Hot, piping milk, warm toasty bread, assortments of seasonal fruits; green, yellow, red, and rindless. He closed his eyes savoring both tastes; the foods and the moment. People always said that the best ingredient which pulled a bland, watery, porridge or a leftover left over was none other than simple hunger.

And while he wasn’t munching what the saying said verbatim (as he hadn’t, you know gone hungry — not with all the bread he brought) he could in essence, empathized with that sentiment.

Here he was, basking in the warmth of gentle, morning sun; sitting on a comfy, padded chair.

Yeasty was the bread; sweet and tart the fruits; then the milk, finishing the meal with a splendorous coat of smooth and silk. The feeling — it was unmistakable. A cloth fitted to snug, a blanket hampered and tarped. Knowledge that you were safe.

“Really, Mrs. Crombe?” he shook his head, munching the last of the roasted couchee sandwich. The skin could use more crisps, but the seasoning, the custard-feel of the mayo — it was perfect. “One day! One day, Missus. and you already this good.” his amazement in full display. If not for the fact that he was afraid that the after-meal haze would fog his brain down to a crawl, the three sourdoughs would suffer the same fate as the sandwiches; ruthlessly ravaged to none. But a busy day, of course, a busy day. It demanded restrain. So there it lied, two pieces, still warm and untouched.

“Had the others taste it yet?” he said. Asking the older woman who was preparing the morning meil for him.

“Thank you, sir.” the woman smiled, her teeth showing. “Everyone tasted it yes.” she slid him the cup. The white porcelain clinked slightly as the sappanwood red liquid rippled.

He sipped it for a bit, enjoying the menthol aftertaste. Even without telling her, the housekeeper understood that he’d only have this cup for the morning. A bit unusual, she and the rest of the staff used to say (as apparently meil was a staple drink of a higher household). Then again he just needed a bit of zest. Nothing overt. He wouldn’t have the thing tickle his stomach acid this early. Not today.

Although it was a bit early and yes he deserved a rest, he decided to go with the production of the mana-aspected water today. Routine... well… some sort of therapy for him. At least until he found an otherworlder psychologist that could untangle his PTSD-addled brain; a psychologist with magically enforced patient-physician confidentiality.

He glanced as his housekeeper began to clean the table — putting everything into the trolley. The plates, the utensil on third, the cups on second. The untouched leftover though was carefully placed on first. With the rest of the kettle (as you couldn’t exactly brew just for one cup), all of them would be sent to the kitchen to supplement the staff’s breakfast. He heard Ed had a particular penchant for a cup splashed with two counts of evaporated milk (which apparently also become popular within the merchant guild). He and Mrs. Crombe though, they preferred the au naturel.

“Sir…”

“Yes?” he glanced toward the woman. It was unlike his housekeeper to be hesitant. “Doris was ...wondering, sir. If you’d…” —she paused, crumpling the white washcloth— ”allow her, sir.”

“Allow her?” he said a bit befuddled. Unlike her usual happy wrinkle, she ...a bit pensive. Her white mobcap ruffled sideways. Even her usual ocean blue ribbon she normally pinned down was gone.

“The recipe, sir,” she answered. “The lass want to learn it, yes.”

“Oh?” that was all he said. Which surprised him. Why was he hesitant? That was unlike him. Usually and on any other day, he would say yes right and there. After all, Mrs. Crombe and Jeane already learn how to make the sourdoughs — the sandwiches. It was just unfortunate that Doris was on cleaning duty that day.

Zeroing on his thought he understood what was wrong. That plan.

His bakery.

His perhaps-to-be-opened bakery.

Now, he wasn’t set in opening one just yet — just like that. That’d be rent, expenses, and logistics that were so different from his potions — he was struggling enough with the former. Procuring perpou from Mr. Lup every three days, maintaining his gailen stock, and dealing with its very, very diverse quality.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Not to mention there was this awful indent times on the potions’ bottles since Mrs. Doobley, who apparently practiced the worst version of just-in-time inventory management, had most of her worker working by commission. There were two-day delays before his order and the bottles’ start of production. At least.

