by Erin Johnson
“Three Easy Steps. 1—Bake. 2—Wrap baked good in this flier. 3—Wait for results!”
I flipped the flyer over several times. Just wrap it in the flyer? But where would I send it to?
Under the numbered list I scanned through all the contest fine print and found an outlined rectangle that held an address: Royal Bakers Contest, Judges Quarters, Royal Palace, Bijou Mer, Water Kingdom. I frowned. Not even a zip code.
I looked up and searched my memory. Was it a joke? The woman who’d given me the flyer had seemed sincere, if a bit different. I looked back down at the flyer. Quite an elaborate joke, if it was one. Maybe French addresses were different… if this was French. It sounded French, right?
My elbows leaning against the cold tile counter, I tapped on the flyer with one finger, in time with the leak dripping into the pot. Though I couldn’t quite puzzle out the reward for winning the contest, earning the title of royal baker certainly sounded impressive. Maybe the winner got to meet French royalty?
I imagined a beautiful framed plaque on the wall of my bakery, proclaiming me “honorary royal baker.” I might get some media coverage. That would certainly help get the word out about a new patisserie. I smiled. Well, I might find some way to express ship something and get it there in time. In any case, I felt like baking to celebrate saving up the funds, so might as well enter the contest with whatever I made.
I stood up and patted the flyer, my mind made up. I’d enter. Why not? And since the contest began in just a few days, if I made it in, it wouldn’t delay the opening of my bakery.
I stood on tiptoe and lifted a few white ceramic mixing bowls off the open shelves above the sink, plunking them down on the countertop. I opened the fridge and pulled out a couple of half-finished cartons of fresh berries, leftover from last weekend’s farmers’ market.
Oh! I made a mental note to thank my friend for running my stall. I peeled off the lid of a tub of mascarpone, swiped a fingertip of the cheese to my lips, and savored the rich, salty sweetness. Yum.
Once I had everything I needed, I set the butter out to soften and happily closed the fridge door, shutting off the bright, artificial light. I let the warmth and romance of the golden candles scattered about the kitchen envelop me. What a magical morning.
I pulled out my loose collection of recipes—calling it a book would have been giving it too much credit. I kept the loose sheets of full-sized paper, note cards, even a few Post-its in a ratty pale yellow binder I’d had since high school. I flipped through it till I found the recipe I had in mind—shortcake, filled with mascarpone and topped with fresh strawberries and blueberries and a syrup made from some of the fruit. My mouth watered just thinking about it.
Humming a random little song I made up, I mixed flour and salt and the dry goods together, opting to do it by hand instead of using my mixer. With the softness of the candles, the curtain hush of pouring rain, and the dark early hour, it just seemed like a time for quiet—the whir of something electric would’ve broken the spell.
I mixed and hummed and danced around the kitchen, tasting this and that, practically bursting with joy. This was going to be my life.
I imagined myself in my bakery, doing this every day. A happy tear dribbled down my cheek and fell into the bowl of batter tucked under my arm. Oops! Should I start over? Probably… although as long as I kept my blood and sweat out, a tear was probably okay. The health department might have disagreed, but I’d worry about that when I had a real bakery.
It was nearly five when I finished. The entire counter lay under a white dusting of flour, as did my cheeks, the kitchen towel I’d tossed next to the whisk, my hands, and apron.
I pulled up a tall wooden stool and sat on the other side of the counter, staring at my creation. The little shortcake glowed a light golden brown, a few pieces of the top just starting to crisp. Inside lay buttery goodness and sweet and salty mascarpone. Berries and purple syrup tumbled over the top and down the sides.
I sighed, pleased. Then yawned, stretching my mouth so wide, it almost hurt. I blinked my watering eyes a few times. Humph. Guess the late night had finally caught up with me.
I shook my head trying to clear it. Right, now what? I looked at the flyer. Maybe I really could just wrap the shortbread directly in it? I vaguely recalled reading that a long time ago, in the Middle Ages maybe, people had used waxed pieces of oilcloth to preserve goods, kind of how we might use plastic wrap.
