3 – 3

Hand in hand, the pair of us cut a nimble path through the crowded streets of Valdenwood. We pass the sure-handed woodcarvers and the sharp-eyed seamsters. The trapper, seated next to his table of excellent furs and bundles of feathers, gives a nod as we go by. It happens again as we near the smith, who looks up from fitting a shoe to an enormous cart horse to do so, and again at the trio of produce stands. Each time, it seems a gesture of respect, of acknowledgment. Each time, Clarke returns it.

Each time, something strange happens.

After we left the dance, Clarke was bright of eye and flushed with happiness, as it should be after such fun. There was no talk between us as we left, but instead a sort of content silence. Perhaps the contentment was only on my part, distracted as I was with the flutter in my belly I had wrongly named satisfaction. The feeling's true nature is unimportant, because those qualities leave Clarke in pieces, as if carved away, each time she recieves that nod.

I don't understand why she's reacting like this. Why, in the face of their respect, she seems to grow more sullen, more sad. I have the question on the tip of my tongue, trapped behind my teeth, for what feels like forever. I keep them in check for as long as I can, but when she sighs with such sorrowful resignation after the woman at the spit nearly bows to her, I can't anymore. “What is it?”

“Hm?” Clarke turns to me. For a brief moment, I see it in her eyes and the draw of her brow. It's only for that moment, and only because I was looking closely. Then it's gone. Rather, it's buried, hidden under a look of mild confusion. “The meat? Pork, I think. Did you want some?”

For all that I do, what I want more is to know what's happening. It's so strange: I've just met her and barely know her, and yet knowing she is in some sort of distress makes me want to help. To fix it, and bring back the bright-eyed, happily flushed self she left behind. I don't know why being shown such clear respect is upsetting to her, nor why she's so resigned to it happening. It could be that she thinks they're making a pantomime of it in order to mock her. I don't think that's so, but I don't know enough about her or how this town sees her to be sure.

Maybe it's something else. Maybe she feels she's not being shown enough respect. Magi are supposed to be prideful, after all. She could just be doing very well in hiding it. I'm not sure that's it, either.

What I do know for sure is this: she'd rather not talk about it. Do I respect that wish and follow along, or disregard it and keep pressing? If the latter, will she answer me, or will she be so upset that she leaves and doesn't return? I don't know, and it's that, coupled with a desire not to be parted from her, that leads me to choose the former. “Is this the place you meant?” I ask, then clarify at her visible, genuine confusion. “Earlier, I mean?”

“Oh,” she says, then shakes her head. She releases my hand to point further down the way. “Mrs. Knott – Mallory, she insists – sets up a stall just down there. Best sweets I've had in my life. I had thought to begin there, but if – if you would rather we start here, we – you must say so.”

I gather up the concerns I have for and the odd sense of loss stemming from her dropping my hand and set them aside for later. Tonight, perhaps, when I'm in an actual bed, I can think more about it. For now, I'll be in the moment. “If these truly are the best you've ever had,” I say, and she nods, “then I should think we must start there.”

So, after a short walk, we do. The stall set up by Mrs. Knott – Mallory, she evidently insists – is enormous, and doing quite well for itself. Three tables stacked near to groaning with the most heavenly smelling desserts I've ever had the pleasure to encounter, all shaded beneath the wide canopy of a canvas tent and watched over by the creator herself. There's row after row of brown paper cones, each one full of candied almonds clustered to one another by crystalline sugar. Trays of cupcakes, steaming-fresh from the oven and topped with thick, creamy frosting. A bevy of pies made from every fruit or berry imaginable, each one made to delicious perfection.

Mrs. Mallory Knott herself is a short, round woman with curly hair held back by a bandana and a streak of flour across her sweaty cheek. Her eyes are brown, large, and bright with a kindly glint. She keeps a unbroken stream of conversation going with every person to approach her tables. It doesn't so much as stutter when she comes to Clarke and me. “Well, look who it is!” she exclaims, dusting her hands and setting them on her hips. “And how long has it been since you came to see me?! Far too long, I tell you, far too long!”

There's something bashful in the smile Clarke gives in return. It is utterly, disarmingly endearing. “Hello, Mallory.”

