Pancake Heart

Antonius paused in the doorway to the cold-room and glanced over his shoulder. Nobody had seen him arrive, and Albeck had warned him his mother was helping with the weekly stock take. He could turn away now, leave before he made a fool of himself, and— “Antonius.” Serina’s greeting snared him as he lifted his foot to step back. He jerked to a stop and risked a stumble as he reversed direction and swept his gaze across the cold-room, stretching his lips into a forced smile when he located her on the other side of a shoulder-high wall of crates. “Mamma, I—” His gaze jumped to the dark-haired woman at Serina’s side—the head cook, if he remembered correctly—and he coughed as he swallowed a gobbet of saliva along with his words. “My apologies, I didn’t realise you had company. I can…” He lifted his heel and slid it over the threshold. “…come back.” “Nonsense. The stock isn't going to sprout legs and run away if we don't count it this instant.” Serina turned her head, said something which prompted a nod from the cook, and made her way along the wall of crates towards him. Her smile shrunk as she rounded the end of the wall, and she squinted, causing a dozen tiny wrinkles to crease her brow. “Are you ill? You look… peaky.” “I’m fine, Mamma.” Antonius’s hand slipped towards his churning stomach. He fisted it in his tunic before the movement betrayed him. “I came to ask for your advice, that’s all.” “My advice?” Serina stopped two paces from him, pressed one hand to her chest, and swept the other across her forehead as she feigned a swoon. “What miracle is this? One of the great Vortai seeking the advice of a humble merchant’s wife? Next you’ll be telling me there are diamonds raining from the sky.” She laughed and pulled him against her chest in a crushing embrace. “And stop pouting. I raised you to stand on your own two feet. I’d be disappointed if you were less independent.” She pulled back, pressed her hand to the small of his back, and propelled him into the kitchen. “How can I help?” “I wanted to do something special for Vendela, and I, uh… I thought it’d be a nice surprise if I cooked her something.” He made it half-way across the kitchen before he realised his mother hadn’t followed, stopped, turned, and found her staring at him from the doorway with her lips pursed. “You? Cook?” Serina snorted and crossed her arms. “The last time you helped me cook, you blew a cake up in my oven.” “Yes. Well.” Antonius rubbed at the back of his neck and averted his gaze. “It was an accident. I was hungry, and the smell was driving me crazy. I didn’t know raising the temperature too fast would make it explode. Besides…” He pulled his gaze away from the flagstone floor and forced himself to meet his mother’s heavy stare. “…that was years ago. I know better than to use the Song to help me now.” Serina’s answering, “hmm," conveyed her doubt with more eloquence than any words, but her lips twitched a moment later, and the skin around her eyes crinkled. “How about something simple for your first attempt? Something like…” She lowered her arms and strode to the central counter. “…pancakes. The batter’s easy to make, and even you can chop fruit and mix cacao powder with cream to make a sauce. Do you have a copper pan to cook them on?” “Ma—” “No? I should have known. What about a bowl? Please tell me you own a—” “Mamma, I don’t—” “No bowl? Antonius, I know cooking isn’t your forte, but to not even own a bowl—” Serina shook her head and dismissed the rest of the lecture with a lip-rattling puff of air. “Never mind. You can borrow mine. And you’ll need a spoon, a jug, and a whisk. What else?” Hinges creaked as she opened one of the cupboard doors, and the thick walls muffled her voice when she crouched to search inside. * * * Mix the flour and eggs together, then slowly add the milk and whisk until smooth and creamy. Antonius stopped whisking, tipped the bowl forward, and frowned as the thin, pale liquid ran to the front, revealing a dozen sticky, squelchy lumps underneath. He poked one. It split open to reveal a wad of flour within. “Thick and creamy. I can do thick and creamy.” He resumed his whisking, clenching his teeth against the burning ache spreading along his upper arm and into his shoulder. “Thick and creamy.” He stopped, tipped the bowl, and threw the whisk onto the makeshift worktop as more lumps slid down the bowl, broke free with a slurp, and plopped into the thin, watery liquid below. “Come on, Antonius, you’ve defeated two Andistalkern, uncovered a Gröna Diamanter plot, and outwitted a narrow-minded fool who’d rather have seen the city crumble than admit the truth. Are you really going to let yourself be defeated by a dozen pancakes?” A flick of his wrist set the bowl spinning on its base, the rumble of ceramic on wood fading with each turn until it settled into place. He marched into his living room, paced a circuit of the dining table, and