We had a fortnight before the festival.

At the first crack of murky dawn, I harvested the grains in our granges. I used to run my fingers through the feathery stalks, admiring how golden they were, lit like torches under the sun. With a scythe in hand, I cut the base. I only needed a few stalks; enough to make bread for just a few workers in the field. When my hands could carry no more, I placed the oats on the kitchen table.

Then I proceeded to the infirmary, where I met the daily opposition. The two harpy women crossed their arms and shielded me from their charge. Without Wilbur, I was left to fend for myself. He had already told them the night before that I was to deliver the patients’ medicine yet they did not soften their stance.

Woodrow accounted for this. I stood firm and said to them, staring right at their raised brows, “Madam, I may be young and small, but I know what I am doing. I am learned in the ways of medicine from our scholar himself. But if it pleases you, I shall leave their medicines here for you to administer.”

They looked at each other and rolled their eyes, relenting. Surprisingly, I heard Knox’s words: something about authority. “Put them in their place,” he said. “Remind them of your position.” I silenced his voice in my head. I hated how awful it made me feel afterward; my words implied they were not as learned as we were. It did not matter if it was the truth.

The rest of the morning passed by without further incident. I wiped the sweat from the brows of sick children and tipped the bottles Wilbur gave to me onto their mouths. I gave rose petals and jasmine to the mothers so that they could wash their children. Two of the patients seemed to be recovering and one was already awake. The child drank the bottle himself with his small hands. One was almost as sick as Joserson, but she did not have bruises on her small arms. Laura was her name, and she was simply sweating out whatever she drank and supped. Wilbur feared that she was sweating out the potency of the medicines.

Joserson was still as bad as yesterday, still swathed in blankets. I touched his arm, only briefly, and it was as if I touched hot coals. The mother looked at me sadly. “He’s been mumbling and calling my name since last night.”

Her eyes were dark and heavy. Wilbur expected this. I handed her a potion for deep restful slumber made from honey and some flower I forgot, with a sprinkle of an ore whose name also escapes me. My memory has been slipping away, further now that everything was bleak.

Woodrow emerged from his cell at twilight. He winked at me. “Here I go,” he said cheerfully.

He liked to be out there. He was the opposite of Wilbur and I, both happy working together in a secluded space. The silence was where we were primed to work, our minds bristling with energy. Woodrow, meanwhile, thrived with company. He delighted in making people smile, at poking fun at them. It is interesting to watch how he turns their simple conversations into witty barbs and harmless japes.

It took me this long to see that his projects were people; figuring out how to fulfill their most immediate wants, not the long-term cure that Wilbur sought. To think I just thought of him as a nuisance sometimes. Now we depended on him for distraction as Wilbur worked on the blood samples.

I went back to the kitchens to prepare the flour, but Ealhstan already beat me to it. He had separated the grains and crushed them on the wide mixing mortar on the table. I pinched the flour… soft as downy feather. I added a cup of beer from the barrels nearby and kneaded the dough, then shaped them into loose circles to place on the long paddles.

As they were proofing, I grabbed the jars of honey that Wilbur had already collected from his garden, along with some garlic and herbs. To my surprise, there was a note saying that he had some of the healthier women churn milk into butter with the added herbs included, dotting the thick yellow slab, shining like a mound of treasure. All that was left to do was bake the bread.

Once the bread was done in the oven, I sliced it in half and spread a generous amount of buttered herb on one side. I poeced both parts of the bread back together and drizzled dark gold honey on the top. I let it cool before emerging with Woodrow.

I handed it to him. He closed his eyes and smelled the thick smoke, making a whoop of approval. Ealhstan and Swithin were both there, watching. I assumed they knew of the plan and watched in the shadows.

The men were, at first, distrustful, but they were hungry, too, their harvest poorer than ours. So when one of the oldest and hungriest of them crossed the gap and took one single bread from the tray, Woodrow didn’t waste his chance. He called out to them, raising the tray higher. “Come, men, fill your empty bellies.”

