Chapter 3

The baker’s residence was a short distance from the Fraeling. A few years ago, Snow might have walked the length to take in the calm and quiet of an early autumn night in the city. But these days he felt too exposed on those empty streets. There was also the fact that Titus would be out of place among the manicured, marble-lined gardens of the upper quarter. Snow never liked explaining himself to city patrols and his new bodyguard would surely draw their attention.

To avoid it all, he had the innkeeper call a carriage to take them around to the bakery that sat on the border between the upper quarter and the local artisan square. Snow found it a modest but well-made establishment, built of quarry stone and bricks. The store front was an open, stone porch that boasted a long, wide granite counter facing the street. The pair stepped into the porch floor to face the recessed bakery door flanked by two large, lit windows. A shadow passed beyond one of the windows before the door opened.

“Please, come in,” the baker stood and gestured inside. He was still dressed in the same fine clothes as before, as if no time had passed since this morning. He welcomed them into the immediate room where the great oven dominated the space, still pumping out a gentle warmth that chased away the night chill. The surrounding walls were lined with shelves that held ingredients, but the nearby large tables stood cluttered with other things. An array of sympathy gifts in the form of food, flowers, and goods for the funeral sat on every available inch. Snow looked at the oven once more and realized that the flame inside was low, as if it were only being used to heat the home.

“She’s waiting for you upstairs,” the baker said to Snow. The man then looked to Titus and opened his mouth as if to ask a question.

“If there is more than one room upstairs,” Snow gently interrupted, “I would like my guard to come with me. Rest assured he is a professional man and will stand quietly outside the closed door.” The baker nodded in agreement and showed them both upstairs to the living residence of the bakery.

Solid stone stairs led up to a modest but comfortable looking home bathed in gentle lamplight. The main rooms were lined with southern wool rugs, eastern copperwork hung in the kitchen, and ornate pottery sat on shelves. Snow quickly realized that their proximity to the artisan square would explain much of the small beauties in their home. Such items could have easily been given in exchange for a month’s fresh bread.

The baker took up one of the lamps and led them further in.

“She’s in here,” he said as he led them to a narrow hallway and stopped at a dark door. Hand carved floral motifs winked at them when the candlelight shivered along its polished surface.

Snow then turned to Titus. “I’d like you to wait out here. Don’t come in unless you’re called.”

Titus nodded silently as if he too felt the gravity of the moment. Snow was about to walk into a room with a corpse and somehow perform his mysterious, awesome service.

Snow turned back to the baker and gestured to the door.

Inside the room, the baker’s wife was still sitting bedside as if her daughter was only sick and sleeping. Candles dotted the room giving a gentle warm glow to the corpse’s skin, which no doubt looked pale and pasty in the morning light. Many vases of flowers were sitting around the room as well to stave off the smell of death, but it was still there. Snow would know that smell anywhere though he too preferred the flowers.

The wife got up and gave a short bow. Snow could see the fresh tears on her cheeks glistening in the flickering light.

“Thank you so much for coming,” she began with a sniffle. Snow stepped closer and gestured to the chair she had just been sitting in.

“May I?” he asked with his gentlest voice.

“Oh, of course, please,” she said in an embarrassed hurry before trying to sidestep around him. Snow took a moment to take her hand and held it gently between his gloved hands.

“Madam, I want you to know that I am sorry this tragedy befell you. I cannot begin to understand the pain and sorrow you’re feeling right now, but I hope I can give you some small relief.” Snow had rehearsed his lines over the years and found it was always best to be as tender as possible when dealing with grieving mothers. Those who were still sitting next to their child despite the smell, the color, and the sheer emptiness of the husk were the ones most in need of it.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

The woman broke out into fresh sobs and brought her other hand to hold onto his in a desperate clasp.

“Thank you,” she said with a broken voice. Snow gave her hands a gentle squeeze before gesturing for her to stand by her husband.