I lifted my shortbread, set it carefully in the center of the paper, and then gently folded the sides up around it. I molded it protectively around the little cake and it folded neatly, so that the address ended up right on top. I smiled. Perfect. But how to keep it sealed?
I stood and fished around in a drawer until I found my red-and-white striped bakers twine. I sliced off a long piece with a knife and crisscrossed it around the flier, then tied a bow on top, like a present, careful to not obscure the address.
I sat back down on the stool and admired my handiwork. I’d take it to the shipping store as soon as they opened in a few hours.
Outside the window, the streets remained quiet and the sky dark. Soon though, I knew, lights would turn on and people would begin to go about their day. I yawned, groaned, and lay my head on my arms, resting them on my open recipe book.
I eyed my little creation by the soft golden light of the dying candles. Should I even bother going to sleep, or just stay up? I yawned heavily again; my eyes squeezed shut.
I let them stay closed, breathing in the sweet, bready smell of the cake and listening to the soft rush of rain coming in through the cracked window. I’d just let my eyes rest while I decided….
I woke up groaning, an ear-splitting, high-pitched peal driving a spike into my brain. I blinked. My eyes stung. I took a breath and coughed, and coughed harder. My lungs burned and ached. I squinted, trying to focus, and lifted my head off my arms.
I must have fallen asleep at the kitchen counter, but even knowing that, I could make sense of nothing else. Where was my kitchen?
In front of me stretched a dense cloud of black smoke. The electronic wail of the smoke alarm registered. Oh God! My kitchen was on fire!
My heavy head bobbed and I reeled, stumbling off the wooden stool and knocking it sideways. I leaned against the wall for support, burying my face in the crook of my arm, coughing and coughing until I could drag in a bit of breath.
I lifted my head and dashed into the smoke, waving my arms, trying to clear it, but it did no good and a flash of bright orange flame sent me stumbling back, the heat blistering my cheeks. My mind reeled. I looked around, saw the recipe book I’d been lying on, gathered it into my arms, and ran out of the apartment.
My phone! I went to dash back in so I could call the fire department, but another, bigger flash of flame made me stumble back, terrified.
I ran out the door, coughing and gagging. My apartment sat at the end of the hall, so I began pounding on doors and screaming, as loudly as my dry, scorched lungs would let me.
“Fire!”
5
The Fire
The cool mist beaded on my dry, cracked cheeks. I barely registered it or anything else around me. Firemen in dirty yellow gear bustled by, dragging hoses to their trucks.
A few of my neighbors sat in the back of a paramedic truck, blankets wrapped around their shoulders, legs swinging. They were all right. All my neighbors had gotten out, I’d made sure of that. That was a blessing.
I should’ve felt grateful, but honestly, I felt nothing at all. A numb emptiness settled over me. I seemed unable to peel my eyes away from the apartment building. Black smoke had billowed out the top floor windows, but now just a gray haze hung there. Black soot scorched the area around my shattered apartment window.
What had been my apartment, I corrected myself. The firefighters had informed me that nothing remained, just the skeleton of my iron bed frame. I had nothing but the pajamas I wore, my frilly apron, the recipe book I still clutched to my chest, and the rough
woolen blanket someone, probably a firefighter, had placed around my shoulders. And I probably had to give that back.
My landlord, who lived on the bottom floor, stood talking with a man in slacks and a tie. Every now and then my landlord scowled my way. I shrunk within my blanket, my stomach tying into even tighter knots. I might be sick.
The guy in slacks left my landlord and approached me. He shifted his clipboard under one arm and held the other out. “Hi, I’m Tom Shear, assessor for the property.” I shook his hand. I’m supposed to say something.
“Your landlord informed me that you’re Imogen Banks?”
Oh, right, my name. I nodded, my eyes drifting down to the man’s shoes.
“I understand the fire began in your apartment?”
He said it kindly, a matter-of-fact statement more than an accusation, but I couldn’t help the silent tears that ran down my cheeks and fell onto my fuzzy gray slippers. I nodded and burbled out, “I’m the arsonist.” I couldn’t remember my own name, but that word popped into my head?
