Mercer Asterion's Arc

Chapter 6 of 10

They walked back down the wagon track and into the market. Mouse led him past the a few stalls and around a row of carts until the smell of yeast and butter cut through the dust. The bakery sat under a curled roof framed with ivy, its shelves stacked with loaves. Mercer's stomach twisted so hard he had to stop walking for a second. A hobbit woman came out from behind the shelves, wiping her hands on a floured apron. Her cheeks were pink from the ovens. She smiled at Mouse first, real and easy, then looked sideways at Mercer. Her eyes moved once over his cloak and boots and did not linger. She had already decided something. "Mornin', Poppy," Mouse said. "Any chance you've got any...." "I have," Poppy said, before mouse could finish her sentence. She did not reach for the shelf. "Do a run for me first. Fair trade." Mouse's mouth opened. Poppy kept going before Mouse could argue. "Pie's cooling on the table. Elderberry. The art studio ordered it for a still life class this afternoon. My boy's out with a fever and I can't leave the ovens." She looked at Mercer again. "Two of you can carry one pie between you. Misfit loaves'll be waiting when you're back." "How far?" Mercer asked. "Not far. Mouse knows." Mouse nodded once, tight. Mercer understood the shape of it. No bread without the errand. He was too hungry to argue and too visible to insist. "We'll take it," he said. Poppy went back behind the shelves and returned with the pie in a black pan. The crust was golden and crimped, the lattice dark with purple filling. She set it in a wicker basket, folded a green-and-cream checkered cloth over the top, and tucked the corners in with quick fingers. "Warm still," she said. "Don't tip it. Don't let anyone lift the cloth. They paid for a whole pie." Mercer took the basket with his left hand. The handle was worn smooth. Poppy held his eye a beat longer than was comfortable, then let it go. "Go on," she said. "I'll pull the misfits from the second batch. You'll like them warm." They stepped back into the lane. Mouse walked ahead, scanning. Mercer kept the basket level against his hip. Half a dozen steps from the stall, he felt something at his heel. He looked down. A scruffy dog with mismatched ears and shaggy fur walked at his boot, nose lifted toward the basket. It did not beg. It just walked with him, like it had made a decision. "Mouse," Mercer said quietly. She glanced back. Her face did not change. "He's not mine," she said. "He picks his people." The dog kept pace. The pie was warm against Mercer's ribs. The studio was somewhere ahead, and now they were three.