Work Text:
Clive inspects the latest round of rolls, fresh from the oven. "Still not right."
"They're not bad." Molly breaks one open; a sweet-smelling waft of steam breaks free.
"'Not bad' isn't good enough. This is a gift. I can't give her this." These rolls have risen more than his last three attempts, and are at least cooked through, but the insides are too dense. He blows on one half and takes a bite. The flavor is there, sure, but the texture is too much — dry but also chewy, and not as easy to swallow as it should.
Yesterday, Clive had a sudden impulse to get Jill some of the bread she loves: sweet, fluffy, airy rolls that melt in your mouth. She craves them often, but Clive can count on one hand how many times she's had some in the past five years. The inns that shelter them don't make that bread. Neither does the Hideaway, because Molly's tasked with providing as much nutrition as possible with as few ingredients as possible for several hundred residents. The bread that comes with her daily brown is either quick flatbreads that cling to the sides of the oven or thick brown nut-and-seed loafs that do not fill the soul as much as they fill a hungry belly.
Jill gratefully eats whatever she is given, but Clive wants her to have something more, better, tastier. The trouble is, if he wants Jill to eat fresh bread now, he'd have to learn to bake it himself, because no one else here has the time or ability, and because anything he'd get in Northreach or Dalimil would go stale by the time he brought it back. The recipes he found in the stacks seem simple enough. He knows how to follow written instructions and work with fire. How hard can baking be?
Turns out: it is very hard.
"I'm beginning to think your problem is that you're overworking the dough. That's why they don't puff up as much as they should." Molly has been endlessly patient with Clive invading her kitchen and experimenting. He assumes it's because he's been doing most Yvan's chores while he is in the infirmary with self-inflicted food poisoning.
"But I've been restraining myself."
"Eh, it's very easy to go one knead too far, especially with your inhuman strength and all."
"There's not much I can do about that."
"It could be other things, too. Could be the quality of the yeast, could be the proofing time, could be the temperature of the water while the yeast is blooming. It's why I mostly stick to flatbreads. Although I don't think anyone's gonna mind if I serve these at supper."
"Of course, of course." Clive does feel guilty that his sudden compulsion to learn how to bake — on hard mode, apparently — is draining the Hideaway's stores. Even if every failure is eaten and no one has complained yet. Maybe they are too used to Yvan's experiments.
"I'm running out of time before the next hunt," he adds, "so I have one more afternoon to try to get it right, or else it'll be a fortnight or two before I can try again."
"Is there a rush? What's the occasion, anyway?"
"There isn't one." The occasion is Clive waking up yesterday to see Jill already at work on quilting a new blanket out of scraps, and looking at her contributions to his Wall of Memories, and then looking down at the very comfortable socks she had knit for him recently, and wondering, when was the last time he made something for her?
"Oh? Considering how particular you've been about it, it's almost like you're planning to, I dunno, propose a 'feast,' if you will. You know that's how they do things in some republican parts, I heard, you bake a ring into a cake and hope they don't swallow it…"
"Not that kind of feast!" He's pretty sure Molly is not serious; in any case, if he were to propose making their 20-year-long informal betrothal into a formal one, he certainly wouldn't do it via bread. Even good fresh bread. Even if Jill would likely appreciate it.
"Well I'm thinking we might need a new approach here. Instead of bread, maybe…shortbread?"
Clive tilts his head and waits for her to explain.
"They're more like a dessert biscuit. Fewer ingredients, still fussy enough to be fancy but not so fussy that a novice like you'd screw it up."
"So not actual bread." Clive is disappointed, but he knows he's bitten off more unbaked bread than he can chew.
"Eh, sweet biscuits are a nicer gift than bread anyway, if that's what you're after. Besides…" Molly pokes her head through the kitchen door towards the bar. "Hey Gav! Shortbread's Northern, right?"
Gav ambles closer to the door with his mug, leans over the counter.
""Yeah, why? You making some? Haven't had any since I was a wee lad."
"It's not for you."
"Who's the lucky fucker, then?" Clive gives him A Look through the doorway. "…ohhh. I get it. But, er, you need someone to help taste things and make sure they're authentic and all…?"