returned to his bedroom, where he’d set up his workspace next to the flat’s only fireplace. “Right. I can do this. It's like Mamma said, start from the beginning, take your time, follow the instructions, and…” He emptied the lumpy mixture into a bucket, rinsed the bowl with a splash of water, and wiped it dry. “Step one, measure the flour.” He dipped the measuring cup into the flour, levelled it off with the back of a knife, and emptied it into the bowl. Fine, white powder billowed up from the flour’s impact to tickle his nose. He jerked his head aside, sneezed, and sniffed to clear his sinuses. “Step two, add the eggs.” He cracked the eggs into a smaller bowl, fished out the broken shell, and poured them over the flour. “Step three, mix. And no leaving unmixed balls of flour behind this time.” With the bowl cradled against his chest, he strolled to the window as he mixed and peered up at the sky. The bottom of the sun kissed the distant city walls. The hand holding the whisk spasmed, flicking mixture free of the bowl to spatter a pattern of lines and dots across the glass. “Relax. She’ll just be leaving work. You have time.” He paused in his mixing long enough to locate and break apart the few lumps which had escaped his efforts. With the mixture now smooth, he returned the bowl to the worktop and poured milk into the waiting jug. “Now add it to the bowl and whisk. Slowly this time.” Working the jug with one hand and the whisk with the other, he added the milk a tablespoon at a time, whisking each portion until it was blended before pouring in the next. “And…” He set down the jug and tilted the bowl. “…yes, we have smooth and creamy. Now then…” He tossed the whisk into the jug and picked up his mother’s instructions, exposing a clean rectangle of wood on the worktop. “Leave the batter to settle and heat the pan. When the oil smokes, pour on a thin, pancake- sized circle of batter. Allow to brown, then flip. Sounds simple enough.” He returned the recipe to the worktop and moved the waiting pan from the hearth to the brick struts which would hold it over the crackling fire. Another trip to the window confirmed he still had fifteen or twenty minutes; time enough to core and chop the strawberries. An acrid whiff soured the fruit’s sweet scent. Antonius frowned then whipped his head around, his breath hitching as he registered the source of the bitter stench. Two steps took him around the end of the worktop, where he snatched the handle of the pan, shifted it an inch, and released it with a curse. “Hot. Too hot.” He waved his hand to cool it as he surveyed the room, grabbed a towel from the top of his laundry, and used it to protect himself as he yanked the pan off the struts and onto the hearth. “Damn.” The skin of his palm glistened when he held it up to the light, but there didn’t appear to be any serious damage. He dipped the towel in the bowl of wash water he kept by his bed and wrapped it around his hand whilst he waited for the pan to cool. Once it stopped smoking, he scraped away the burnt oil, added a fresh dollop, and returned the pan to the heat. This time, he brought the bowl to the hearth and waited, gaze pinned to the oil, tensing when it bubbled, tipping the bowl, and— “Shit.” He jerked the bowl back, but not before a double portion splattered the pan. A second lot following when the batter hit the back of the bowl, rebounded, and swept up and out in a wave. With a muttered curse, he placed the bowl on the floor behind him, grabbed the fish slice, and nudged the edge of the batter, trying to keep it from sticking to the sides of the pan. It stuck to the fish slice instead, clinging when he tried to pull it back, then snapping, spraying half-cooked batter everywhere. He dabbed a spot off his cheek and another from his brow, scraped the edge of the fish slice clean, and tried again. The batter clung to the slice’s edge, stretching and twisting as he fought to shake it free, turning the extra-thick pancake into a gelatinous, gloopy ball. He removed the pan from the heat, carried it to the worktop, and slid the whole, stodgy mess into the bucket which held his first mix. “Right. Well. Why don’t I try that again?” He glanced from the pan, to the bowl, to the whisk-holding jug, and chuckled at himself. After returning the pan to the fire, he removed the whisk from the jug, poured in the remaining batter, and carried it to the waiting pan. The jug gave him more control, but his next pancake still ended up burnt on one side whilst appearing anaemic on the other. The third and fourth fared little better, with one turning into a crisp and the other tearing to shreds when he attempted to flip it. He watched the fifth effort with the intensity of a hunting cobra, readying his fish slice when the first bubble broke the pancake’s surface, slipping it into place as more bubbles formed, then turning it with a flick of his wrist. A circle as golden