Mallory's fiercely pleased look gentles into something softer and fond. “Hello, dear. How've you been? Well, I hope?”

“Well enough,” Clarke answers with a shrug.

Mallory clicks her tongue. “Well enough? Not good enough, I tell you, not nearly. You've brought a friend this time, at least, and don't think I haven't noticed you, dear. Don't think I've seen you around before, which I take to mean you're new, which means you've not had one of my tarts before. I won't have that, I tell you, I simply won't. Here.”

Before I can say a word, a freshly made berry tart is pressed into my hand.

- - -

Clarke was right.

That was the best I've had in all my life. The crust was firm enough to hold its bowl-like shape, yet soft enough to tear easily between my teeth and sweet on my tongue. The empty center was filled with warm, blackberry jam and topped with a large, fat spoonful of fresh cream. In four large, messy bites, I ate the entirety of it and made a mess of my hands while doing so.

Blessed sunlight, was it delicious. I want another one. No, two more. Three, maybe, just to be safe. While I'm licking the last streaks of jam and cream from my fingers, I catch Clarke looking at me from the corner of my eye. Plain on her face is amusement. Rather more hidden is something else. Something like interest. She must want to know if I agree. “You were right.”

She clears her throat. “I was? About what?”

“Best I've ever had,” I answer earnestly, “There's no questioning it.”

“Oh,” she says faintly. Then, “I did tell you.”

Whatever they cost, it's nowhere near what they're worth. Which reminds me: I have yet to pay for it, and the other three I may be buying. To that end I turn to Mallory, who has a pleased look about her as she watches the pair of us. I suppose any craftsman, no matter what they make, likes to be complimented about their work. “What do I owe?” I ask, pulling my satchel around front.

Mallory waves a dismissive hand. “For the tart? Nothing, dear. Consider it a welcoming gift.”

I'm rather touched by her words, warmth blooming in my heart. To be here and know that at least one person is happy that I am, it's a feeling like no other. I don't know the name for it, or if there even is one. I smile, soft and shy, and say, “My thanks.”

“Of course, dear. Of course. I'll not have it be said that I'm the sort to turn newcomers away with bad manners, I tell you, I'll not have it!”

From beside me, Clarke offers, “She did the same for me, when I first moved back.”

Mallory gives a look of near-affront. “Of course I did! There's no better welcome home gift than a fresh pie or tart.” Someone standing across the stall from us, hovering by the assortment of pies, calls for her. “Just a moment, dear!” she calls back, over her shoulder, before saying to me, “Lovely to meet you, just lovely. Be sure to pop in and say hello another time, all right? All right.”

She bustles off before Clarke and I can recover long enough to answer her. The sweet remnants of the tart are thick on my tongue and the backs of my teeth. I find myself in need of a drink, but before that I have a question I need answered. “Clarke?”

She hums inquisitively.

“Is Mrs. Knott – Mallory –” I correct myself. “always so...?” I don't say it, but motherly is what fits best. The way she treated me – Clarke especially – sharpens the homesick longing that's lurked beneath my hunger, weariness, and pain since I left my family. I miss them, even the boys.

“Oh yes,” is Clarke's answer, “all the time. I've no idea how she does it.”

“I should think,” I start, then give up. “I have no idea.”

“Nor do I,” She turns her back on Mallory's stand and takes the market's measure. She asks, “What shall we do now? That is – I mean to say, if you still want to...” Quite unable to find the words she seeks, Clarke trails off. I do. She's endearing, pleasant company, and a magi besides. I also don't. It's as if the sorrow of parting is making up for the time it spent ignored. The noise and press is both too much and wholly welcome.

Why can I not have both? Clarke's company and a place of quiet? Surely there must be somewhere in this town I can have both. “I do,” I answer, “want to, I mean.” But when it comes to telling her what it is I want and why, I can't speak the words.

The utterly clear happiness on her face helps. She doesn't quite smile, it's too shy, but there's an upward turn to her mouth that soothes the longing's keen. “Oh, that's wonderful!” she declares. Then somehow brightens further. “I've an idea! Come with me!”