumbling a few times before slipping it free.
Gently—remembering the way she had flinched when he grabbed her shoulder—he slipped his fingers under the cuff and pushed her sleeve back up her arm toward her elbow.
He had only gone a few inches before he saw what he had been expecting.
The delicate skin of her inner wrist was covered in angry, red welts that ran up her arm.
Matthias looked back up at her eyes, as understanding and pain washed over him.