1
BLOOM
“Iforbid you!” my father roars.
I grit my teeth against his edict. The mild-mannered man who never said a cross word to anyone in his life turns a startling shade of purple. Shame floods me. With his waning health, I shouldn’t be adding to his stress.
However, his health is the reason I’ve decided to set off in the first place.
I have to try—not just for my own sake but for my father’s as well. He has turned feeble over the last few years. We won’t survive the winter if our tithe continues to increase. I must do something to alleviate the harsh predicament we’ve found ourselves in.
There is a solution, an unwanted voice hisses in my ear.But you’re not going to like it.
I push the cloying words aside. I refuse to consider them. I’d rather take my chances inthe Woodsand throw myself at the mercy ofhimthan ever agree to such a proposal.
“Think of the consequences, my dear,” Father continues. “Think of what could happen to you out there.Heis the least ofyour concerns. The journey isn’t an easy one, and you’ve never left the village.”
I scrub a hand down my face and ignore the trembling of my fingers. I can’t let my fear show. I have to do this. My father knows it too, but that doesn’t mean he’ll agree without a fight.
His stubbornness was always endearing to me. As the moments trickle by and we remain at an impasse, I’m beginning to rethink my fondness for the trait.
“Father, consider what will happen if I don’t go.” I swallow thickly against the rising bile. “Pyke will press the issue and?—”
“I will refuse him as I always do!”
“This time you won’t have a choice. Not if we wish to be spared.” I shake my head. “Going tohimis our only option.”
My father’s lips part before settling in a harsh line. He slumps down into the old chair. It creaks under his weight. Propping his sore feet up on the stool, the fight goes out of him like a blown candle. The rage over my reckless decision cools in the face of a more unsavory truth.
I’m spared from any more conversation as the timer goes off.
With a sigh, I turn towards the large ovens. Warmth bathes my face as I remove the fresh loaves. They knock onto the worn countertop with hollow thuds. Their golden crust matches the sunlight streaming in from the open window. A mild, flower-rich breeze drifts in, gently tousling my unbound hair.
My stomach growls at the decadent scent of yeasty perfection.
Despite my affection for our comfortable spring, a part of me longs for the cooler months when Father and I make our cinnamon loaves. The house fills with the spicy smell, and we can hardly keep them in stock long enough for me to steal a slice.
I pray this winter is more fruitful than the last. Life has been hard as of late for all of us in Dew Hollow. The rains during theprevious fall flooded the farmers' fields, making their wheat crop scarce and increasing flour prices.
Due to this, Father was forced to raise his prices for the first time since opening the bakery forty years ago. Many were not happy, and while our loaves are the best in the village, some preferred to try their hand at baking with coarsely ground flour to save a few coins.
The steaming loaves wink up at me.
My stomach growls, but I would rather they go to a paying customer than my dinner. We can’t survive much longer without turning a profit. Father’s health has been failing. The soreness in his limbs and weakening of his muscles have decreased our output. There was a time when we stocked a wide variety of loaves and sweets that sold out before the afternoon.
Now, we’re lucky if someone offers us a few copper coins for day-old bread.
It’s why I have to leave.
Father can’t make the journey, and I’m not certain he would be in high enough spirits to make the proper appeal tohim. I’m of a much sweeter disposition. A trait I inherited from my mother.
I’ve always been grateful for my ability to ingratiate myself with others. It was helpful when business was booming, and people would stop by just to talk with me. Lending an ear had been profitable, as more than a few ended up purchasing baked goods once their tale concluded. It was a blessing, or so I thought.
Unfortunately, my welcoming nature was the reason I caught his eye.
I wipe my hands on my apron, careful not to get flour on my dress. It is the nicest one I own. The fabric is pale gold with dark green stitching creating the illusion of a sprawling meadow along my corset. I hope it is pleasing tohim.
As I got older, it became apparent that the male patrons were stopping less so for their interest in our sweet rolls and more so to look at me. I grew accustomed to their curious stares, even when I didn’t understand them. It wasn’t until one of the older women in the village warned me to be careful. That attention from any man can be dangerous.