They looked at each other unsure. It was only when they saw their fellow farmer not dying of poison after a few bites that they slowly crept closer, like hares sensing a trap. Woodrow even offered to help them with their chores. Again, the men looked at one another, shrugged, and gave him the scythe and plow. As he cut and bundled, he did not stop chatting with them, until finally, one of the men actually laughed.

A pure laughter that seemed to surprise him and his friends. Immediate silence followed, and his head sunk in shame. He said their farewells and retired for the night. Woodrow returned the tray to me, empty. We smiled at each other. “Progress,” he said confidently.

The next night, two more joined in. Then next, three. Woodrow began offering them ale with the bread. “It isn’t like we’re drinking it, anyway,” he said. I felt the nights grow warmer as they walked closer and closer to our doorstep, dropping the farm tools back in their sheds.

One time in the kitchens, Woodrow surprised me in the sunset. He was in the shadow, wrapped in his cloak, his hood covering his entire face. “Ryne,” he whispered.

“Woodrow!” I shouted, alarmed. There were no windows in the small, kitchen. We didn't need it. “You’re up early.”

“I figured I’d do the bread this time. Try something new.” I shrugged and gave him the finely-crushed flour. He pinched the fine powder and let it fall like snow between his thumb and forefinger, just like I did. “Who needs a mill when you have Brother Ealhstan’s might?”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

As he poured liquid to make it into a dough, I cleaned the table. When he was done kneading the dough, he cut it into smaller sizes than the ones we usually make, not even the whole size of his palm. He rolled the remaining dough into longer logs. Then he crisscrossed the shapes together, making patterns on the surface with his nails. He produced from his pockets some eggs and a bowl of milk. He looked at me as if doing a magic trick.

Woodrow poured the goat’s milk into a bigger bowl and juggled the eggs in the air, white shells flashing. Then all at once, he cracked them with his fingers and let the yolk fall cleanly with the milk. He whisked it using a long wooden spoon and set it aside.

He brushed each bread with the curious egg and milk wash. He even dipped some of them into the wash itself. “Don’t tell Knox,” he began, still brushing, “but some nights, I go to just outside the monastery where Abbott Blake’s influence is thin. Fairstep is close to a town, you see, down the slope past the few remaining trees. It’s pretty small and heavily guarded. But from the distance in the hills, I saw bakers just outside the entrance.”

He put the curiously-designed bread in the oven. He patted the empty space next to him where we could calmly wait by the fire. “They were sleeping late, probably for the preparation of the harvest festival, giving stale bread to the guards. They were all so different from each other; fancy ones with different shapes. I memorized the ones they gave to the guards and tried to make sense of the smell and texture. But I couldn’t be sure.”

“What if Swithin sees you?”

“I already told him,” he replied, poking the fire with an iron stick. “I’m not going to leave–it’s not as if I can, anyway–and I was hiding beneath a great apple tree. No one will see me. It’s just that…” he sighed and placed his chin in both hands. “Some nights, it gets stuffy in our grand monastery. It was bearable with people wanting good cheer, good food, and drink almost every night. But the silence… it makes one awful lonely, you know?”

His green eyes reflected the flames. He was looking at me with an open face; a small genuine smile, eyes waiting for an answer. He was the only one allowed to mingle freely with the rest of the villagers. I did not realize that he had a desire to be out in the world.

“Woodrow…” I began, but the fire roared as he kept poking it absentmindedly.

After the bread was done, Woodrow took the paddle out of the oven, the smell rich and new and mouthwatering. “He tossed one in the air and winced, making comical gestures as he tried to juggle the bread like he did the eggs. “Hot, hot!” He blew on it. I grabbed a wooden bowl from the table and caught it in midair. ”That’s yours,” he said.

Slowly, I took a bite… and closed my eyes, blowing out steam. “Soft,” I said. “Maybe we could add butter to some of them, maybe honey?”

“What is bread without such flavors?”

I chuckled. “You seem to be at home here in the kitchens yourself. And you seem to work well with Wilbur, after all. When you aren’t being annoying,” I allowed.

“He’s so uptight. It makes it more entertaining,” he said.