"Sure, in about two hours," Molly says. "Park your arse on a stool and I'll call you when I need you."
"Fine by me." Unlike Clive, Gav has always had the strange ability to find himself with an afternoon of nothing to do and then proceeding to do nothing.
Meanwhile, Molly is rummaging through the pantry. "Oh good, still got plenty of flour," she says. "And don't you tell anyone or else Charon will have my head, but I've got some of this blue cane sugar. Let's use it. It's going to look like one of her colors when it's done."
"Are you sure?" Beet sugar is easy to find and affordable, but this is the sugar that grows only in the deltas of southern Dhalmekia, drawing on the same waters that give the hot springs its rainbow of colors. Clive would need at least a B-rank hunt to afford some.
"Not sure when I'd use it otherwise. Was saving it for something special, and Jill finally getting a treat is special enough. So you hold that while I get the last of it…" She pulls out a crock.
"We have butter??" Clive doesn't remember seeing butter anywhere around the Hideaway. He is aware, vaguely, that fat is rendered off of some of the game he brings back into lard which is used for cooking purposes. Oil is available when they can buy it. Jam is available when there's bread. But he can't recall spreading butter on his bread since Rosaria. Outlaws don't get many opportunities for fine dining.
"Aye, we do," Molly says, almost giggling. "You better pay close attention to my instructions then, because this is the good stuff, and it is not going to waste, got it?"
Clive gets it. He creams the butter and sugar and vanilla until fluffy and blue; it smells fresh and milky and sweet. He rubs in the flour and salt until it forms a loose ball, noting how different it feels from working sticky bread dough: less like beating it into submission and more like a child making a mudpie.
Molly eyes the not-quite square he rolls out; the edges are curved and split. She checks with her finger to make sure he got just the right height, and then helps him slide it onto a griddle pan. This part, also, is fun in a way that bread isn't, because instead of simply positioning a pan near the oven and then in the oven, he gets to shovel out some of the coal from the hearth and build his very own little fire for the griddle and its tripod. This he knows by instinct: Molly gives him an idea of temperature, and he arranges the embers just so. He knows it's ready when a finger dipped in water leaves a mark before evaporating, and the touch is scalding but not enough to recoil — although Clive knows he is not typical when it comes to fire, and he suspects Molly is similar. When he places the griddle on the tripod, he feels the same satisfaction as building a campfire to roast meat the he had hunted all by himself.
Molly rubs her hands on her apron. "We're doing this low and slow. Takes about two hours, maybe another, just until the top is golden. You'll know."
"What do I do during the 'low and slow' part?"
"Pull up a chair, I suppose. Hey Gav! You can help out by keeping Cid company, all right?"
"Yes ma'am!!" Gav takes her literally and pulls in a barstool while holding onto his mug. "Smells good. Hey Molly, how come you've never made me shortbread before?"
Molly bops Gav on the head. "You're going to have to do a lot more grunt work first. See what Cid's done for me?" She sweeps her arm around at a worktable piled high with neat mountains of peeled and diced onions and potatoes. All of the mortars have finely ground spices, and a good dozen freshly butchered and cleaned rabbits and birds hang on strings for braising later. Clean pots and pans dry on a rack, and there is not a speck of dirt or blood or rogue ingredient out of place on the immaculate floor. Proving the bread took hours, and Clive needed something to do during all of the waiting periods.
"But I suppose I can spare you something sweet enough." She produces a cloth-wrapped jar. "I've been steeping some cordial with the leftover rhubarb. Makes your moonshine a bit more palatable." She strains some bright red liquid from a cloth-wrapped jar into two small goblets. They toast.
"My spirits are palatable, thank you very much," Gav says, "But I agree that this is fucking delicious."
They sip the cordial. And then sip it some more. The sweet-tartness masks its potency, or at least that's Clive's excuse for suddenly turning philosophical after a time of staring at the tripod and the small pinpricks of red in the gray coals beneath it:
"So if Magick is taking aether and transforming it into something else you can use — like fire or ice or water — isn't this just bypassing it? I'm still using my fire to transform all these different ingredients into something that didn't exist before. Does this mean baking is alchemy? Or is it just a reminder that there is magick everyone can use without fear or shame? What do you think, Gav?"
