Lena Larke's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

The footsteps stopped at the carriage step. Lena sat on the flowered seat with empty hands and a dry mouth. She had planned to charm the noble with words. Now the noble stood before her, and words felt thin. "You're in my seat," the noble said. Not angry. Amused. A woman, older than Lena, with ink stains on her fingers and a notebook under her arm. She studied Lena the way a cook studies a strange fruit. "I'm Lena Larke. I bake at the guildhall down the street." Lena stood too fast and nearly fell. "I came to meet you before you chose." "Bakers don't meet me. They bake. Where's your bread?" There it was. The question with no good answer. Lena had no loaf, no pastry, no proof of her hands. The silver-maned mare pushed through the trees behind the noble and nosed Lena's apron again, hunting crumbs that were gone. The noble watched the horse. "She won't come to anyone. She bit my groom last week." "I fed her," Lena said. "A piece of my honey pastry. She liked it." "Did she." The noble's eyes sharpened. "So you have good bread, and none of it with you." Lena's face went hot. She thought of lying. Instead she told the truth. "I burned three loaves waiting for you. I didn't know the day. Nobody does. You come in the dark, and we guess, and we lose." The noble said nothing. "If you want to know my bread, come taste it," Lena said. "Tomorrow. At my oven, not in a field. I'll show you what I make when I'm not guessing." For a long moment the noble only looked at her. Then she opened her notebook and wrote one line. "No baker has ever invited me. They wait to be found." "I'm done waiting." The noble tore a corner from her page and handed it over. On it she had written a time and the words: *one pastry. Your best. Nothing else.* "You've made an impression," the noble said. "A loud one. Don't waste it. Empty hands tonight. Full hands tomorrow, or I cross you off." She climbed into the carriage and lifted the lantern. The mare followed her like a dog. Lena stepped down into the wet grass, the paper tight in her fist. She walked home through the dark. By the time she reached the guildhall, her fear had turned to work. She lit the ovens. She pulled her grandmother's recipe card from the drawer, the one for lemon cake, soft with age and careful writing. She set it beside the chalkboard where she listed each day's specials. One pastry. Her best. She had until the time on the paper to decide what that was. The noble would taste it with her own mouth, and this time Lena's hands would be full.