Мерседес Лэки - Passages

“Well, you know . . .”

“No. I don’t. What were you doing?”

Soren looked away. “Wasn’t hurting no one. Just providing a service they need.”

“Those goods were meant to feed the poor.”

“My customers are poor. But they still have their pride. They don’t want to take from people who can’t even afford to pay a little.” Soren offered open hands, a plea to understand and accept.

“But they are . . . you are . . . doing just that. I can’t believe you. That basket was meant for the poor that the Temple feeds. Not to line your pocket.”

“Every single bakery in Haven sends their leftovers to the Temple. They aren’t wanting for anything. These people, my customers, can’t afford to pay full price, but they want to pay something. What’s the harm in helping them out, too?”

Tressa frowned. “It’s stealing.”

“No, it’s not. Not when Mariah’s giving it away. Nothing goes to waste. I swear. Anything I can’t sell, I take to the Temple. There’s no crime here.”

Tressa shook her head. Part of her could almost see where he was coming from. Part of her knew what he’d been doing was against everything they’d been taught.

Soren blinked at her, his eyes growing wet. “I’m sorry. Don’t tell her. My da’s sick. I just need to bring home a little extra for the medicine. My family needs the money, but I’ll cut you in. We can split what little I get. It’s not much.”

Tressa retreated farther into the kitchen, horrified. “No.”

He hung his head. “I’ll stop then. I’ll just go back to taking the leftovers to the Temple. I’ll stop. I promise. Please don’t tell on me. I need this apprenticeship. I’ll figure some other way to get the money.”

She nodded, not sure what else to do. Watching him walk away, Tressa wondered when his dad had gotten sick and why he hadn’t said anything to them. She thought they were better friends than that. She was sure Mariah would help . . . if he just asked.

The next couple of days were awkward and stiff between them, but everything seemed to go back to normal when Inga returned, her mother on the mend. Even so, Mariah made certain to send extra bakery goods home with the girl for a couple of days longer.

Tressa had given Soren significant looks during all such exchanges between Mariah and Inga, but her friend and peer either didn’t see them or ignored her. He still did the main job of taking the shop leftovers to the Temple each night, and she’d stopped watching him leave in the evening. But the doubt remained. Though the awkward stiffness lessened between them, Tressa still didn’t trust Soren, and that bothered her.

A fortnight after she’d caught him selling the Temple donations, Tressa decided to prove things to herself once and for all. Without thinking too deeply about what she was doing, she followed Soren. When he proved her wrong, she would beg his forgiveness, then convince him to talk to Mariah about his sick father.

Soren walked directly toward the Temple, and Tressa smiled. Then he turned a corner before he got there, and her heart sank. Cutting through another alleyway, she followed him from a distance until he stopped. On the corner of a smaller street, he gestured the basket of bakery goods toward the people passing by. Some stopped. From the easy conversation between them and the exchange of coin for baked goods, this was his new spot for selling the leftovers. He hadn’t stopped. He’d lied and hidden his thievery from them all.

Tressa walked away, her heart heavy and her mind confused. If he lied to her about this, did he lie about his dad being sick? Did it matter? Of course it did. Mariah would’ve helped him just as she’d helped Inga. Would it make any difference if she followed Soren home and discovered his dad ill and Soren too prideful to ask? He had still lied and taken from people who needed the food most.

She sat on a low stone wall and watched people head home from the work day and tried not to feel anything. She didn’t know what to do now. Soren had lied, and he was still stealing from Mariah . . . from the poor. From someone. From someone like me before Mariah took a chance on me.

Pulling a meat pie from her satchel, she stared at it. She’d made this one today. She’d graduated from just baked goods to filled ones to be sold. It made her proud that Mariah trusted her enough to do so.

As she took a bite, she looked up and saw a snowy white horse wearing a white and blue bridle with a matching saddle blanket. There was no rider astride the beautiful horse. In Haven, that was not unusual. It was a Companion, the symbol of Haven’s—of Valdemar’s—goodness and a representative of the monarch. She continued to watch until the beautiful horse trotted out of sight on its way to do whatever it was that Companions did.

At one time, she prayed that she’d be Chosen. To become a Herald like those in the legends. In the end, she wasn’t Chosen by a Companion but by Mariah. The apprenticeship was nearly at an end. She would have the pain, and the opportunity, to strike out on her own, and to adhere to no one’s standards but her own.

Sensing eyes upon her, Tressa turned and saw a small, dirty child watching her. Or, rather, watching her barely touched meat pie. With a smile, she broke the pastry in half and offered the untouched bit to the little boy. As he took it and stuffed the entire thing in his mouth, she made a decision. Breaking off another piece, she handed it to the child before finishing her diminished meal.

She had her own standards to adhere to.

Feeling sick to her stomach, Tressa waited until almost the end of the day to touch Mariah’s arm and whisper, “I need to talk to you before you leave. After we close the shop. Alone.”

Her mentor and boss tilted her head before nodding. A few minutes later, she sent Inga home early with another basketful of goods for the family—just to make sure all was well. The two of them worked together to close the shop after she sent Soren off with the leftover donations.

When they got to the end of the cleaning and Mariah came back in from throwing out the trash, Tressa didn’t know if she could go through with it. She scrubbed the clean floor all the more, trying to find the words.

“Well, then,” Mariah asked, “what is it? Are you getting married to our favorite Herald?”

Tressa shook her head. She couldn’t find it in her to smile at the jest. “It’s . . .” She took a breath and looked Mariah in the face. “It’s Soren.”

“Yes?”

“He’s selling the temple donations. He said he was doing it for money for his family. I caught him a couple weeks ago. He promised to stop.”

The older woman crossed her arms, her face a neutral mask. “But?”

“But he didn’t.” Tressa shrugged. “I . . . couldn’t trust his word. I don’t know why not. I followed him yesterday. I’m sorry. But I found him doing it again. Just in a different place.”

Mariah nodded. “I thought there was something between you two. Why couldn’t you trust his word?”

“He said his dad was sick. That’s why he needed the money. But we both saw how good you were to Inga and her mom. If he was actually sick . . . Soren could’ve talked to you. Should’ve talked to you.”

“Would it matter if his da was sick?”

Tressa felt her cheeks flush. “Yes! No. I mean . . . not really. He should’ve done things the right way. He’s taking advantage of you and your generosity. If his dad was sick . . . or is sick, we could help. He should’ve told us. Told you. As it is, he’s stealing from those who have nothing to give. I don’t care if every bakery in Haven gave all they had left over to the same temple. You bake enough to donate to them every night . . . and he stole it from them. From you.”