We heard footsteps approaching. Woodrow and I covered the bread tray with our bodies, sticking side by side, thinking it was Knox. Wilbur emerged from the doorway, hair wild and face sullen. He looked at us with tired eyes. His only response to our queries was heavy sighs.

“You look horrible,” Woodrow said. Wilbur mumbled and walked beside me, and then for no reason at all, he patted my head. Woodrow chuckled at that. “You seem to forget yourself. You need to get some fresh air. Ryne, take him with you outside.”

I grabbed Wilbur's hand, leading him to what I hoped would be a welcome, comfortable place. His shoulders relaxed once he realized I was taking him to his gardens.

He smiled and touched the flowers gently, admiring their resilience. “Thank you, Ryne. They look healthy.” His smile faltered. “Only wish I can say the same for the Joserson boy and little Laura. I’ve analyzed their blood, but still have yet to find a solution for it. Though I think I’m getting closer to curing Laura’s. There’s just one thing missing from the combination of ingredients.” He waved vaguely with his hand, clearing the cobwebs of his thoughts. “Woodrow torturing you?”

I shook my head. “He is very serious about our plan. He even taught me how to make new bread.” A thought occurred to me then, about how Woodrow wanted to be with people and how he felt sometimes dwelling within our brick-walled homes.

“Wilbur? It’s silly to ask this as the world seems to not be getting better, but don’t you get tired of the same setting? I know that you need the quiet to concentrate, but, don’t you miss interacting with people outside?” Wilbur clasped his hand behind his back, listening patiently as I continued, “I know that we shouldn’t be seen, but, if you were to be discreet, don’t you wish you could have had a life in some town? Away from the monastery some days?”

Wilbur chewed his reply, looking thoughtful. “No, I don’t think so. I like being here with my plants and books, though I understand Brother Woodrow could never fathom the idea of staying still in solitude for months. Perhaps it is his nature, perhaps because his power urges him to venture outside. As much like Brother Swithin becomes agitated when kept in the grounds for too long.”

He continued walking around the plants. In the middle of his inspection, Wilbur gave me the medicines he does have: the basic formulas for simple colds and fevers and cramps. He also gave me the bottles of basic fertilizer for our crops. Wilbur continued to observe each flower; stroking them, watering them, pressing their stems and buds and petals. Finally, when he was almost over, he said out loud, “Hang on,” as he touched the last bulbous orange flower floating on a lily pad on the water. “Maybe…”

And then he grabbed the flower, and by his expression and stance, was already formulating a new plan. He looked at me, face renewed with inspiration, and said, take care of the weeping lily, Ryne.”

And then he went back to his work; straight out of the garden and into the crypts. For two more days, he disappeared, while I continued to help Woodrow with his version of bread.

Most of them men looked eagerly at Woodrow when he carried the tray outside. They smiled at the new scents and at the sight of the bread he carried. At some point, Woodrow waved over Brother Ealhstan from the darkness. He slowly approached them, unsure. But soon enough, after bread and beer had been downed, Ealhstan’s booming laughter shook some of the fear away. Some of the women, too, joined.

Wilbur came up behind me that second night and gave me a strange, orange formula. It was the same color as the weeping lily. This medicine looked like it was glowing. It seemed ethereal than his other medicines and I can sense its power and potency.

“What is this?” I held it as if it were a newborn babe.

“Something that could possibly help Laura. I’m still working on Joserson, but at least managed to do this.”

We hurried to his infirmary where the women still looked weary, but curious enough to see the orange glow emanating from his hand. Wilbur showed the medicine to Laura’s caretaker, her older sister, and explained what it could do. Laura finished the potion, not a drop remaining on the bottle. Then we waited… as a weak pink rose from her cheeks. Her soft eyelids fluttered open.

The women crowded around her, even Joserson’s mother. They hugged each other and for one temporary moment, the infirmary was light.

Woodrow came in and saw the scene. He whipped around and returned with a bucket of warm milk bread for them and milk porridge for the sick children. Wilbur added his own basic medicines for strength to the milk–a rare treat for them nowadays, and they fed, passing along bread and cups of milk. Woodrow hummed a lullaby, taking requests from the ladies and Laura, the ladies joining him, bringing life to the words with their own voices.