He then looked around the room and found what he needed. A pitcher of water. With a gesture the baker quickly collected it for him and brought it over to the bedside table next to the chair.

Snow sat down and reached into his cloak for the rest of the ingredients: a silver cup and a long stem budded rose.

As the parents stood by silently, Snow poured water from the simple clay pitcher into the ornate silver cup. He then placed the rose in the clay pitcher as if it were a vase. The rose sat there leaning into the curve of the spout as Snow leaned over the corpse of their daughter and examined her decaying body.

He took a moment to gently comb back the dark strands of hair that fell about her forehead. She was a young woman close to his own age. She had been beautiful with full lips and high cheekbones. No doubt she had her father’s blue eyes as well. It was always easier when the face was intact and unaffected by the death. He would recognize her quickly on the other side.

Around her neck were the strangulation bruises that had killed her. Her vocal cords and breathing passages would still be damaged and require extra attention. From the size of the bruising, he could tell it was a large pair of hands that belonged to a man, but he refused to make any more conjecture than that. He had learned long ago that murder was rarely a straightforward business.

Snow took off his leather gloves and picked up the silver cup. It was an odd cup that looked more like a shrunken pitcher with a gentle spout. It had a knotwork design of roses and vines curling about it and a set of strange runes around the bottom base.

Then, with one bare hand holding her cheek, Snow brought the silver cup to her head and began to pour the water as if this were a simple baptism. When he closed his eyes the clear water began to glow with an eerie blue light that overpowered the candles in the room. He poured the glowing water in a gentle stream down her face and over her chest. The blue light bathed her body though it turned back into water as it touched the covers and mattress.

The girl’s eyes suddenly opened, staring out into nothing and possessed by the same blue light. Snow heard a single cry from the girl’s mother. He gently hushed her before he too opened his eyes and focused on the girl’s injury. He willed her to open her mouth and then brought the cup's remaining liquid to her lips. She drank and the light went down her throat where Snow focused on her broken and swollen passages. Knitting flesh back together required clear will and knowledge of anatomy. After so many years, Snow had acquired both.

Snow then tucked the now empty cup away and reached to give her the rose. The girl took hold of it as if it were a gift from a lover; the thorns pricking gently and drawing just enough of her now magical blood to link her to the flower.

The light then faded from her eyes and color was once again in her cheeks. Her eyes which had been cloudy in death were clear again, but not yet aware.

“My dear, please tell me your name,” Snow asked.

“Amaria,” she said. Snow heard her mother let out a sudden sob behind him.

“Amaria, your parents are here and wish to speak with you. Do you wish to speak with them?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Then be as you were, Amaria. Speak with them as if this night was no different than any other,” Snow commanded. Amaria then blinked awake as if the trance-like state was only a bad dream.

“Momma? Poppa?” She leaned her head up and looked up at her parents in slight confusion. Snow got up the moment he heard the baker’s wife stepping closer. He knew better than to stand in the way of a woman coming to hold her baby.

The baker stood there in awe as his wife wrapped her arms around Amaria and cried tears of joy into the young woman’s damp hair.

Snow took this quiet moment to address him. “Be gentle asking her what happened. She will not remember it until you ask. Then she may relive the moment, and it will be painful.”

“How… how long will she be like this?” the baker asked with disbelief still in his voice.

“The rose she’s holding will show you. It’s already starting to bloom. It will begin to age tomorrow and as it withers, so will she. But this time, death will be slow and gentle. She will not feel pain but a great tiredness coming over her. She will want to sleep and, eventually, she will not wake. I do not recommend you let her out of this room or show her to anyone. Let her stay in bed and she will live perhaps the entire day tomorrow.”

“Why so short? Couldn’t you…,” the man seemed afraid of his own question.

“No. This is the safest and gentlest way. Take this day to be with her and let her rest when she wishes it.” Snow had lost count how many times he had been asked to keep the person alive forever. No one understood how it worked, how each soul was linked to him while it lived again. That the rose was only a timer.