Six: Bel, The Baker's Daughter
Feb. 7th, 2013 04:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
theonecalledwander“Oh, well, you know the saying,” I say.
“What saying is that?” the baker asks.
“You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make ‘em drink.”
“You can’t even lead them to ours,” she says. “They won’t go near the well, and they’ll bolt if you try to bring water from it to them.”
“That can’t be good for business,” I say.
“It isn’t,” she says. “We’re a market town. Everyone here still needs bread, but we can’t survive long just doing business with each other. People still travel through, sometimes, but they don’t stop if they don’t have to. They can water their horses at the crossing.”
Since it seems unnecessary for her to say which crossing, I don’t ask. It’s not likely to be relevant, and there’s no sense rubbing her nose in the fact that I haven’t come by the usual road.
“What’s your name?” I ask instead.
“Bel, the Baker’s Daughter.”
She’s alone in the shop. The same fine dusting of flour that has settled over everything else clings to her brown skin.
“The Baker’s Daughter?” I say. An eyebrow might arch itself as I say this, or possibly it’s only my vain imagination that it does so. One the day when we meet in person, dear reader, you shall have to tell me if my command of my facial expressions is as great as I would believe it to be. “Why not Bel the Baker?”
“Well, my father’s been in the grave seven years now, but I was Bel the Baker’s Daughter for twice that length of time before,” she says. “You know how it goes. And my father was a good man, if I have to be a daughter I’m glad to be his. Anyway, who would you be, then?”
“They call me Wander,” I say.
“Who does?” she says.
“Everyone I introduce myself to.”
“What saying is that?” the baker asks.
“You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make ‘em drink.”
“You can’t even lead them to ours,” she says. “They won’t go near the well, and they’ll bolt if you try to bring water from it to them.”
“That can’t be good for business,” I say.
“It isn’t,” she says. “We’re a market town. Everyone here still needs bread, but we can’t survive long just doing business with each other. People still travel through, sometimes, but they don’t stop if they don’t have to. They can water their horses at the crossing.”
Since it seems unnecessary for her to say which crossing, I don’t ask. It’s not likely to be relevant, and there’s no sense rubbing her nose in the fact that I haven’t come by the usual road.
“What’s your name?” I ask instead.
“Bel, the Baker’s Daughter.”
She’s alone in the shop. The same fine dusting of flour that has settled over everything else clings to her brown skin.
“The Baker’s Daughter?” I say. An eyebrow might arch itself as I say this, or possibly it’s only my vain imagination that it does so. One the day when we meet in person, dear reader, you shall have to tell me if my command of my facial expressions is as great as I would believe it to be. “Why not Bel the Baker?”
“Well, my father’s been in the grave seven years now, but I was Bel the Baker’s Daughter for twice that length of time before,” she says. “You know how it goes. And my father was a good man, if I have to be a daughter I’m glad to be his. Anyway, who would you be, then?”
“They call me Wander,” I say.
“Who does?” she says.
“Everyone I introduce myself to.”