Alison gave Weyland a quick hug—or as much of a hug as she could manage considering her tiny arms could barely wrap around him. “That’s wonderful. What will you do with all the free time? Please tell me you’re planning to draw more.”
“I am,” said Weyland. “I wanted to see if you wanted to work on the book again. To finish adapting the pamphlet we made, or maybe to start on another project. I like to paint the scenes on their own, but I like it better with words.”
Alison had debated this privately for some time. The coin from the solar generators gave her the freedom to pursue her poetry if she wished to, which is all she’d wanted since she gave up her number-crunching career.
But there was part of her that was afraid. “What if people don’t like it? Or what if they do like it, but I don’t like it? What if selling my poetry turns it into a chore I hate?” The poetry writing had begun as a ploy to make more coin, but it had become a part of how she saw the world. It had become a part of her magic.
What if putting it down on paper for others to see ruined it?
“The way I see it, you have something to say, and people ought to hear it. The world is a better place when people share the beauty they see in it.” Weyland patted Alison on the shoulder. “They’re good poems. It would be a shame to keep them to yourself.”
“Thank you,” said Alison. “I’ll think about it.”
That night, when she returned home, she retrieved the manuscript she and Weyland had taken apart to fit into the pamphlet.
There had been some kind of order to it, but now the pages were stuffed together, some of them torn, others upside down.
She read a few lines of one of the poems:
In the meadow,
The clouds walk on fluffy legs,
While overhead,
A swan swims through clear blue skies.
Maybe there was something to what Weyland had said. She couldn’t help but see the flaws in what she had written, but she could see the beauty in it too.
Maybe beauty was meant to be shared.
She slowly began to reorder the pages and to insert new ones, scribbling down new ideas as she went.
Chapter Eight
THE COMPETITION BEGINS
Charlotte
When Alison and Keir had left the bakery, Mrs. Knox congratulated Charlotte on a job well done.
And then they returned to the matter of Julian. “Debtors’ prison? Do you suppose that’s why Julian came back here?” asked Charlotte as they cleaned up the plates and prepared the dough for the next morning’s croissants.
“I don’t see why he would. Surely he could have made more coin in the city. Or anywhere in Loegria, really. Why come back to a small town that already has a bakery?”
“There’s really only one way to find out,” said Charlotte.
The next day, after the morning regulars had come (or at least the few of them who remained loyal to Mrs. Knox), Charlotte headed back across the street to see Julian again.
The queue was back in front of his store.
“Solstice biscuits,” said Mr. Smalls. Charlotte joined the queue behind the bard. “Ginger snaps and shortbread. I’ve heard they’re to die for.”
Solstice biscuits? Those didn’t even have cheese in them. “The nerve on him,” she said.
“Mrs. Knox makes fine biscuits, of course,” said Mr. Smalls. “But look.” He pointed to a customer leaving the store. In theirhands was a pretty blue tin with white snowflakes on it. “He gives them to you in that tin. It makes for a nice Solstice gift, don’t you think?”
Charlotte begrudgingly admitted that it was a good idea. Mrs. Knox sold her biscuits in the more traditional paper box tied up with ribbon. “He does seem to know what the people want.”
