The seamstresses made up their minds that I was going to have the tightly laced two-part oversleeves that would let the silk chemise show through the lacings. Mama would probably have the big dagged oversleeves that looked like angel wings; they wouldn’t want us to look too much alike. They finally decided that the fitting was over and let me slip out of the gown into something a lot more robust because today was my day to work in the kitchen. As the seamstresses sped away with drifts of fabric over their arms, I pulled my tough canvas skirt on over my linen chemise, tied my fustian apron over both, and slipped my feet into wooden clogs. Then I ran out through the solar and down the servants’ stair to the bottom floor, where all the things that kept the palace going got done. The first room off the stairs was the laundry—which was lovely because when the big outer doors were closed in winter, the steam came up the stairs, carrying with it the scents of clean linen, lavender, and rose water. Then came the drying room, then the ironing room, and then the first of the kitchen rooms, the scullery, where all the pots and pans and dishes were washed. The next room was my goal, the bakery.
“About time, girl!” the chief baker shouted at me. “You’re doing manchet bread today! Hop to it!” When I was in the kitchen, I (mostly) got treated like everyone else down here. This was on Papa’s orders so I would get used to how servants were treated. Papa had very strong beliefs about how those who ruled should know exactly how those who served were treated and felt.
You might think it strange that here I was, the Queen’s daughter, learning to work in a kitchen. You see, we are a very small kingdom. You can stand on the top of Mount Snowdown on the northern border and see all the way to the southern border, and if there had been a mountain on the eastern border, you could have seen all the way to the west. We’re at peace with everyone around us now, but my father died in the last war only a couple of years ago, so the possibility that war could come again is always on everyone’s mind. And though the last war was just between human armies, there was always the chance for something or someone magical and big and powerful to decide that little Tirendell would be a good morsel to gobble up. There is magic of all kinds in this world, and even little Tirendell has its very own wizard. So Papa insisted that I choose something useful to learn in case the kingdom was ever defeated and I might have to hide among the people. “A boy can always make his way as a common fighter,” he’d said, and put a finger under my chin to tilt up my face so I could see that he was serious. “I want to be sure my darling Miriam will never go hungry—or find herself exposed and at the mercy of our enemies. No one will look for you up to your arms in flour or tending a stable.”
So I decided to learn baking. And the chief baker—Odo—was told to treat me like any other apprentice.
I ran over to my station, where everything was ready, right next to my good friend Giles, who was doing trencher bread today. Trencher bread is a loaf that’s sliced in half from end to end and given to servants to eat off of instead of plates. That saves on plate washing. Then, if they’re really hungry, they can take it away to eat later, although I never saw any of Papa’s servants doing that because Papa makes sure every single person in the palace down to the lowest scullion has plenty to eat. And even if it’s not eaten, it’s not wasted; the monks come every night and collect everything that isn’t eaten and isn’t being saved for the next day to give to the poor.
“You’re late,” Giles said, vigorously kneading his dough. Trencher bread is made of coarser flour than manchet bread, part barley or rye flour or both, as well as unsifted wheat flour. Manchet bread is made only of wheat flour that’s been sifted through three sets of cloths. Only the flour used for cake is finer and whiter.
The bakery is a wonderful place to be except in hot weather. If there’s anything better than the heavenly smell of baking bread, I don’t know what it is, except maybe the smell of baking cakes. And today the air was full of both. There were a lot of conversations going on all over the bakery—the chief baker is strict but fair, and as long as the work is done, he doesn’t shout about chattering. And with the christening coming, there certainly was a lot to chatter about.
I rolled up my sleeves, not just because I needed to get them out of the way but because it was good and warm down here. I picked up where the last person at my station had left off, peeking under the cloths over the bowls of second-rise dough first. Sure enough, they were ready, great mounds of creamy-white dough with a tight skin on them, so I carried them over to the bakers. Then I tilted out the bowls of dough on their first rise, punched them back, and covered them with the second-rise cloths. Then I set about making more dough.
I’d already mastered flatbreads, quick breads, and trencher bread. Now I was being given manchet to do, the “king” of the breads. Next I would learn pies, then cakes. But probably not the decorating of the presentation pieces and fancy subtleties; that took years to learn. Odo’s brother had a bakery in the town, and if anything terrible happened, I was to run for my life to one of the secret doors out of the palace and go straight to that bakery. There were five of those doors, all hidden in places that were very hard to get into, all built so they couldn’t be opened from the outside, and all guarded by Wizard Gerrold’s magic so only a few people could use them.
We were making a lot of manchet bread; the christening was going to be in three days, and not only was every important person in the kingdom invited, so were a lot of eminent people from the kingdoms on our borders. There would still be cooking going on the days of the christening and celebration, but everything that could be prepared in advance would be. We had a special pantry with a spell on it that ensured whatever was stored in it wouldn’t go stale or get moldy, and we intended to stuff it full.
Giles plopped his dough into a bowl and covered it, then measured out flour onto his board and began a new round of dough. I did the same, although my bread got milk instead of water and my dough was going to end up a little stickier than his was. But it would be easier to knead.
“You’re soon going to have enough muscle to join the squires,” I said, teasing him.
He grinned back. Giles wasn’t exactly handsome, but he had dark brown eyes that generally danced with mischief and a mouth made for smiling, and he could always manage to make us laugh. “What makes you think I don’t now?” he countered.
“Mostly because you’re here in the kitchen instead of out in the yard rolling the barrels to shine the knights’ chain mail,” I replied.
“Pish. This is a better job,” he retorted with a toss of his head. “Half of what a squire does is wait on some arrogant, empty-pated bully who swaggers around because someone tapped him on the shoulders with a sword. I’d rather do honest work.”
“Not all knights are arrogant, empty-pated bullies,” I said, and then, unexpectedly, I choked a little as a vision of my father suddenly sprang up in my mind and I was ambushed out of nowhere by how much I missed him.
I must have sniffed or something, because Giles stopped his mixing and shoved a clean square of cloth at me that he’d taken from the piles of bleached linen rags we used to cover the bread bowls. “Hey now,” he said, patting my back. “I didn’t mean—I mean, I’m sorry. Sir Geniver was… amazing. Nobody would ever have called him arrogant or empty-pated or… Miri, I’m sorry!”