as the sun filled the centre of the pan. Suppressing a childish urge to giggle, he lifted its edge several times over the next couple of minutes, checking its colour, sliding it from the pan to a waiting plate the moment its underside darkened from creamy yellow to honeyed gold. Three more pancakes followed, each one straining his patience as the room darkened, warning him of Vendela’s pending arrival. He retrieved the jug, hoping to squeeze in one more pancake, but found it close-to-empty, holding just enough batter for him to draw the outline of a heart and fill it with a handful of decorative swirls. He added the heart to Vendela’s pile, set the pan on the hearth to cool, picked up the plates, and carried them through to the living room. The plates touched the table in the same instant as the front door opened. He turned Vendela’s plate so the heart faced her chair and dusted as much flour off his tunic as he could in the seconds she took to step through the door. “Antonius—” Antonius raised his hand and swallowed a laugh spawned by the surprise shining in her eyes. “Give me one minute, please.” He ducked back into his bedroom before she answered, swept the diced strawberries off the edge of the worktop and into the bowl of cubed pineapple, grabbed the jug containing the flavoured cream, and raced back, hooking the bedroom door with his foot on the way past, pulling it closed to hide the evidence of his near disaster. Vendela had removed her coat and now stood in front of her chair, twirling a strand of her hair and smiling to herself as she studied the pancakes. She flinched when he set the bowl and jug down on the table, looked up, and grinned at him. “Did you make this?” “Yes.” Antonius rounded the table, intending to pull out her chair, but she caught his arm before he could. “Here.” She wiped the side of his nose with her thumb, laughed, and held it up to him. A sticky mass of batter clung to its tip. His face heating, he reached for her chair again, but she slapped at his hair as he bent forward, knocking loose a cloud of flour and invoking a sneeze. “I hope you aren’t always this messy when you cook,” she said. Chair legs scraped the floor as she pulled it out and seated herself. “No. No, of course not.” Antonius ducked his head to hide his deepening blush, scurried back around the table and took the seat across from hers. “I was rushing because I wanted everything to be ready for your arrival. Normally, I'd take more time, be more organised—” Vendela’s musical laughter cut through his meandering protest. He watched her as she first dipped a slice of strawberry in the sauce then wrapped it in the strands of the heart-shaped pancake. His gaze followed the morsel as it travelled from the plate to her mouth, soaked up the motion of her lips as she chewed, then jumped from her lips to her eyes when she swallowed. “You like?” “Perhaps. Let me try another bite.” She made a show of plucking another strawberry from the bowl, twirling it in the sauce, then wrapping it in a square she cut from her pancake. Sauce seeped from the bottom as she lifted it to her mouth. She flicked out her tongue, licked it before it dripped, and popped it in her mouth. Her deep, drawn-out moan sent a shiver along the length of Antonius’s spine. He held his breath, his lungs aching, as he waited for her to swallow. “That.” She licked her thumb. “Was.” Her index finger. “Delicious.” Antonius wanted to leap from his chair and clap in delight but restricted himself to a modest smile which morphed into a cheek-aching grin. “I’m glad you like it.” “Me too. I smelled burning in the hall and envisaged you presenting me with an unidentifiable black crisp accompanied by billows of smoke.” She laughed, snuffing the sting from her words, and selected a chunk of pineapple. Antonius watched her eat another two bites before he thought to take one himself. * * * “Mmm.” Vendela wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin, folded it in half, and dropped it onto her empty plate. “That was delicious. I didn’t know you could cook.” “A little. Mother insisted on teaching us the basics, though it’s not something I have time to do often.” “A wise precaution. I’ll have to thank her next time I see her.” Vendela pushed her chair back and stood. “I’ll be back in a minute. I need to… use the facilities.” Antonius nodded, reclined his head, and half-closed his eyes, recalling the way Vendela’s eyes lit up when she took her first bite, the joy of her laughter when she teased him, the moisture on her lips when she licked away a dribble of sauce. Her reaction made every jot of frustration worthwhile, even the mess— Antonius jolted upright. The mess. He leapt to his feet, dashing for the door, but failed to reach it before Vendela pushed it open. She entered his bedroom, picked up the bucket he’d left by the splattered worktop, pulled out the congealed mess that had once been a pancake, and turned to face him. “What?” “Um…”

