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.
“How was it, sir?”
“Best coffee in the Kingdom, Mr. Fields, and that’s not idle praise. Same for the buns, Mrs. Fields. Works of art, both of them.”
They beamed. Mrs. Fields took her husband’s hand and squeezed it.
“First customer is on the house,” said Mr. Fields.
I shook my head. “I’d feel like a thief if I took advantage of your hospitality.”
He started to protest but his wife elbowed him gently in the ribs and laughed. “Take his money, Gordon, we can’t make a living giving lunch away.”
He made a what-can-you-do face and quoted me a price. I counted out the coins, plopped a couple of extra ones down too.
“Now, sir, I was only joking,” said Mrs. Fields. “That’s far too much, even with a tip.”
“I’m hoping that will make what I’m about to say easier to swallow,” I said. They exchanged perplexed glances.
“My name is Markhat. I’m a finder by trade. I had no idea who you were when I walked in here, but if you have a daughter named Tamar I’m in the neighborhood hoping to speak with her.”
They both kept their composures. No reddening of faces, no sputtering. If Mr. Fields hadn’t started twisting his dishrag savagely, neither would have displayed a hint of consternation.
“And why would you be speaking with our Tamar, Mr. Markhat?”
“It’s about her fiance, Mr. Fields. Carris Lethway. I’m sure you know he’s gone missing.”
“Wherever that scheming little bastard has gone, Mr. Markhat, he hasn’t gone nearly far enough.” Mr. Fields might be a bald, red-faced, round-bellied little baker, but a hint of genuine murder crept into his voice. “He’s broken her heart. Not that I’m surprised. Those Lethways are-”
“Hist!”
The cheerful brass doorbell rang, the door opened and a smiling blonde woman rushed in, her arms laden with bags and parcels and a tiny yapping dog in a knitted basket.
“Mum, Dad, I’m so sorry, but I couldn’t get a cab and then the warehouse was out of the good confectioner’s sugar and Mr. Tibbles got out of his basket and nearly got run over and I gave an ogre some bread,” she said, showing no signs of breathlessness. “And Lars at the second bakery says he needs more split oak tomorrow and then I remembered the turning forks, and I went back to get them but Mum had already left. Who are you? I’m Tamar. This is Mr. Tibbles.”
