Realms of the Arcane - Brian M. Thomsen [28]
When the bakers finally had something tangible to see, all activity stopped. They moved tentatively toward the starter dough and the jar that Wiglaf brandished. Only Piewacket, asleep in a U-shape on the windowsill, was uninterested.
"If that isn't starter, I'm a "deeper," marveled Sam Brownstone, Thorin's veteran baker. Wiglaf handed it to him for inspection. "But it's the damndest one I've ever seen." He gave the lump a gentle squeeze. "It feels fresh, but dry as the desert on the outside. We're to believe this is hundreds of years old, young Ever-tongue?"
"Maybe thousands!" cried Wiglaf.
"So what are you planning to do with it, son?" his father asked.
"Well, if you don't know what to do with it here, maybe I'd better take my business to another establishment," Wiglaf beamed.
"You don't actually believe it's still good after all this time?"
"There's only one way to find out, Father."
Thorin Evertongue paused and pondered. "All right, but after we've finished today's baking. Today, gentlemen." The spell was broken, and the staff hurried to its duties again.
Wiglaf leapt up in delight. 'Well, what are we waiting for? Give me an apron and I'll help!"
Sasha cleared her throat. She had gone completely unnoticed in the commotion. "I think this is my cue to take a stroll. See you later, Wiglaf."
He gave her a curt wave and made his second dive of the day-into frenzied work at his father's bakery.
It felt good, toiling at his former station. If fresh, hot bread was comfort food, then making it was comfort work. Sometimes those who have gladly left a trade are reminded of their past misery by smells and sounds; Wiglaf knew a former blacksmith who hated the smell of horses and jumped at the biting sound of steel on steel, and he himself had often thought that if he could just get out of this bakery, he'd never enter one again. But he knew that any profession becomes a chore if you have to do it when you don't want to-yes, even the study of magic. And as anyone knows who has passed one by, there are few smells as tantalizing as those issuing from a bakery; that pleasure is not lost on its employees.
Wiglaf helped with preparation, cleaning, and especially customer service at the counter in the front room, a task at which he excelled. Most of the patrons who stopped in were lifelong acquaintances, surprised to see him back at work, and each one was treated to the story of his latest exploit. The afternoon flew by, and before he knew it, the last loaves-the ones the staff would take home for themselves-were steaming in the bakers' baskets.
With the solemnity of a group of learned healers, the craftsmen prepared to conjure Wiglaf's special loaf. The ovenboy produced a pot of water warmed by the fire. Sam Brownstone poured a bit of it into a large bowl and gave Wiglaf the honor of adding the magical discovery.
"Now, this is just half a loaf," Wiglaf said, "so let's use half measures. We'll test it first." He carefully added a bit of the dough into the water and stirred the mixture with a fork. Everyone in the room was intent on this otherwise mundane task; even Piewacket came up to snake against ankles and compete for attention. Soon the dough had completely dissolved into the water.
Sam dipped a small spoon into the sack holding the bakery's sugar. Everyone knew this was the moment of truth: was it really possible that the yeast in the dough had somehow survived all these years? With a portentous glance at Wiglaf, who swallowed hard, Sam dropped the sugar into the water and began to stir.
The mixture started bubbling.
The bakers let out