What the Bank Would Hold

Miller left after breakfast with the map inside his coat and the mill driver beside him. The cart wheels rattled over the lane stones until the sound thinned into the rain. I sat near the window with my ankle propped on a folded blanket, watching the space where they had gone.

Clara set a bowl of porridge within reach. “You can keep looking out there,” she said. “The porridge won’t take it personally.”

“I’m not looking for them.”

“All right.” She nudged the spoon toward my hand. “Then it won’t mind waiting.”

I ate because the bowl was warm and because Clara had noticed I’d stopped after three bites. I wasn’t sure when Miller would return. He had said he’d come back before deciding whether to go farther, which was a promise with a clear edge. Still, every time the front bell rang, I listened for his boots.

Most of the morning went on around me. Clara kneaded dough, took an order for a seed loaf, and talked a customer through the price of a jar of jam. I kept the current map on the table. The ink lines stayed where they were, but my attention kept moving between the kiln mark and the creek. I tried to remember the ground around the crossing. Mud. A narrow path. The sound of water somewhere nearby. I had no picture I trusted enough to draw.

When the baker’s boy from the mill came in for two rolls, he looked at the map, then at my splint. He picked the chair furthest from me and sat down to wait while Clara wrapped his order. I watched him rub flour off his sleeve. I wanted to ask if he knew the road. Instead I pulled the map closer and traced the route to the kiln with one finger.

Clara set a cup of tea beside me. “If you want to ask him something, you can. If you don’t, you can drink your tea.”

“I don’t know what to ask.”

“Then you don’t have to ask yet.” She returned to the counter.

The boy left with his rolls. I drank the tea before it cooled and left the map spread out. That felt like doing something, even if nobody else could tell.

The rain eased near noon. I knew because the drops stopped ticking against the window, not because I heard them fade. Clara had just taken a tray from the oven when the front bell rang. Miller came in with damp shoulders and mud on the hem of his coat. The mill driver followed him, carrying a folded umbrella.

Clara reached for the kettle. “Tea?”

“After,” Miller said. He came to the table and stood on the far side of the map. “The cart made it to the kiln without trouble.”

I rubbed my thumb along the edge of the paper. “And the crossing?”

“The bank has slumped since the last rain. The stones are still there, but two shifted when we tested them.” Miller looked down at the map. “We didn’t try to cross. I wouldn’t take a cart over it, and I wouldn’t send someone across on foot while the ground’s this loose.”