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Gideon found herself in the conservatory holding a ball of yarn.
A goldenrod-yellow strand led to the scarf that Dulcinea was knitting with slow yet ceaseless movements of her needles. She reclined on a lounge chair, her thin, veiny legs stretched out; Gideon sat on the tiles beside her. The sun found the clearer sections of the salt-stained panes above and shone on the two of them in patches.
Gideon’s black robes soaked in the heat. The ball of yarn turned in her hands.
Perfectly even stitch built upon perfectly even stitch. Gideon figured it was in the top tier, scarf-quality-wise, not that she’d encountered many knit items before. Although Drearburh could freeze cold enough to give an ice cube hypothermia, its residents neither made nor wore hand-knit clothing. Probably it would require too much warmth of spirit. The closest they’d gotten was a nun who’d crocheted black doilies, and she’d died ages ago.
Dulcinea recovered her breath. “And then Iphianassa starts to suspect that the surgeon’s wife is still alive, but she’s wrong, and it takes her another eighty pages to realize that the sabotage was poltergeist activity. Really she should have considered that possibility much sooner!”
A pause followed, filled by needle-clacks and pensive reflection on a main character who had for contrived reasons forgotten that ghosts existed.
“Do you know,” said Dulcie, “I’ve read so many romance novels while bedridden that they’ve started to blur together. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever encounter a story that’s truly new and surprising. Yet I still want to read more of them, as many as I can…”
The wistful note in her voice tugged an answering ache from Gideon’s chest. “I’m sorry,” she said, words inadequate as usual in the face of a woman dying young. “I hope you can. Read more of them.”
Fake vow of silence status: intermittent.
Dulcie beamed, though pain haunted her eyes. “Oh, Gideon,” she said, “you’re a perfect cinnamon roll.”
“What’s a cinnamon roll?” asked Gideon. The words, paired, sounded promising.
“It’s a kind of rich baked dessert with frosting.”
Gideon’s mouth started watering the instant she heard “dessert.” “Thanks. I guess I’ll have to taste one so I understand what that means.”
“Oh, you should,” Dulcie agreed.
Soon the bright yarn unraveled and vanished from Gideon’s hands.
Gideon found Teacher in the kitchen. The petite old man in white robe and rainbow belt was shaking salt onto a pale slab of fish in a baking pan. A skeleton with glowing eyes also stood in the kitchen, kneading dough with an enthusiasm not found in the skeletons of the Ninth.
“Hey, do you take requests?” asked Gideon.
Teacher beamed. This was another contrast to Gideon’s life thus far—the elderly residents of Drearburh only showed this much enthusiasm in their worship of the Locked Tomb, and they often demonstrated it with theatrical weeping. The old man said, “Why, absolutely. I can’t promise we have a given food in stock, however. If you’re looking for a taste of home, we don’t have snow leeks—that I can tell you.”
If Gideon never tasted another snow leek again it would be too soon. It would only taste of bitterness and cremains.
“How about a cinnamon roll?” she hazarded.
A look of thoughtful reminiscence slowly formed on Teacher’s face. “Now there’s a food whose name I haven’t heard in a very long time. But I believe there is a jar of cinnamon stashed somewhere in our cupboards.”
Gideon’s heart leapt to an unwarranted degree. “Cool. Great. Thanks.”
“It’s my pleasure. You’ll have a little treat with breakfast tomorrow. I’ll make enough for everyone, of course.”
Satisfied, Gideon wandered out again. She deserved a little treat in her life.
The treat was not, in fact, little. It was an enormous spiral bun, drizzled with frosting, that dominated the ceramic plate Teacher clattered down in front of Gideon. He placed another before Harrow. She looked at it as if the plate held a single beetle.
“What’s this?” she asked, voice dripping disdain. At the moment, the Ninth duo were the only ones seated in the makeshift dining hall.
“These are called cinnamon rolls,” said Gideon, wise with the knowledge of foodstuffs.
“Do enjoy!” said Teacher. He took their used bowls—breakfast had been rich porridge and the bowls of leaves, which were called “salad”—and bustled back to the kitchen.
“Is this your doing?” demanded Harrow.
“Yeah. Dulcie mentioned these.” And, remembering being mobbed by skeletons, she added, “So I had to try them. I bet a duchess knows all kinds of great dishes.”
Harrow looked as if she’d just learned that the beetle also carried the plague.
In this cheering atmosphere, Gideon dug in.
The dessert was as sweet as she expected and richer than she’d imagined, the cinnamon spice flooding her tastebuds. The roll was dense but soft in texture. The frosting topped off the nuanced flavor with a purer sweetness.
Dulcie was right, she thought, I am a cinnamon roll.
Harrow shoved her plate away, the dessert untouched.
Flavors were Harrow’s enemy. She’d put neither salt nor syrup in her porridge, and left untouched the leaves most covered in sauce. Gideon had once seen her steep herbal tea for two seconds and savor the results. Harrow was probably the only person alive who longed to taste snow leeks.
Before she knew it, Gideon had devoured the beautiful roll, and the plate sat empty. The delicious smell of Harrow’s dessert wafted over. “You got any plans for that? Because I can take it off your hands.”
