Chapter 12 #2
As we weave through the pathways, passing merchants and children darting about underfoot, déjà vu slams into me.
I’m right outside the school when a small body barrels into my legs.
I stagger, a small oomph leaving me as I steady myself before glancing down.
My heart stutters at the sight of the familiar face.
The little hellion who once crashed straight into Korithax.
He looks up at me with wide, bright orange eyes, then gaps so loudly I almost laugh.
“DAISY!” he shrieks, joy bursting across his face as his little body vibrates with barely contained excitement.
I crouch instantly, and he leaps into my arms like he’s been waiting for this moment for a lifetime. I hug him gently, breathing in the dusty-sweet scent of childhood. “Hey,” I murmur with a smile. “Still running into trouble, I see.”
He giggles, and I set him back down, ruffling his blonde hair. “Sorry,” he beams with an all-toothy grin. “Look at my horns! They’ve grown so much since last time!”
I widen my eyes theatrically, placing a hand on my heart. “They have gotten so big. Oh my goodness, they’re almost as big as Aran’s!”
He bursts into laughter, delighted by my reaction as he gives me a twirl to show them off at all angles. He points at Aran’s horns, then at his own and nods as if in agreement.
“THEODUS!” a high-pitched voice calls.
An older woman hurries towards us, her cerulean horns gleaming, silver hair frizzing around her worried face. She stops just short, bowing so fast I worry she’ll topple. “Your Majesty, I’m so sorry—please forgive him. He’s impossible to keep in line.”
I wave her apology away, smiling warmly down at the boy.
“Please. It’s no bother. Me and Theodus are old friends.
” He straightens a little, clearly proud at the statement as he puffs out his chest. “Go on,” I say gently.
“Back to the schoolhouse. I’ll be here again before you know it, and I want to see just how much those horns have grown! ”
His smile returns, wide enough to show his little elongated fangs that gleam in the sunlight.
He darts forward, hugging my legs tightly before sprinting off, calling at the top of his lungs, “I hugged the queen! The queen is my best friend!” My laughter follows him down the path.
The teacher bows awkwardly once more before scurrying after him, clearly not amused by his outburst. The warmth fills me entirely, overtaking the grief. This. This is why I’m doing this.
I turn back down the path, leading the way through the heart of the village.
And then, a smell hits me. Rich and sweet, my mouth instantly waters.
My stomach actually growls, and I can’t help the groan that escapes me.
Without thinking twice, I follow the scent straight to the little bakery like one of those little cartoons that float in the air when they smell something delicious.
The door creaks as I push it open, the warmth and scent of fresh baked goods wrapping around me like a blanket.
Marta’s head snaps up from behind the counter, her eyes widening. “Oh, Daisy,” she breathes, almost sobbing.
In a blur of white braids and flour-dusted skirts, she rounds the counter and flings her arms around me.
The moment her arms close around me, something fragile inside of me shatters entirely.
Tears spill, hot and unbidden, as I bury my face into her shoulder, her familiar scent of cinnamon and hearth smoke wrapping around me as I clasp my hands tightly behind her back.
She hushes me softly, one hand cradling the back of my head as the other waves sharply at Aran.
“Lock up the shop,” she orders, leaving no room for argument.
“My sweet, sweet girl,” she whispers into my hair. “I’ve tried so many times to come to you, but those buffoons—” she jerks her chin at the guards “—wouldn’t let me near. I am so, so sorry.”
I sniff hard as she pulls back. She softly wipes tears from beneath my eyes with flour-dusted fingers as her gaze darts frantically over my face, as if she’s checking I won’t crumble into ash right here in her arms. “Come on,” she says firmly, taking me by the arm and tugging me through a doorway draped in a curtain of red and black beads. “Back room. Tea.”
“Eluin,” she calls over her shoulder, “give the guards some tarts while I speak with our queen.”
The boy behind the counter, who looks no older than fifteen, with hair and freckles the colour of buttercups, nods and immediately sets to piling golden tarts into small boxes.
Aran and I follow Marta through the curtain of beads, the strands clicking softly behind us.
The room is small, but it feels bigger somehow.
Not in size, but in warmth. Low candlelight pools across the walls, casting everything in a golden amber glow.
The scent of cinnamon and fresh bread lingers here too, sweeter and deeper than in the bakery itself, mixed with dried lavender, and something earthy I can’t quite name.