"I think you're starting to sound like your brother," Gav says.
When Molly comes back to tip off their cups, Clive asks for tea instead, and while he continues to muse on the creative properties of fire, he keeps his thoughts to himself.
A watched pot never boils, but a watched griddle does eventually turn the shortbread dough golden-blue. Molly lifts it carefully out of the pan and uses a knife along the dotted lines to cut out one test square. It's so plain, and the edges are more well-done than it should be, but Clive is far past the point of caring for aesthetics.
"The edges are darker than I'd like, but good enough is good enough. Taste trumps looks anyway. Hey Gav! Come tell us if he got it right."
Gav bites off a corner. Some crumbs fall on his lap. "This…I haven't tasted this since…oh." His eye widens. "Is that Northern goat butter? Where the fuck did you get that?" He nibbles ever so slowly around the edge, rolling it around in his mouth. "You're gonna make Jill a very happy woman."
Clive allows himself a taste, too. He's never been one for sweets, but this is just sweet enough. It's light and substantial. Delicious in its simplicity.
"You may very well be right," Clive says.
While Clive can wax poetic about how Jill is his perfect complement, the ice magic to his fire magic, the lady with the strength to tame the savage beast, the cool balm to temper his fiery rage, etc., he will also point out that Jill is literally adept at tempering hot steel.
This is why Clive knows to bring the baked shortbread to the forge. Blackthorne has desperately needed another pair of hands these past few days. A new cohort of Cursebreakers require decent armor and non-practice swords; a recent brush with akashic dented the armor of the more seasoned fighters; the carpenters always need bits and bobs and repaired tools; Mid's list is always long and full of problems to solve. Unfortunately, Zoltan had been goaded into trying Yvan's latest creation to predictable results. Fortunately, Jill is also a competent blacksmith, is not sleeping off anything in the infirmary, and has eagerly volunteered to pitch in.
He finds Jill and Blackthorne settled into an easy rhythm, her heating and cooling metal and passing it off to him for shaping. She has discarded her usual skirts and mail for wool trousers, and her hair is piled on top of her head to keep it out of the way. She looks up at him, smiles, and wipes her brow. Her blouse clings to her skin and is translucent with sweat.
Clive is stunned by this vision of her, enough to momentarily forget why he is here. Even when he remembers the box in his hands, he can't quite muster words.
Blackthorne looks at Clive, then Jill, then rolls his eyes. "Go take your break," he grumbles. "I'm not going anywhere."
Jill motions him to join her right outside on the back deck, where there is a breeze. "The box?" she asks. "Is that what this is about?" He nods. "What's inside?"
"Shortbread."
"Where on Storm did you find shortbread? I haven't seen any since my mother baked them."
"I made them, actually. With Molly's help."
Jill looks at him with wonder. "I had no idea you knew how to bake!"
"I don't, really. This is the first thing I made that worked."
Jill looks like she has many questions, and Clive is grateful that the only one she asks is, "May I try one?" Not like he can say no, considering she already has one in her hand.
She looks it over, and takes a bite. Some crumbs fell to the floor, but otherwise, she chews thoughtfully. Clive tries to gauge her reaction. She hasn't spit it out yet. She isn't making a face. Still, he can't help ask: "Do you like them?"
Jill suddenly wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him. She tastes like butter and sugar.
"Like? This is the the best thing I've ever eaten," she murmurs when she breaks the kiss, and immediately reaches for another.
To Bake Northern Shortbread in a Modern Oven:
Ingredients:
1 cup unsalted butter, softened
½ Cup sugar
2 cups all purpose flour
1 tsp vanilla
¼ teaspoon salt
Cream butter and sugar until fluffy. Stir in flour and salt and rub in with clean hands just until fully combined (do not overwork). Pat into a ball and roll out on a lightly floured surface until ½ inch thick. Transfer to an ungreased baking sheet. Prick with fork tines for the desired size and shape of the cookies. Bake at 275F for 30-40 minutes — you want to see golden brown on the bottom edges, but very little browning on the top.