It had been a long time since she’d closed down the shop for the day. Her back complained at the extra work, but Tressa continued to do her best. For three reasons: Mariah would notice if the shop wasn’t up to her standards in the morning; Because someday she would have a shop of her own, and she might not have an apprentice to take on the grunt work in the beginning; And, finally, if she did a bad job, both Soren and Inga would know it. Mariah would make an example of her. That was something she did not want to happen.
She finished mopping the floor and opened the back door, then stopped. Soren was still out there, though she thought he’d left some time ago. He stood in the alleyway, looking around as he lifted the large basket they used to carry the leftovers to the Temple, gesturing it toward passersby. She almost called out to him, but she stepped back as he looked around with a shifty expression she’d never seen on his face.
A woman in poor but well mended clothing came up and talked to him. While Tressa watched, Soren showed the woman a loaf of bread. She nodded, handed over a coin, and took the bread. Soren gave her a small bow and turned to come back into the shop.
He stopped as he saw Tressa watching him. They stared at each other. Tressa’s mind whirled. Had Soren just sold the leftovers to someone on the street? The leftovers meant to feed the poor? She stepped back into the shop and waited.
Soren dumped the crumbs from the basket into the alleyway, then sauntered on in. “I thought you’d gone home.”
“I thought you’d gone to the Temple.” Tressa eyed the empty basket he put on the counter.
“Well, you know . . .”
“No. I don’t. What were you doing?”
Soren looked away. “Wasn’t hurting no one. Just providing a service they need.”
“Those goods were meant to feed the poor.”
“My customers are poor. But they still have their pride. They don’t want to take from people who can’t even afford to pay a little.” Soren offered open hands, a plea to understand and accept.
“But they are . . . you are . . . doing just that. I can’t believe you. That basket was meant for the poor that the Temple feeds. Not to line your pocket.”
“Every single bakery in Haven sends their leftovers to the Temple. They aren’t wanting for anything. These people, my customers, can’t afford to pay full price, but they want to pay something. What’s the harm in helping them out, too?”
Tressa frowned. “It’s stealing.”
“No, it’s not. Not when Mariah’s giving it away. Nothing goes to waste. I swear. Anything I can’t sell, I take to the Temple. There’s no crime here.”
Tressa shook her head. Part of her could almost see where he was coming from. Part of her knew what he’d been doing was against everything they’d been taught.
Soren blinked at her, his eyes growing wet. “I’m sorry. Don’t tell her. My da’s sick. I just need to bring home a little extra for the medicine. My family needs the money, but I’ll cut you in. We can split what little I get. It’s not much.”
Tressa retreated farther into the kitchen, horrified. “No.”
He hung his head. “I’ll stop then. I’ll just go back to taking the leftovers to the Temple. I’ll stop. I promise. Please don’t tell on me. I need this apprenticeship. I’ll figure some other way to get the money.”
She nodded, not sure what else to do. Watching him walk away, Tressa wondered when his dad had gotten sick and why he hadn’t said anything to them. She thought they were better friends than that. She was sure Mariah would help . . . if he just asked.
* * *
* * *
The next couple of days were awkward and stiff between them, but everything seemed to go back to normal when Inga returned, her mother on the mend. Even so, Mariah made certain to send extra bakery goods home with the girl for a couple of days longer.
Tressa had given Soren significant looks during all such exchanges between Mariah and Inga, but her friend and peer either didn’t see them or ignored her. He still did the main job of taking the shop leftovers to the Temple each night, and she’d stopped watching him leave in the evening. But the doubt remained. Though the awkward stiffness lessened between them, Tressa still didn’t trust Soren, and that bothered her.
A fortnight after she’d caught him selling the Temple donations, Tressa decided to prove things to herself once and for all. Without thinking too deeply about what she was doing, she followed Soren. When he proved her wrong, she would beg his forgiveness, then convince him to talk to Mariah about his sick father.
Soren walked directly toward the Temple, and Tressa smiled. Then he turned a corner before he got there, and her heart sank. Cutting through another alleyway, she followed him from a distance until he stopped. On the corner of a smaller street, he gestured the basket of bakery goods toward the people passing by. Some stopped. From the easy conversation between them and the exchange of coin for baked goods, this was his new spot for selling the leftovers. He hadn’t stopped. He’d lied and hidden his thievery from them all.
Tressa walked away, her heart heavy and her mind confused. If he lied to her about this, did he lie about his dad being sick? Did it matter? Of course it did. Mariah would’ve helped him just as she’d helped Inga. Would it make any difference if she followed Soren home and discovered his dad ill and Soren too prideful to ask? He had still lied and taken from people who needed the food most.
She sat on a low stone wall and watched people head home from the work day and tried not to feel anything. She didn’t know what to do now. Soren had lied, and he was still stealing from Mariah . . . from the poor. From someone. From someone like me before Mariah took a chance on me.
Pulling a meat pie from her satchel, she stared at it. She’d made this one today. She’d graduated from just baked goods to filled ones to be sold. It made her proud that Mariah trusted her enough to do so.
As she took a bite, she looked up and saw a snowy white horse wearing a white and blue bridle with a matching saddle blanket. There was no rider astride the beautiful horse. In Haven, that was not unusual. It was a Companion, the symbol of Haven’s—of Valdemar’s—goodness and a representative of the monarch. She continued to watch until the beautiful horse trotted out of sight on its way to do whatever it was that Companions did.
At one time, she prayed that she’d be Chosen. To become a Herald like those in the legends. In the end, she wasn’t Chosen by a Companion but by Mariah. The apprenticeship was nearly at an end. She would have the pain, and the opportunity, to strike out on her own, and to adhere to no one’s standards but her own.
Sensing eyes upon her, Tressa turned and saw a small, dirty child watching her. Or, rather, watching her barely touched meat pie. With a smile, she broke the pastry in half and offered the untouched bit to the little boy. As he took it and stuffed the entire thing in his mouth, she made a decision. Breaking off another piece, she handed it to the child before finishing her diminished meal.