"That too. Essential life skills."
The evening wore on, the storm growing fiercer outside while inside they worked through batch after batch of dough. Alaric's technique was improving, though he suspected his bread would still be inferior to Marianne's decades of experience.
"You need to feel when it's ready," she said, guiding his hands over the dough. "It should be smooth, elastic, alive under your fingers."
"Alive?"
"The yeast is living. You're creating an environment for life to flourish."
"That's unexpectedly poetic for bread."
"My father again. He had opinions about the sacred nature of baking."
"Sacred?"
"Bread is life, Mr. Fletcher. It's in every religious tradition, every culture. We make bread together, we share it, we use it to mark occasions. It's the most basic human food and the most complex. My father said baking bread was participating in civilization itself."
"And here I thought it was just flour and water."
"Just flour and water? That's like saying wine is just grapes, or music is just sound."
"I apologize to the bread."
"You should. You're about to give it life, after all."
As the evening progressed, the storm showed no signs of abating. If anything, it seemed to be getting worse. The windows were completely obscured by snow, and occasionally something would bang against the walls; probably loose shutters or displaced decorations.
"You'll have to stay," Mrs. Whitby senior announced, returning from peering out the back door. "Can't see three feet out there, and the snow's waist-deep already."
"I couldn't impose..."
"It's not an imposition, it's practicality. Would you rather freeze trying to get back to the inn?"
"The inn is twenty yards away."
"Twenty yards of zero visibility and winds that could take you anywhere but the inn. We'll make up a bed near the ovens. It'll be warm, and you'll be here to help with the morning baking."
"I don't think my help is particularly helpful."
"Nonsense," Marianne said. "Your third batch is almost acceptable."
"Almost acceptable. High praise indeed."
"From Marianne, that's practically a declaration of genius," her mother said.
Before they could say anything else, Mrs. Whitby senior announced dinner was ready. It was simple fare, soup and bread and cheese, but after the cold and the work, it tasted wonderful.
Alaric waited for both women to sit before taking his own seat, pulling out Marianne's chair with practiced ease. Both women noticed.
"Such manners!" Mrs. Whitby senior exclaimed. "Were you in service at a grand house, Mr. Fletcher?"
"I... observed carefully during my training." The same weak excuse, but he couldn't think of a better one.
"You must have observed very carefully indeed. You hold your spoon like someone who learned from a dancing master."
"A dancing master?" Marianne asked, amused. "What does that mean?"
"Proper deportment includes proper dining etiquette," her mother explained. "The way one holds cutlery, the angle of the wrist, the posture at table. Mr. Fletcher has clearly been taught."
