Serina wonderland's Arc

Chapter 4 of 9

Serina stepped inside Cole's house and the door clicked shut behind her. The half loaf sat in his hands. He set it on a small table by the wall. The room smelled like coffee and old wood. She stood on the mat and felt her empty hands. She had walked here with bread. Bread was not a gift. Bread was what she sold. He had invited her in for something bigger than a Tuesday order, and she had nothing else to give. "Sit," Cole said. He pointed at a chair. He went to the kitchen for another mug. She did not sit. She looked around. A jacket on a hook. A pair of boots by the door. On the shelf, a small carved hedgehog, no bigger than her thumb, worn smooth at the nose. Someone had held it for years. She picked it up. The wood was warm. "My gran carved that," Cole said from the kitchen. "I take it everywhere. It's stupid." "It's not stupid," Serina said. She set it back exactly where it had been. Her chest went tight. She could not do this now. Not standing in his hallway with flour still under her nails. Whatever she gave him had to be made, not grabbed. It had to be hers. "Cole," she said. "I have to go back to the bakery." He came to the kitchen doorway with two mugs. His smile faltered. "I'll come back," she said. "Tomorrow. I promise. I just—I need to make something. Properly. For you." He watched her for a long second. Then he nodded. "Tomorrow." She walked out fast before she could take it back. The fairy was still on the step. She fell in beside Serina without a word. Halfway down the lane, Serina passed the abandoned storefront with the faded sign. Cheshire sat on the doorway in her pink dress, chewing the last of the morning's half loaf. "You look sick," Cheshire said. "I need to bake something," Serina said. "For a person. And I don't know what." Cheshire licked crumbs off her thumb. "What does he keep?" "A hedgehog. Wooden. From his grandmother." "Then he keeps small things," Cheshire said. "And old things." The fairy landed on a flour sack Serina couldn't see yet, because Serina was already running. She unlocked the bakery door. The sign above her creaked. She pulled the cloudberry jar down from the top shelf. Three years of failed buns. Small. Old fruit her grandmother had loved. She set the jar on the counter beside the cardamom and the orange zest from her Sunday Loaf. She had a shape now. Not a gift yet. A shape. She tied her apron. Outside, the fairy pulled the folded list from her belt and crossed off nothing. She was still waiting.