The Violin to His Drum

The dirge of the pipes blanketed the hillside, mirroring the drumbeat in Chrisandor's aching heart. You’re not a sissy, are you, boy? His father’s last words to him carved through his mind, cutting deeper than any knife. N-no, Father. He hadn’t meant to cry, but he’d fallen so fast, and his arm had burnt like fire. He swallowed a sob and forced tiny, staccato breaths past the invisible chains crushing his chest. It’d been his own fault. He’d known better than to climb into the loft unsupervised. And his father had already been late for work. He always said things he didn’t meant when he got angry. You’re not a sissy, are you, boy? Chrisandor stared at his mother, resplendent in her funeral white, and squeezed her fingers. Her hand engulfed his as she returned the gesture. The pipes fell silent. The godsman emerged from the ring of mourners and pushed a torch into the pyre. N-no, Father. Wood snapped and fire crackled, singing of need and hunger. Wind blasted the hillside with the ferocity of a man’s dying breath, and flames leapt skyward, roaring his agony with every snap, pop, and hiss. You’re not a sissy, are you, boy? The pall encasing his father’s body warped and blackened in the centre of the fire. …not a sissy… …not a sissy… “Chrisandor?” Chrisandor jumped and dragged his gaze from the shrinking pyre. His mother frowned at him, her eyes red-rimmed and glistening. A man stood beside her. Tall. Broad. Grim faced. A stranger. So many strangers. “Yes, Ma?” “This is Master Findale. He runs the lumber yard where your father worked.” “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Master Findale.” Chrisandor bowed, bringing his eyes level with the man’s hands. Big hands. Dirt-stained, cracked, and calloused. “Like father’s.” The man frowned. “I beg your pardon?” “Your hands. They’re like father’s.” “Ah.” The man extended his hands and flipped them to reveal the creases crisscrossing his palms. “A worker’s hands. Just like yours will be if you accept my offer.” Chrisandor craned his head. “Ma?” “Master Findale has an opening for an apprentice at the yard. He’s offered to take you on.” “Me?” Chrisandor looked at those hands again. Those coarse, insensitive, unfeeling hands. “But—” “You don’t have to answer.” The man glanced at the pyre. “Not today. But I will need your decision soon. It pays well. A round a week. And I know your mother could use the coin, with your father passed.” “Sir.” “Goodwoman Dylis. Master Chrisandor. I’ll leave you to your grief.” The man dipped his head and departed. Smoke gathered over the pyre like a shroud, carrying with it the stink of wood, cloth, and burnt flesh. Chrisandor sneezed and retreated from the heat. More mourners approached after Master Findale, to pay their respects to his Ma and commiserate the loss of a friend. She didn’t notice when he freed his hand from hers. Nor when he escaped to seek fresh air. Soft grass gave way to hard dirt. He stumbled, staggered, and regained his balance at the edge of the path. A lumberjack. His mother wanted him to be a lumberjack. After all her promises; all her smiles and laughter when he’d told her of his dreams. A lumberjack, when he lacked the strength to swing an axe. He continued to backpedal, tripping over unseen divots and bumps, until he could look down on the dark shadow within the flames and the mourners circling it like two-legged, bleating sheep. “Goodbye, Father.” Chrisandor turned and ran, needing to escape the smell. The platitudes. The fake smiles on unknown faces. A lumberjack. The exertion drove the tightness from his lungs, loosening the snot lodged in his nose and throat. You’re not a sissy, are you, boy? No. No, he wasn’t. And he wasn’t afraid of hard work either, but… A lumberjack? His life would become a monotony of sawing, chopping, and hauling. The same rhythm played over and over. Droning. Dreary. Without hope. He burst over the crest of the hill and through the open town gate. A herd of pigs blocked the main road, the chaotic melody of their oinks and snorts a perfect mirror to the confusion chiming inside him. The swineherd’s whip cracked, a snap of authority demanding attention, seeking control as a conductor would with a baton. Like my father when he shouts. You’re not a sissy, are you, boy? Chrisandor flinched and darted into the maze of back-alleys that would take him home. He reached the first junction and stopped, doubled-over and panting. Home? Home was darkness and despair. A hunkered hovel heavy in its silence. An empty shell without a soul. The dingy alley loomed ahead of him, a descent into a pit of shadow waiting to swallow him whole. He stared down the its length for a count of ten then fled in the opposite direction. * * * Bells jangled, hinges creaked, and conversation died when Chrisandor opened the door to Bryant’s Music Store. The shop’s three occupants