Page 62 of The Goat Next Door

I walk over to the sink and pick up the mug she used for her paint water. Clouds of purple swirl faintly along the bottom. For a second, I think about washing it, about scrubbing the evidence of the evening away.

Instead, I set it back down beside the birdhouse—glitter, noodles, and all. A small, messy piece of her left behind.

And for once, I let it stay.

15

Ember

“Pass the yarn. I feel a scandal forming.”

— Beatrice

The scent of yeast and caramelized sugar is the only thing keeping my eyes open at five o’clock in the morning.

The kitchen of Marge’s Bakery is thick with steam, the massive steel mixers groaning as they knead forty pounds of sourdough, and I am currently staring at a tray of unbaked bear claws like they are a complex architectural blueprint.

I’m reaching for the flour bin when Marge appears from the back pantry, holding a massive rolling pin like a scepter.

“Ember,” she says. “Put down the flour. Show me your hand.”

I blink, holding up my left hand, the white bandage around my palm looking a little frayed at the edges. “It’s all good, Marge. Just a minor injury from an aggressive wire brush incident. I am fully operational.”

“Brooks told me you took your skin off because you don’t know how to hold a tool,” Marge says, though her tone lacks its usual serrated edge.

Amazing.

Love that he’s apparently giving injury reports about me now.

She steps closer, grabbing my wrist with a surprisingly gentle grip, inspecting the cotton wrap. “The boy was worried you’d get flour in the weeping flesh and start a localized infection. Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”

A small, ridiculous warmth blossoms in my chest at the mention of Brooks’s name, but I quickly suppress it. “I didn’t want you to think the city girl couldn’t handle the work.”

Marge lets out a low sound, releasing my wrist. “The city girl survived a long shift on her first day. You’ve got nothing to prove to me, Ember. Now, take that apron off. You’re off the mixing station today.”

“Am I fired?” I ask, my lower lip doing that involuntary pout.

“You’re not fired, you lunatic,” Marge says, shooing me toward the front counter with the rolling pin. “You’re on front-of-house duty today. I need someone who can speak to the public without sounding like an engine manual, and you’ve got that loud, expensive voice. Go wipe down the display cases and try not to break any glass.”

⋆ ✦ ⋆

By eight o’clock, the morning rush of loggers and county workers has cleared out, leaving the bakery quiet, the sun streaming through the front glass in long, dusty yellow boxes.

I’m halfway through polishing a smudge off the macaron display when the front bell lets out a sharp chime.

I look up to see a three-woman vanguard marching through the door in a tight, military formation.

The woman leading the pack is wearing a crisp denim shirt with an embroidered loon on the pocket, carrying a canvas tote bag overflowing with yarn. Behind her is a tiny woman with kind, watery blue eyes and a halo of white curls, and a third woman wearing thick, tortoiseshell glasses who looks at the bakery shelves like a health inspector.

They stop directly in front of the counter, inspecting me with three simultaneous, analytical squints.

“So,” the woman in the loon shirt says. “You’re the one. Goat girl. I’m Bernice. We run the auxiliary over at the parish.”

“I am Ember,” I say, offering my best, client-facing smile. “Welcome to Marge’s. Can I interest you in a rosemary-focaccia slab or perhaps a glazed donut?”

The woman with the tortoiseshell glasses ignores the menu entirely, her eyes dropping to my hands resting on the glass counter.

“I’m Dotty,” she announces bluntly. “Look at those nails, Bernice. Muddy. She’s got valley dirt under the cuticles already. Told you she was trying to fix that barn herself.”