Aelindra Moonwhisper's Arc

Chapter 6 of 9

Aelindra walked out of the council hall into a square that had already heard. Word travels faster than smoke. People stood in loose knots on the cobblestones, some crying, some laughing, some doing both. A woman she did not know caught her sleeve and kissed her hand and let go before Aelindra could pull away. The rain cloud hung close above her shoulder, quiet for once. She crossed the square toward her shop without stopping. She had a boy waiting on a bottom step. The boy was where she had left him, shawl pulled tight, thin knees pressed together. He looked up when her shadow fell on the stones. "You came back," he said. "I said I would." She held out her hand. He took it. His fingers were cold. She led him inside and up the narrow stairs to the room above the shop. A cot. A blanket. A window that faced east. "This is yours," she said. He sat on the cot and looked at the blanket for a long time. Then he said, "Indoors." That was all. Downstairs the old oven waited under its coat of moss. She opened the iron door and laid in kindling. The oven made a low sound in its throat, pleased. "Long night," it murmured. She fed it wood and did not answer. She mixed flour and butter and honey on the counter. She worked without hiding the window. She worked without the shutters drawn. The rain cloud watched from the rafter and said nothing, because there was nothing left to warn her about. By morning the smell had pulled half the street to her door. She opened it. A line had formed on the stones. She sold a tray of buns and then another. The gold register on the counter clanked each time she pulled the drawer. Some pastries carried a small warmth in them, meant for the person she handed them to, and some were only pastries. She let each customer take what came. A man who had not slept in a month took a bun and stood on the step and cried into his sleeve. A girl took a bun and laughed. A baker two doors down came in and bought three and shook her hand. By noon the shelves were bare. She wiped flour off the counter and looked at the drawer of coins. It was heavier than any drawer she had ever held. The boy came down the stairs in the blanket and stood in the doorway of the kitchen. "You have vines out front," he said. "Growing on the beam." She had not planted them. She went out and looked. Green shoots wound around the lantern brackets, small and stubborn, already flowering. "Nimbus," she said. "Did you do this." "No," the cloud said. "The town did."