turned to watch him. Master Bryant stood behind the counter, looking dapper in a pristine white tunic and black waistcoat. His eldest apprentice, Errol, stood near the window, holding a viola for a young woman’s inspection. Chrisandor swallowed, dodged the closing door, and wiped his feet on the doormat. “Young Chrisandor,” Master Bryant said, his voice filling the shop with warm, rolling tones. “I hadn’t expected to see you today of all days.” As if queued by Master Bryant’s speech, the apprentice and his client turned back to each other and resumed their whispered conversation. “N-no, sir, but I—” Chrisandor took a deep breath, throwing off the chains threatening to silence him, and stretched to his full height, though it brought the top of his head no higher than Master Bryant’s robust belly. “I have a request, sir.” “A request?” Master Bryant stepped out from behind the counter and invited Chrisandor forward with a curled wave of his hand. “What sort of request?” Chrisandor stole a surreptitious look at the viola’s sumptuous curves as he shuffled into the shop. Then his gaze jumped to the drums and cymbals. The grand harp. The pianoforte. “I—” He stopped in front of Master Bryant and tilted his head to look him in the eye. “I want to be your apprentice, sir. Please.” “Ah, Chrisandor.” Master Bryant clapped his hand to Chrisandor’s shoulder. “I know you’re fascinated by what we do here, but you know my situation. I already have a full complement of apprentices. Until Errol earns his journeyman’s ribbon, I can’t afford—” “But…” Lumberjack, lumberjack, lumberjack. You’re not a sissy, are you, boy? N-no, Father. “But I need to. You must feel it, too. The music. The rhythm. Every day, all around us. People walking in the street.” He ran to a drum and beat his palms on the skin at a steady tempo. “And others running.” He beat the drum faster. “Their conversations.” He softened his blows and played a near-continuous roll. “Their shouts.” He ended the roll with a palm- stinging slap. “Alone, each sound is weak, but together… together they create the… the…” “Harmony?” Master Bryant asked with a lopsided smile. “Yes. Harmony. Together they create Fourtrees Crossing’s harmony. And then…” Chrisandor glanced at Errol and the young woman, who’d broken off their conversation to listen. “Then there’s the weather. Like the rain.” He abandoned the drum in favour of the pianoforte and tapped out a tippy-tappy rhythm on the final two keys. “And the storms.” He shimmied to the other end of the keyboard and banged out a discordant counter. “And then there are the animals, like the birds.” He turned from the pianoforte, dashed across the room, and reached for the viola in Errol’s hand. “Um…” Errol laughed and turned the instrument to rest its foot against his shoulder. “Like this?” He lifted the bow to the strings and played a quick, high-pitched ditty. “Yes. Yes. You see. You all see.” He spun in a circle, hand extended to point at each member of his audience in turn. “Music is everywhere. In my heartbeat.” He tapped his chest. “In your laughter.” He pointed to Errol. “And even in your breath.” He finished with a flourish that brought him face-to-face with Master Bryant. “I need this, Master Bryant. Please. It’s here.” He thumped his chest again. “It’s part of me.” Master Bryant frowned, turning his normally warm face cloudy. “You realise a musician’s apprenticeship isn’t easy, lad? It’s not all playing, and laughing, and fun.” Chrisandor clasped his hands behind his back and adopted the most serious expression he could muster. “I know, sir.” “And if you think you can waltz in here, piddle about, collect your wage at the end of the month, and then fritter it away come Mournday, you’ve a sharp shock coming.” “But I don’t think that, sir. And I don’t want the wage for myself. I want you to give it to my Ma. She needs it now Father… Now he’s…” “Aye, lad.” Master Bryant grasped Chrisandor’s upper arm and squeezed. “I know. But you’ll take a round or two for yourself, regardless. I won’t have people saying I don’t treat my apprentices right. A trial then. You work hard and stick it out ‘til the end of the month, and I’ll take you on full time.” Chrisandor swallowed the lump in his throat. “You mean it?” “Come on through the back. You may as well make a start. Errol, watch the shop for me.” “Yes, Master Bryant.” * * * The stench of horse glue turned Chrisandor’s stomach, and its thick vapours clogged his lungs. He sniffed to clear the snot from his nostrils and continued to stir the pot, timing each stroke to the beat of the metronome, nodding with each completed revolution, determined not to fail in this, his first assigned task. You’re not a sissy, are you, boy? N-no, Father. But I’m not you either. I’m like a violin to your drum. I need to follow my own rhythm. Chrisandor bowed his head, released the tension that had gripped him since his father’s death, and wept.