Tom’s bakery no longer seemed as cheerful when I arrived. I had trouble appreciating its idyllic, cottage like feel. The small chimney which let out light gray puffs of smoke almost seemed offensive and agitating.

I gave myself some time to calm down. I couldn’t snap at Tom. He was taking a risk on me here. After a minute or two, I opened the door and stepped inside.

Tom was behind the counter this time, instead of in the back. He glanced up from where he was shelving a new batch of bread. A wide grin broke out across his face as he glanced me up and down.

“How are ya, laddie? You look a right bit better than when I last saw you. You ready to get going? I’m going to have you bake bread, today, I think, get you started”.

I appreciated his enthusiasm. It did a lot to improve my mood after the harrowing experience I had just gone through. Having that sort of unreserved energy present made me feel as if I could maybe get this day back on track, or at least distract myself enough to get through it.

I went back to the preparation room. I was once again started on grinding out flour. This time, I didn’t nearly crush one of my fingers. I turned my head towards Tom.

“Isn’t flour normally ground out in mills, or with tools?”

He continued on what he was doing.

“Aye, it is. But doing it by hand builds strength. I used to get milled flour until I got strong enough to do it myself. Saves me a lot of money. You’ll get there”

I simply nodded at that. It’s not like I knew a lot about baking, so I couldn’t say for certain if that was standard or not.

I continued on, until Tom walked over and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Alright, we’ll have you move on. You’ll be making dough, now”

He led me over to another station, with ground flour, a pail of water, and several other ingredients. He took his time in explaining to me the process of making bread, and watched me as I made my first batch, helping me along when I was having troubles. It took longer than I thought it would.

Eventually, I got to the kneading stage. I didn’t think it was possible for something so simple to make me so tired. I don’t think I could ever underestimate a baker again. Eventually, I managed to finagle the dough into roughly a breadish shape.

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Tom helped me move it to the oven. It was placed on a stained wooden tray, along with several other much nicer looking loaves that Tom had made whilst I was working.

Then, it was back to splitting wood in order to fuel the fire. I was much more careful with my swings this time, and tried very intently to avoid my past mistakes. Although I was still slow at chopping, I managed to avoid almost killing myself. The new axe tom had bought seemed sharper than the last, as I was able to make more progress.

I was feeling better and better about today. I was still somewhat shaken, and starting to get tired, but the distraction of the work helped me out.

What little rising the bread was able to do with no yeast took about 15 minutes of baking. Removing the loaves from the oven, I could clearly identify which one is mine, mishappen and lumpy as it was. Tom had gone out back to continue chopping wood. I started to work on a new batch.

Picking up a sack of flour, I started to move it across the room to the preparation station when I felt my foot hit a small ledge beneath me. The sack of flour whipped forward in my arms, spreading a white powder across the room. Unfortunately, some went directly into the open flame of the oven, which, being in a medieval bakery, had no door. A plume of flame shot out, scorching the walls and roof. I was far enough back that I wasn’t affected.

How was I supposed to explain this to Tom? I put my thumbs on my temple when I felt a hot pinprick hit my forehead. I jumped back, whipping my head towards the ceiling. Flames were merrily burning their way through the ceiling. I ran out the door to get Tom.

----------------------

So. After it was all said and done, half the kitchen had been burned down. I hadn’t notified Tom quick enough to prevent a large amount of damage, and I had been told in no uncertain terms not to come back. I don’t think I’ve ever messed something up so badly in my life. I caused hundreds of coins worth of damage. I wasn’t entirely sure about the monetary system here, but I can tell the damages I caused were expensive and extensive.

I needed to find a new job, but would anyone even hire me after that? Word of mouth tended to spread quickly in smaller communities, and whilst this wasn’t a super small town, the fact that it was medieval, and that they didn’t really have sources of outside information meant that it was likely word would spread fast and far.

I was covered with soot and ash. I tried to dust myself off best I could, but I didn’t have much luck. Turns out that rough, hand woven clothes made of an extremely porous and loosely woven material are great at picking up particulates and particularly bad at leaving it.

It didn’t take me long to get back to the inn. There weren’t many people out, most busy working whatever job they had.

As I walked through the door, I saw Davinda shoot me a puzzled look. I waved my hand. I was too tired to explain it now. I went up to my room, laying down my head. I almost instantly fell asleep, dirty clothes still on, on top of the covers, shoes on.