Chapter 3
“Three more bowls!”
Maggie’s head jerked as though she was yanked out of a daze.
For the fifth time that evening, her mind drifted far away in the matter of seconds.
The life she left behind still lingered on the forefront of her thoughts, despite having abandoned it a few weeks prior.
All she could do was wonder what happened to Hart’s Crumbs, and how fast Regina got her grimy paws on it.
Everything she earned with her own determination was left behind, from the display cases to the simple wooden spatula.
No matter how small or how large, Maggie worked hard to see it through, but now she saw none of it.
Loud and clapping footsteps echoed through the grimy kitchen.
Swinging doors made from rotting wood gave off a musty smell whenever the slightest of breezes crept through the cramped room.
The speaker grew closer and carried her own untasteful scent along with her with every passing step.
Maggie did not need to raise her head to know the woman, who was also her boss, was coming to reprimand her or demand more work to be done.
“Are you lost, girl?” the tavern wench croaked.
She always spoke as though there was something trapped in the back of her throat, but there was no use in trying to get it out.
Rags that passed for clothes and a spotted apron covered the aging woman’s wide limbs.
Stringy hair that Maggie assumed to have once been a sharp, corn-like yellow fell down her angular face.
Though her voice might’ve told a different story, the wench’s eyes remained deadpan and empty, as though there wasn’t anything within them.
She snapped her long fingers. “If I catch you daydreaming like this again,” she hissed, “you’ll be back on the streets, looking for another sympathetic soul to take you in!”
Perhaps a threat like that might’ve rolled seamlessly off Maggie’s shoulders when she was young and careless, but she was passing forty in age, and the life she lived was not at all what she needed, much less wanted.
To think about having to spend another day sleeping in alleyways or shadowy coves beneath trees sent a shiver down Maggie’s spine.
Everything about working in the tavern drove her mad.
Each night, she finished her shift feeling hot, miserable, and sore.
Her body ached, down to the tips of her fingers and pads of her feet.
Sweat clung to her constantly, no matter what she was doing.
And the despair of her lost home remained on the forefront, always darkening whatever thought she wished to have.
Once, she was grateful for the tavern wench.
The soulless woman couldn’t have been all bad, not if she pitied Maggie’s state enough to give her a job and an accompanying bed to sleep in.
By the time she realized what exactly her job was going to be, it was far too late for Maggie to think about choosing otherwise.
Who was she to choose, anyways? Maggie sighed into the steaming pot in front of her.
A fire nipped below the cauldron, keeping the hefty pot at a simmering temperature.
Vegetables freshly picked and bought from a local farmer stewed within the soup, dull colors poking out over the rustic and bubbling surface.
A deep aroma of fresh herbs and toasted spices filled the stuffed and suffocating room with the slightest bit of pleasantness.
Bundles of sage, rosemary, and dill floated along the top, only to be pushed back beneath the soup’s waves with the back of Maggie’s wooden spoon.
It was a simple stew, brought to life with a few mundane ingredients she found lying around.
Staring down into it, Maggie hoped to feel the slightest bit of an uptick in her happiness, but could only see her depressed expression within it.
Brewing stews for a rowdy and smelly tavern population was not at all what she wished to do with her talents.
Instantly, right on cue, Hart’s Crumbs came rushing back to her.
Without even meeting the wench’s eye, Maggie poured three bowls effortlessly, lost in her thoughts as she passed them along to the mumbling woman.
As the wench went through the swinging doors another time, Maggie stole a glance over her shoulder.
In one of the grimy, dark corners of the musty kitchen, Sunny curled into a tight ball as he slept.
Surprisingly, the once stray cat never once let her side throughout her roaming.
Perhaps it was because he had lived that sort of life much longer than she ever had, but craved a companion all the same.
She knew that the feline needed his rest as much as she did, however, and Maggie found solace in the fact that the tavern gave Sunny a chance to sleep soundly.
That was the only positive thing she could come up with.
A few more moments passed before the wench returned, her hands full of emptied bowls.
With an unchanging expression, the wench tossed them into the dirtied sinks, swiping her long hands across her apron a few times, till she seemed satisfied.
Much to Maggie’s surprise, the woman did not demand more bowls at first, but simply crept closer.
“You’ve got a weird look on your face every now and then,” the wench said suddenly. “But I’ll tell you this: your stew remains a hit with my patrons. I’ve never seen the inn full of full bellies and happy faces.” She shook her head wistfully.
Maggie watched the wench and tried to find a polite smile to give.
Not one bit of her found joy in making the food or tossing out bowl upon bowl.
But, there was nothing better than hearing about full stomachs.
There was pleasure in that, and she would always strive to find it.
Before she could thank the wench for her compliments, the woman kept up the conversation all on her own.
“I don’t think I’ve had a cook as good as you before,” the woman continued with her arms crossed. She looked suspicious, for a fleeting second, before she shrugged it off. “Those same old boring ingredients have never tasted better.”
Maggie opened her mouth to speak again.
“And I’ll tell you,” the woman interjected, not even noticing Maggie’s attention on her as she began to pace through the miniscule kitchen, “there aren’t many fine gentlemen that pass through here, but there’s one out there now and he won’t stop raving about your stew.
The fella went on to start trying to ask me questions about you.
” The woman scoffed, and added a snarky comment under her breath.
“Almost have half a mind to kick him out for it.” The wench shook her head and brushed off the thought. “Anywho.”
Maggie’s ears perked up. A fine gentleman, she thought to herself.
Asking questions about me? She almost shook her head, almost told herself that she had to have heard the wench wrong.
There was no way that any of the patrons in that grimy tavern were up to good, who truly meant their words, who weren’t already stunted by a drink or two.
