Daisy Duke's Arc

Chapter 18 of 22

The shortbread sat on its plate by the counter, warm and waiting. Daisy had pulled a stranger's forgotten dream and baked it into crumb and sugar. But the woman had walked out. Daisy didn't know if she'd ever come back to taste it. A dream on a plate meant nothing if no one returned for it. Three days passed. The shortbread held its shape. It didn't crumble, but it didn't call, either. Daisy watched the door with every ring of the bell. Farmers came. A witch bought two loaves. The woman with the aching, empty want did not. "You keep staring at that door like it owes you rent," said Skeeter. The tap-dancing skeleton leaned in the frame, crystal bones catching lamplight, his emerald eye bright. He tapped his black cane twice on the boards. "A hook set in the water don't drag the fish to shore. You gotta ring the dinner bell." "She doesn't remember wanting anything," Daisy said. "How do I call someone who forgot what she lost?" The Void Chef drifted through the cafe passage, its starry worm-body low, star-eyes glinting. It had no mouth. It tasted by knowing. "The dream is anchored to the counter," it said. "But it only pulls when she's near. She's far. You need a longer line." "Then give me one," Daisy said. "Not free." The Chef curled closer. "I've never tasted the last thing you baked from your own hands with no fear in it. Give me that. I'll carry the pull to her, wherever she walks." Daisy's chest tightened. Every loaf she made now carried a customer's ache. She'd forgotten what her own joy tasted like. But she had one honest thing left. She pressed her palm to the shortbread and let the plain gladness of baking rise out of her. "Take it." The Chef brushed her petals. Something bright left her tongue. The shortbread flared, then went quiet, its pull now reaching past the walls. Skeeter set a frothy pink-and-blue shake on the counter, whipped cream swirled high with starry sprinkles. "For the wait," he said. "Sweetens the odds." The bell rang. The woman stood in the doorway, one hand trailing the counter like before. She stopped at the plate. Her fingers hovered. "I felt this," she said. "All the way home. Like a name on my tongue." She ate. Her eyes filled. "Wood," she whispered. "Sawdust. I wanted to build things. I wanted it so badly." She pressed the empty plate to her chest. "I remember now." Daisy's hands shook. It worked. Not a craving, not a day. A whole forgotten dream, returned to its owner. The woman paid double and left changed. Daisy stared at the empty plate. Her real shop was possible now. But the Chef had taken her last fearless flavor. She had nothing left to bake from but other people's hunger.