“You did that on purpose?” Tom Shear, property assessor, tried to catch my eye.
“What? No, of course not.” I shook my head.
“Here.” He handed me a folded white kerchief, and I took it with a trembling hand, dabbing at my cheeks. When I pulled it away from my face to hand it to him, it was stained a sooty black. It took me a moment to realize that my entire face must be blackened, and I cried harder. “I-I ruined it.” I’d ruined everything. “I’m sorry, I’ll-I’ll get you a new one.” My vision blurred, and I choked on big, gulping sobs.
I felt a warm hand on my shoulder. “Don’t cry, miss, I have a million of those. Keep it, okay? Just don’t cry.”
I nodded, but kept sobbing, my whole body shaking. What a mess I’d made.
“Listen, I know now’s not a good time, but do you have renter’s insurance?”
Did I? Yes, my landlord had insisted I have it when I moved in. I nodded, still staring at my feet.
“Do you know who it’s with?”
It took my sluggish brain a long time, but I remembered the name of the company and told him.
“Okay, I’ll get them on the line. They’ll help us sort out the liability for the accident, and sometimes there’s provisions in case of something like this for hotel accommodations, a new wardrobe, that sort of thing.”
I pressed the man’s kerchief to my face and sobbed. I just wanted to wake up and have this all have been a terrible dream. Yeah, maybe it was all a dream.
I slapped myself across the face, hard. Well, that hurt like a mother, but I didn’t wake up. And now I just seemed insane. I cried harder.
A firefighter had informed me earlier that one of the candles I’d left burning had caught a kitchen towel on fire, and it spread from there. Maybe the wax paper I’d wrapped my shortcake in had ignited. He’d told me they hadn’t found anything like that, but that everything had burned very hot and it had likely disintegrated.
The fireman had said I’d done a brave thing, sticking around, getting everyone out. But I didn’t feel brave. I felt like an overly excited idiot who’d endangered my neighbors’ lives, destroyed a building, and ruined an innocent handkerchief.
The insurance guy, Tom, came up to me, a cell to one ear, his finger holding the other closed to hear better over the din. Spectators had gathered outside the police tape to gape, the firefighters called to each other over the clatter of loading up metal ladders, and the fire engine’s motor hissed and whined now and then. Tom came to my side and lifted his spectacled face to mine. I lowered the kerchief.
“Do you know your ID number?”
I sighed, my heart sinking, and shook my head.
“No,” he said into the phone, then listened. “Okay, they’re going to ask you some identifying questions to verify your account.”
I nodded and he passed the phone over. I spoke with the woman from the insurance company, and could hear her tapping away at her keyboard as I answered her questions about the name of my first dog and my mother’s maiden name.
“All right,” she said. “I’m going to pull up your policy and take a look at your coverage. This’ll be a few minutes.”
I stood in the cool morning mist, the flash of police lights bouncing off the wet street, and waited. After a few minutes she came back on the line. “Miss Banks, still there?”
“Yes.” My voice came out a dry rattle.
“Good news is that you do indeed have fire damage coverage. However, you have a high deductible plan.”
That didn’t sound good.
“How high?” I croaked.
“Your deductible is $50,000.”
The world spun. Only Tom leaping forward and catching me by the shoulders kept me from sinking to the ground. I breathed in shallow gasps on wobbly legs.
“After that your plan will cover a portion of the damages, but because the fire was caused by negligence—”
The word “negligence” cut me to the core. I was negligent. Tears tracked down my cheeks again, my eyes so swollen and wet I could barely see. The woman from the insurance company explained that I would need to pay a certain percentage up to $100,000, plus fees, for a total of $107,000. All of my savings. I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Hands trembling and numb from the cold, I handed the phone back to Tom.
“Do you get reimbursement for temporary lodgings?”
I shook my head slowly, numb.
“Do you have someone you can call?”
