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Baker; Noun. A person whose job is baking and selling bread and cakes.

The baker Abigail envisioned wore a cute apron with matching mittens, watching dough rise through the glass window of an oven. When they opened the door, the warm, yeasty scent of freshly baked bread wrapped around them like a hug. With a smile, they placed the bread on the counter, waiting for a lucky customer.

She didn’t know where that image came from, but it couldn’t have been further from reality.

“Three! Three for me!”

A man shoved three brass plates in Abigail’s face. Before she could take them, another customer with five brass plates in her hand barged in, pushing him aside.

“Excuse me?! I have kids at home! Girl, give me seven—now!”

“Hey, I was first!” another shouted. “I’ve been here since forever! Where’s my 54 pieces?!”

“Missy, six pieces!”
“Two!”
“How much for one? Excuse me?”
“Here! Here!”
“Dang it, Gordon’s is already full.”
“Told you to come earlier.”
“Five for me, lass.”
“Can I use coins? Hello?”
“Get out of here, man! You’re taking up space!”

“Uhh—” Abigail froze, overwhelmed by the crush of customers.

A tap on her shoulder snapped her out of it. She turned to see a large, bald man with an impressive mustache standing behind her.

“Go call Peigi. You’re on stamping duty now.” He jerked his thumb toward the shop. Then, turning his attention to the second customer, he barked, “Donna, you skank! You’ve only got five plates—don’t go swindling my newcomer! Pull that s̲h̲i̲t̲ again, and I’m giving you the boot!”

“Eek!” Donna recoiled as Abigail quickly slipped inside.

The shop’s interior was much closer to her idea of a bakery, with glass shelves and racks lining the walls. But right now, they were empty.

She rounded a corner into the back kitchen, which was just as chaotic as the front.

Steam billowed from a massive pot of boiling water, where pieces of dough floated on the surface. A shirtless young man stirred them occasionally. Across the room, the metal door of an oven creaked open. An employee slid out a tray of baked goods with a long wooden paddle—or peel, as Abigail had learned. Without missing a beat, he swapped it with a fresh tray of dough, shoved it inside, and checked the other oven through a slit in its door.

“Three more minutes!” he called out.

“Got it!” a brown-haired girl yelled back. She was shoving steaming-hot bread into paper bags, a glove on one hand. “Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four—Oh, hey! Abigail, right? If you’re here for Mr. Hamilton’s order, it’ll be another minute.”

“No,” Abigail shook her head. “The manager told me to get Miss Peigi. I’m on stamping duty?”

“The manager? —Ah, you mean Papa.” Peigi pulled off her glove and set it on the table before grabbing a massive tray of bread. “Ishmael, can you teach Abigail how to stamp? Also, take care of Mr. Hamilton’s order—ten more pieces.”

“Sure,” answered a dark-toned kid sitting in the corner, his dark blonde hair tucked under a beret. In front of him sat a metal contraption with a lever overhead.

Peigi nodded, the handkerchief on her head swaying. “Go see him. I’ll take this to Papa.” With that, she left the kitchen.

As Abigail approached, Ishmael glanced up. “You know your numbers?”

She nodded.

He handed her a brass plate from the pile beside him. “Just stack them in fives.”

Abigail took a seat in front of the contraption. Ishmael was already slipping on a glove and stuffing bread into paper bags, offering no further instructions.

She took a moment to assess the setup. To her right, a messy pile of brass plates. In front of her, neatly stacked ones. And then the contraption itself—a lever on top, a metal plate beneath it, and a small gap just wide enough for the plate in her hand.

Sliding the plate into the gap, she pulled the lever down with ease. When she lifted it again, the plate was stamped cleanly.

Her gaze drifted to the organized stacks in front of her, all neatly punched and aligned on the protrusions. Then to the chaotic pile at her side. And finally, to the newly stamped plate in her hand.

Her only instruction had been to stack in fives. But she knew what to do.

For the rest of the morning, Abigail did nothing but stamp brass plates. Occasionally, someone would add more to the pile as they passed by to grab trays of bread. The kitchen buzzed around her, but she barely noticed, lost in the rhythm of her task.

At some point, she reached for another plate—only to find the pile empty.

Glancing around, she saw the two young men sitting down, fanning their faces. The stoves had been powered down, the ovens empty. Ishmael was perched on a pile of firewood, quietly nibbling on a piece of bread.

Peigi entered the kitchen, tugging the handkerchief from her head with a satisfied sigh. “Good work today. You can take the leftovers—we’re sending them to the soup kitchen anyway.”

“Mm, thank you,” Abigail murmured, rubbing at the green stain on her fingers. Something about her current situation didn’t feel right.

“That’s called a Baker’s Finger around here,” Peigi remarked. “It’s from the brass. Just dip your fingers in vinegar, and it’ll fade—though after a while, it starts to stick. See?” She held up her hand, and sure enough, her fingers were stained green up to the first knuckle, despite not touching the plates today.

Abigail looked at her own hands. Compared to Peigi’s, the stains weren’t as dark. “I’m working in a bakery but I haven’t touched bread a single time,” she lamented.

Peigi chuckled. “If you’re up for it, want to come with us to the Town Hall? Papa’s been working since one in the morning, so he’s taking a nap in the other room. We need to pick up some flour for the evening.”

Flour? At the Town Hall? Abigail had no idea why they’d go there for it, but she nodded anyway.

♢♦♢♦♢

Treading along the dirt path behind the market plaza, Abigail walked alongside Peigi and the twins, Miguel and Gabriel—the two male employees from Gordon’s Bakery—on their way to the Town Hall. Now that they were in public, Miguel had, of course, put his shirt back on, while the cart Gabriel pushed rattled with every step.

Abigail recognized this path. It was the same one where she had first run into Johannes and Margaret a few days ago.

“Why did you want to work with us, Abigail?” Peigi suddenly asked, snapping Abigail back to reality. “I’m not saying we’re a bad choice—not at all. Unlike other bakeries, Papa is determined to feed everyone with fresh bread. But, well… you look like you’re from a well-off family, so I’m curious. Why do you want to be a baker?”

Abigail glanced down at her attire. A long-sleeved white blouse with frilly black cuffs, neatly pressed and tucked beneath a pristine blue vest. Sleek black trousers, high-waisted and spotless, ended in brown boots that had seen little wear. Her silver-grey hair was tied back, exposing fair, unblemished skin. Add to that her permanent residence at the Blue Orchid Pavilion and the generous allowance she received—courtesy of Hildara, the Chief of Internal Affairs—and she certainly fit the image of someone from wealth.

“I made a promise to a friend, and now I’m fulfilling their dream,” Abigail answered casually. “What about you, Miss Peigi? Do you have a dream?”

Before Peigi could respond, Miguel cut in from the side. “Peigi here is actually getting married, you know?”

“Yup, to her childhood sweetheart,” Gabriel added with a teasing grin. The twins exchanged a mischievous glance before calling out in unison—

““Augustine!””

“Oh, shut up!” Peigi huffed, quickening her pace to walk ahead of them, though the blush creeping onto her cheeks was impossible to miss. “Come on, we’re almost at the Town Hall.”

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