Maggie could hardly believe it, though the voice in her head begged for her to cling to every word.
“There’s that weird look again,” the wench snapped as she waved a hand across Maggie’s face. “Get me some more bowls, will you? And wipe that expression off your face!”
Ripped from her reverie, Maggie quickly fetched her ladle and spooned the stew into another trio of bowls.
The steaming liquid sloshed around as she worked, angry and impatient mumbles filling the silence as the wench waited.
Once her arms were full of bowls, she spun around and stomped towards the swinging doors.
Maggie let the ladle clatter to the counter beside her.
The position she was expected to sit in for hours in front of the cauldron left her body an aching mess each coming night.
The way her back remained crooked, her arms raised above the lip of the pot to avoid getting burned - all of it resulted in her feeling more and more miserable.
The kitchen was far too small for an extra chair, or even a real stove to work out of.
The job managed to give her a few coins so far, and the wench agreed to let Maggie reside in one of the inn’s bedrooms. Perhaps she should be more grateful, to shove her complaints away quicker, but she found it almost impossible.
Everything that could have been was in her hands for months, and she watched it slip away all the same.
How does one forget such a dreadful thing?
“Mrow.”
Maggie threw a look over her shoulder. Sunny watched her with a lazy expression, his eyes slowly glancing towards the unmoving doors. Somehow, he managed to speak so much without uttering a single word.
I know a way to forget.
“One look wouldn’t hurt, would it?” Maggie asked.
Sunny merely stared.
She pressed her lips together and began to stand.
There was no turning back now. As her limbs moaned and creaked with each move she made, Maggie slowly but surely made her way out from behind the smoldering cauldron and crept towards the doors.
Outside of the kitchen, a rowdy tavern filled to the brim with men and very little women lay on the other side.
They were loud and full of songs, chattering as others sang at the top of their lungs.
Maggie spotted the wench across the room, collecting more emptied bowls, but that wasn’t her concern.
There was a sliver of light within it all, and it was in the gentleman the wench mentioned.
What harm was there in stealing a glance at the man who so insistently complimented her food?
Though Maggie knew there wasn’t anything outwardly desirable about her physical self – nevermind the disgusting state she was in within the tavern – she could linger in her own fantasy world as long as she desired.
Maggie pushed open the door gently, careful not to gather any attention from the nearby patrons.
Much to Maggie’s surprise, it wasn’t hard at all to spot the mystery man.
The tavern was filled to the brim with rowdy patrons, most in the older ages and missing plenty of teeth.
They devoured their food and poured even more ale down their throats to wash it down.
The wench described the man to be somewhat fine, someone who stood out from the rest of her guests, but that was practically an understatement.
In the center of the dining area, where most of the tables were occupied with parties of people, a man sat alone within it all.
He was hunkered down over the bowl like a starving animal, feasting into the stew without coming up for air.
He remained like that till he couldn’t inhale any more, and lifted his head.
Oh.
Maggie’s heart skipped a few beats.
Dirty-blond hair with some greying strands at his temples.
He must have been in the sun from a very young age, just judging by how tan his skin was.
It reminded Maggie of the forest, of the earthy ground.
A growing beard lined his chin and began to course up the sides of his face, a matching mustache above his lip.
Pale white scars stood out from his skin like tattoos, faded with age but never leaving.
All the details came together to form a rather handsome man.
The longer Maggie stared, the more she realized how close in age they must’ve been.
I guess that’s what a forty year old could look like if they lived in a world where they could take care of themselves.
Either way, he was a fine looking man. The thought made her heart race, though she didn’t even want to think about why.
The man dug a hand through his hair and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief.
Though subtle, they were small movements of class, something that wasn’t entirely common in the wench’s tavern.
Maggie’s attention was caught further, her curiosity nabbed like a cat.
Unable to take her eyes away, she swore the man to have been some sort of royalty, or even a knight of some sorts.
No regular man looked so noble, no regular man could be so effortlessly and inhumanly handsome.
His eyes snapped up and caught her own instantly.
Blue, like the morning sky, before clouds dared to streak by. Blue, like the oceans. Blue, like the wildflowers that once sprung up alongside her bedroom window.
Blue, her favorite color.
No matter how embarrassed she was, Maggie was locked into the man’s stare.
His eyes were unlike anything she had seen before, and it felt like a crime to stop taking them in.
Heat spread across her cheeks and nose, undoubtedly making her look as red as a ripened tomato.
Maggie nervously twirled a thick strand of hair around her fingers, entirely aware of how foolish and embarrassing she must’ve looked to the handsome stranger.
An unmistakable grin tugged at the man’s lip.
Maggie’s knees wobbled.
What am I even thinking?
She dove back inside as fast as she could, ignoring how the door swung behind her.
Slamming her back against the wall, Maggie drew in shuddering breaths.
She did not need a looking glass to know how she must’ve looked to him.
The chef he complimented and sought out was nothing more than a clumsy baker, a magic user in a world that hated magic, a sweaty mess that was too old to be hunkered over a simmering cauldron for hours on end.
The sweat felt far more noticeable as it trickled down her back.
Suddenly, she was even more aware of how strands of hair clung to her temples, how it struck messily across her forehead without her noticing.
The man looked upon her, and saw an unfixable mess.
Maggie held back the urge to drop her head in her hands.
With another breath, Maggie crossed the short room and took up her position behind the cauldron. The image of the man’s grin reflected back at her in the stew’s reflection, catching her off guard and bringing a flustered mumble to her lips.
The wooden doors swung open with a clash.
“More bowls!”
Maggie ladled the stew like a thoughtless machine, desperate to wipe the man’s face from her mind.
How could he ever matter?