All of those hadn’t even touched the numerous, and he meant the numerous point of failures his potion shop had. His pebbles stock could dry up, the equipment might leak again, Rod or Ed might be sick. So many things.

So adding a bakery, well, that would invite troubles. Troubles that he wasn't able to handle for now.

Of course, there was an upside. Opening a bakery could, no, would raise lots of money. He had asked Mr. Donnovan and the rest of the audience there who nabbed sandwiches and sourdoughs that were meant for Ivar and Tobias. Granted that those people were established hightowners (worlds apart from your normal, everyday Ar’endalian). But for those old ladies and gentlemen, ten silver apiece for his sourdough and twenty for a sandwich apparently was a bargain. A very good bargain. Which considering the scant of investment he needed to do to get the endeavor going; well, it’d reach the breakeven point, (assuming he didn’t need to buy a shop as Tobias even offered him one, rent-free), within a month. Maybe two weeks. Likely two weeks. With 500-700% profit rates even after all the materials, labor, advertising, and other miscellaneous fees, it would be odd if it wasn’t. It was that popular. He even had to stop Clar from accidentally hurting his potential customers— sorry, The Jewel’s members when they tried to accost him for more of the bread on the return trip.

Thus, Doris’ request, well, was a bit of a security leak. Another point of failure. While he was perfectly assured that Mrs. Crombe and Jeane (and also Doris) would not intentionally betray him in a normal condition (he was a very generous employer), there was always an abnormal condition. Case in point a walk in the park suddenly become a breaking bread with the town’s cream of the crop. Things happened. Perhaps their family was kidnapped on a machete point or the poor scullery maid got yahooed by some con-boy.

You knew, distant but very, very valid concerns.

Then again as it was often said ‘That there is no profit without a little risk’. So the question was. Should or should not he let it ride?

“Of course, Mrs. Crombe. In fact...” he smiled, as the answer came upon him. “...after yesterday,” he tilted his head, smiling wide. “Don’t you think everyone deserves a rest? Doris could help you to prepare your best dishes for tonight.”

“Oh! Thank you, sir!”

It didn’t matter if people knew the recipe if they didn’t have the ingredient. Technological monopoly. No one knew how to make a starter besides him. Sure that one day it might leak, spread around the world, but as long as he was the first provider, the first bakery to ever made non-leavened bread, it wouldn't matter — people flocked to what known. Reputation was a powerful thing.

Also, there was his hope —he was hoping— that on that far one day, far-flung, and away, was the day he already back to his overpriced, barely ergonomic chair, staring at his screen for hours and end, content and in low-grade dread — waiting for epiphany that never came. He'd be there under the too-bright lamp, eating up his frozen meals galore, the half-prices people refused to buy since they were the only few left on the aisle. It'd be the day when these 'adventures' evaporated, wiped from his memory as a mere REM-dream. He'd retained the figments of course, scatters here and there; the perpou, his almost death, Edward, Clar, Mrs. Crombe, Jeane.... But, they would be dismissed —he would dismiss them— as nothing but what his brain rambled in response to his head hitting the bathroom's wall. He'd laugh it off, ruminate it briefly, forget it due to his schedule, and one day when the night was too quiet and still, when the ceiling was dark, but he was awake, he'd remember this place however briefly. His other home. He'd then be fascinated by it for three minutes before considering making appointment to dr. Wesley tomorrow for a thorough MRI.

Home. Home. Priorities. That was mattered. That what mattered. His [Calm Emotion] self had emphasized it again and again.

Thus with a mix of glee and 'he'd properly think about it later attitude', he turned to his housekepeer once more. He had a plan formulated.

“Mrs. Crombe…”

“Yes, sir?”

“Give a basket of today’s bread to Restia too, would you?” he said sipping the last bit of the meil. “The lady seems to be an avid fan of good foods.”

Why should he be the one who market his breads?

It would be nice to see someone else did that scrambling all around for a change.