“Disgusting,” Harrow muttered. More loudly, she said, “I hereby forbid you to waste your time requesting specific desserts, or any other dishes.” A pause for glowering reflection. “Or any other foods, regardless of whether they’re served in a dish.”
Fury stabbed at Gideon’s brain like hot needles. “Well, guess what, night mistress, it’s not a waste of time unless I have something better to do.”
Just then the Sixth House necromancer and cavalier walked into the atrium-turned-dining-room, so Gideon and Harrow pretended via facial expressions that nothing was wrong.
Gideon collected Harrow’s cinnamon roll and took it to the kitchen to ask for a container. Her foul mood cleared quickly. Harrow being an asshole was an everyday occurrence, like nightfall on the First, and had no doubt been occurring every day since and including her birth. Besides, Gideon had a second dessert to look forward to.
Carrying the cinnamon roll ensconced in a plastic container, Gideon checked the conservatory. Nobody was there, but an almost-finished scarf and a novel titled Rose of the Galaxy on the lounge chair suggested that Dulcie was nearby.
She was on the terrace, arms in crutches, staring at the blue mesh of sky and sea as if trying to discover something just beyond the horizon line. A salt breeze rustled her fawn-brown curls.
“Oh! Why, hello, Gideon.” Dulcie’s eyes crinkled when Gideon joined her at the waist-height wall bordering the terrace.
“I had one of those cinnamon roll desserts. Gotta say, it’s in my top five foods so far,” Gideon said. “Would you...like this one?”
Dulcie looked out over the ocean waves again. During a lengthy silence, Gideon agonized over the fate of the cinnamon roll in her hands and wondered if Teacher would give her another should she hand it over to Dulcinea.
At last, Dulcie spoke. “Sometimes you find the perfect cinnamon roll,” she said, voice soft and blending with the breeze and distant waves. “Sometimes people say, what a terrible cinnamon roll, what strange ingredients, its frosting smells odd, how could you like it so much? But how I did! And do you know what happened to that cinnamon roll, Gideon?”
“Uh, what?” Desserts had been missing from Gideon’s life prior to her arrival at Canaan House, but even she thought Dulcie was getting a little dramatic about them.
Dulcie turned manic eyes on Gideon, her pupils pinpricks in pools of acid blue. “I ate her.”
Two things become clear: Dulcie wasn’t talking about a cinnamon roll, and emotionally speaking, Dulcie might not be entirely well.
Gideon looked down at the container. “Was that a yes or no on the cinnamon roll?”
“No, thank you!” Dulcie laughed melodically. “It’s too rich for my stomach. I already ate a spot of breakfast in my room.”
Gideon was relieved that she could keep the dessert. “Well, I should—”
A wan hand touched Gideon’s black sleeve. Leaving became impossible, as if Dulcie’s hand set upon her had also bolted her to the ground.
“I do appreciate you offering, though.” Dulcie’s gaze was heartfelt; this too held Gideon in place. Dulcie was pretty in the morning light, although the hollows beneath her eyes were dark. “You’re a fine cavalier, Gideon. You could look God in the eye—in fact, I hope you do!—and have nothing to be ashamed of.”
The compliment was strange, but Gideon would take it, and hope for the day when she could prove herself with incredible swordwork instead of incredible generosity with desserts.
“I’m so sorry if I’ve said something odd,” Dulcie continued. “My head becomes muddled sometimes, from the pain and exhaustion, you know. You can do me another favor by not worrying about it!” The hand withdrew, freeing Gideon.
“No biggie,” Gideon said, flashing her a grin as if to say hey, I understand even though she didn't, exactly. “Thanks for telling me about the cinnamon rolls.”
She headed back inside with her prize.
Late that afternoon, Gideon returned to the Ninth’s lodgings and discovered that someone else had braved the bone-festooned gauntlet leading to their rooms. A package wrapped in white tissue paper had been set in front of the door. A label read in shaky cursive, “For Gideon.”
Once inside, Gideon tore it open. Inside, like a bright yolk, was the yellow scarf.
Huh.
Harrow was absent at this early hour, of course, off on her obsessive explorations, their chambers open and echoing without her.
So Gideon wound the perfect scarf around her neck in front of the bathroom mirror. It was the precise shade of her eyes. The cheerful color ruined the dour vibes of the black robes and traditional face paint. As the weather had been balmy recently, Dulcie would understand if Gideon didn’t wear it around the mansion. She appreciated the gift, though. Gifts were another thing that had been missing from her life.
Rolling up the scarf and covering it with the mass of tissue paper, Gideon stashed it in her trunk, where her two-hander still lay hidden and ready. She’d save the scarf for a special occasion: whenever she next wanted to provoke Harrow extra hard.
Thanks, Dulcinea.
As for the second cinnamon roll, it didn’t survive until dinner. Gideon ate it in the afternoon, sitting cross-legged on her nest of blankets and tearing off sections with her fingers. This time, the words that passed through her mind weren’t I’m a cinnamon roll, but I ate her in Dulcie’s voice, because that had been a pretty fucking weird thing to say.
But the cinnamon roll was no less delicious.