Where the Track Joined

Miller came to the bakery before breakfast with his coat fastened to the throat and a coil of rope over one shoulder. The mill driver waited outside with the cart. I could hear the horse shifting in its harness through the door, stamping once, then going quiet.

I had the map open beside my porridge. The words “stop here” were still written at the end of the dotted line.

“Water’s holding steady,” Miller said. He kept his voice low, though the bakery was empty. “We’ll take the crossing with the rope again. Then we follow the far-bank track until it meets the old road, if it does. We stop there.”

I pushed my spoon through the porridge. “You’ll come back the same way?”

“That’s the plan.”

“And if the path gets bad?”

“We turn around.” He waited a moment. “You want anything else from us?”

I wanted to ask him to find the tower. I wanted him to come back without having gone anywhere at all. I pressed my thumb into the handle of my spoon until the feeling in it steadied me.

“No,” I said. “Just tell me where the road goes from the junction.”

“I will.”

Clara set a little parcel on the counter. “Bread and cheese for the road. Don’t try to tell me you brought enough.”

The mill driver came in to take it. His boots made a damp sound on the floorboards. “We’ve got enough,” he said, accepting the parcel anyway.

“You have enough for this morning,” Clara said. “That isn’t the same thing.”

Miller took the parcel from him and tucked it away. Then he looked toward me, not at the map. “I’ll report to you before we decide anything else.”

“I know.”

He left with the driver. The door bell gave its small, bright shake, and then their steps went away down the lane. The horse’s harness jingled once as they turned toward the road.

I stayed at the table with my porridge cooling in front of me. Clara moved through the bakery, setting out the morning trays by touch and memory. I could tell what she was doing from the soft taps of the boards and the scents that gathered: cinnamon, yeast, the clean heat of the oven. None of it moved the map any closer to an answer.

“Would you like me to put that away?” she asked.

“No.”

“All right.” She slid a folded cloth toward me. “You can help me sort these, if your ankle’s comfortable where it is.”

My ankle was propped on a second chair, splint secure beneath my trouser leg. It ached a little, not sharply. “I can fold.”