Frank Tuttle - The Broken Bell

“There isn’t a bridge in the world tall enough to save us that.”

Evis grunted.

“I hate it when you’re right.”

Then he covered his face with a fold of black silk, and we rode in silence all the way to Avalante.

I rode back over the bridge alone.

We established that we’d arrived at Avalante at two in the afternoon on the very same day we’d left. Evis’s butler had been sure-yes, sir, it is indeed Tuesday-if a bit perplexed by the query. I was equally perplexed as to how we’d managed to ride so far from Rannit that the sun had changed but not miss supper.

I shoved that thought aside. That thought, and my new status as Captain in Encorla Hisvin’s private branch of the Army of the Regency.

It wasn’t a thing I could ignore forever, but I decided I’d ignore it for the rest of the day.

“Fees don’t earn themselves,” I opined to the empty cab. Inspiration struck.

“You up there, driver? Can you hear me?”

A single thump sounded on the roof.

“You know this address?” I gave him the address Darla had given me. “Can you take me a block from there, drop me off? I’ll find my own way home. “

Again, a single thump.

“Thanks,” I shouted. It never hurts to be polite, even to carriage drivers with no skin on their skulls.

Away we went, scattering pedestrians the whole way there.

Darla’s friend Tamar, she of the missing groom, lived with her family in a middling good part of Rannit south of the High House and so close to the Square that their windows rattled when the Big Bell clangs out Curfew.

I stepped out of Hisvin’s black cab and ambled around before I headed for the Fields residence. Walking clears my head, and my head needed a good clearing, so I just stuck my hands in my pockets and followed the first good-looking woman I spied.

Derth was the name of the street. It had fresh-laid cobbles, wide sidewalks and those newfangled sewers that run under the streets. I did avoid stepping on the iron sewer grates because with my luck, I’d be the first of Rannit’s pedestrians to fall through and be forced to swim home to Cambrit Street.

The woman I wasn’t following set a jaunty pace, the heels of her shoes click-clacking quickly away. She headed east a block and then about the time I’d decided she was married, but not happily, she darted into a hat shop and left me adrift in Downtown, without goal or purpose.

On a whim, I followed my nose. I’d declined Evis’s offer of lunch, and now I regretted that. Avalante might be a house of halfdead, but they set a fine table despite their dietary preferences.

I passed up a pair of cafes until the aromas of fresh bread baking and fresh coffee brewing led me to a pair of copper-trimmed oak doors.

Etched in the door glass was FIELDS.

My reflection looked curious. Darla mentioned that Tamar’s family, the Fields, owned a dozen bakeries spread around Rannit.

The door opened. A round, short man old enough to be my father looked at me and smiled.

“We’re not as expensive as you think,” he said. “Did I mention the coffee is free if you try our new cinnamon buns?”

“You did indeed.” I stepped across the man’s threshold. If Hisvin had offered free coffee I might have signed up on the spot. “Angels above.”

I spoke the last in somber tones of reverence, because as Heaven is my witness I have never smelled such delights.

It wasn’t just coffee brewing. There were many coffees brewing, each with its own distinctive aroma, rich and tempting. And that wasn’t merely bread baking-yes, there was bread, but there were also pastries, cakes and pies.

The shop was small. It was done up in cherry and brass, everything clean and polished. There was a bar, and a glass-fronted case, behind which wonders rested.

Behind the bar was a brass machine that radiated heat. Wet sputters issued from it, and steam wafted up.

The small man stuck out his hand. It was covered in flour, but I didn’t care. He had a good handshake.

“Welcome to our newest cafe,” he said, beaming. “I’m Gordon Fields, proprietor, chef, barista and everything else. Emma. Emma, we have a customer.”

A pair of swinging doors flew open at the other end of the bar and a matronly woman with a spot of flour on her nose came darting out.

“Meet the Missus,” said Mr. Fields. “I hope you’ll forgive our unpreparedness. We decided to open a day early, but it appears the staff showed up at the wrong address, and…”

“The gentleman doesn’t care to hear about our troubles,” said Mrs. Fields. “He wants coffee. And a bun, if I know the look of a man who’s skipped lunch. Is that right, sir?”

I smiled. Maybe it was the way the place smelled. Maybe it was the way the couple didn’t draft me into the Army. But I decided I liked them.

“That’s exactly right, Mrs. Fields,” I said. “In fact, make it two buns.”

I parked my fundament on a leather-covered stool.

The Fields flew into a frenzy of motion. Mugs appeared, were exchanged after a flurry of whispers. Buns were considered, rejected and finally selected.

“Two it is, then. Might I suggest our cheese biscuit, with egg, to make up for your missed lunch? You’ll be wanting something with a bit of meat in it, will you not?”

“Perfect,” I replied.

“And the other-a cinnamon sticky, dribbled with fresh honey? “

“Just what I was thinking.”

Mr. Fields beamed. “Coffee. Now, we have seven varieties, sir. Ipswitch Black, Moorland Dark, Seaforth, Ashburn…”

“Do you have anything that tastes like Army issue?”

“That would be Ipswitch Black, sir.”

“Then give me whatever is the least like that.”

He laughed. “A fellow veteran. Ashburn is what you want, sir. With a dollop of fresh cream and two spoons of sugar.”

“Ashburn it is, then.” I smiled as the Missus heated my buns in a stove, peering in at them through the crack in the door with a fierce eye and a frown, just as Mom had done.

“I did tunnel work.” I said. “You?”

“The Sixth. Infantry.”

I nodded. We let our smiles return. Mine came slower, because it was dawning on me that this jolly little baker and his rose-cheeked bride were the aunt and uncle of the girl I’d come looking for, if not her parents themselves.

“That smells wonderful,” I said while Mr. Fields busied himself with carafe of coffee. “Your family is certainly lucky, to have a gourmet chef in the house.”

The woman smiled. “Angels, sir. I haven’t cooked a meal at home in ages, have I, Gordon?”

“No time for it, love. But we’ve not missed many meals, have we?”

They laughed. A steaming mug of coffee appeared before me.

The steam wafting up was vapor from Heaven itself.

I took it in my hands and brought it to my lips and knew, then and there, I’d be bringing Darla around before the sun set, and many times thereafter.

I realized they were both watching me.

“That, sir, is the best cup of coffee I’ve ever tasted.”

The Fields let out their breath and exchanged a smile.

I gulped coffee. I’d intended to see both sets of parents, but this wasn’t the way I’d intended on doing it. Certainly not before seeing the bride-to-be. And certainly not while enjoying the man’s hospitality.

Mrs. Fields fussed with the new brass oven and produced a pair of buns-one dripping with melted cheese and showing the edges of fresh-baked ham, one glazed and smelling of sugar.

I dug in. I kept my ears open, in case they mentioned anything about the wedding, but their talk was strictly of ovens and servings and waiters and prices.

The cheese and ham was as good as the coffee. The sticky bun, oh, the sticky bun. It was marvelous, and I knew instantly it was the twin to the bun Darla had brought me a few hours or several days ago, depending on how many of Hisvin’s carriage rides one counted.