I squinted at Tom. What a kind question from someone I barely knew. I tried to pull myself together, and plastered a wavering smile on my face. “Yeah, yeah of course. I’ll be okay. Thank you. Really. Thank you.”
“You sure you’ll be okay, miss?”
I nodded again, putting on my best “of course, don’t be silly” face. “I’m cool as a cucumber.”
The space between his brows creased, but he gave me one last searching look, then nodded and turned, taking his clipboard back to the scorched building.
With his back turned I let my smile and my shoulders drop. I had no one. I had no friends. I’d sacrificed everything for years to save up enough money for my bakery, and the night it finally was within reach, I’d literally burned the whole thing down.
It would take every single last penny I had to pay the damages for the fire, everything I’d saved up for my bakery. I had work tomorrow. Maybe my adopted—I mean, parents would wire me money? That would require explaining that I had none of my own. A guilty pit ached in my stomach.
I’d never told them about my dreams for a bakery. I didn’t know exactly why I’d always hidden that from them, and I felt the wrongness of it. They’d support me, I knew they would. But… but it would be with words of caution, and backup plans and looks shared between my mom and dad and sister that said, “Let’s be there for her when this doesn’t pan out.” They viewed any career outside a regular nine to five with suspicion.
I whimpered as I stared at the still-smoking building.
With the rough blanket wrapped around my hands, I sunk to the curb and sat with my face buried, my whole body shaking with my sobs. I was sitting there, willing the rest of the world to melt away and leave me be, when I heard a gentle Ding! Ding!
I lifted my hot, swollen face and blinked. In the middle of the all the chaos of firemen, flashing lights, hoses, and groups of neighbors in blankets stood a man in Lycra pants, holding a bicycle at his side. He pulled an envelope from under his arm, scanned the address, and called out, “Imogen Banks?” He looked around, and I buried my face in the blanket. “Imogen Banks?” he tried again. I groaned. Go away.
I heard someone say, “That’s her, over there, the lump in the blanket on the curb.”
I groaned again. That was the perfect way to describe me, the lump on the curb, and that’s exactly how I wanted to stay. The whir of bike wheels clicked to a stop in front of me. He cleared his throat.
“Imogen Banks?”
I lifted my head and his b
rows jolted up. Between the soot and the crying, I was sure I looked a mess. He held the brown paper envelope out to me. “Delivery for you.”
I frowned at it, then at him, making no move to take it. “If it’s some insurance document informing me I owe them my firstborn child, just take it away.”
He shrugged. “I’m just the messenger.” He pushed it a little closer, and with a roll of my eyes, I extricated an arm from the blanket and took it. He swung back onto his bike and peddled off, swerving around the police tape and through the crowd of onlookers.
I pulled my other hand free and turned the large envelope over. It crackled in my hand as I checked the return address. My heart stopped.
Royal Bakers Contest, Judges Quarters, Royal Palace, Bijou Mer, Water Kingdom.
No. How could this be possible? It was the address for the contest. The contest I’d never entered because my shortcake burned up in the apartment fire. With trembling hands, I tore open the package and slid out a single, oversized sheet of parchment. Across the top, scrawled in huge letters, it read: Congratulations! My head spun.
You’ve been chosen to enter the contest for the new royal baker of the Water Kingdom. Enclosed you’ll find your passport to the kingdom. You must arrive by June 11, 9:00 a.m. sharp at the Old Miller’s Quarters, back garden, Royal Palace, to begin orientation. Bring your own flame, or one will be provided for you. If coming by land, the nearest human town is St. Rael, on the coast of France. If by sea, locate the ferry dock on the south side. If by air, use the royal landing pad.
I lifted my head and looked around, expecting a camera crew to leap out and scream “gotcha!” But no one did. I reread it. My own flame? Was that a jab at the fire I’d lit? But how would anyone know about that and about the contest? Could I really have been chosen? But how could that be possible?
Goose bumps rose on my arms, and the hair on the back of my neck lifted.
My cake had to have burned in the fire. How could I have entered? And how could this package have gotten to me so quickly? It’d been only hours ago that I’d drifted off and the fire had started.
