One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

Socair could not bring herself to hate that in the woman, and besides she had been given a chance to ride along and perhaps make her case. It was what she had been sent to do and certainly she would try her best at it. Her thoughts turned to Deifir and what good her trip would have been if she did not return with at least the hope of an alliance among one of the provinces. Briste and Fásachbaile seemed lost to her already. There was nothing which came to mind to solve against such a woman, but the north still held promise. She had been allowed to speak and she was thankful enough for that at least. The thought of meetings with the Binse crept in and she frowned. She had forgotten them for nearly the whole of her travels as worry allowed her to think of little else but addressing Treorai and officials and the like. The panel of old, pompous men and women would certainly let her hear no end of ridicule and derision should she come back empty handed. They had been insulting enough, and publicly so, before she had even left. Too young, inexperienced. She had been called a sort of prized bitch more times than she could count. They awaited her failure like slavering beasts awaited a sick foal.

Her arm pulled back behind her, her sleeve being held. It dragged her mind into the present and she noticed that Práta had stopped in the street behind her. She was looking longingly into a bakery and tugged at Socair’s sleeve a bit harder before looking over.

“Can’t we? Please?”

Práta almost seemed to pout, so precious Socair could hardly keep herself composed. A street was hardly the place for bold romance though, and so she settled for a dopey smile and a response that was just a touch too loud.

“Yes!”

A few passersby stared at her and Práta covered a laugh, looking away. Socair blushed red, grabbing Práta by the hand and dragging her into the shop. The smell of the place was delightful, though the shop itself was modest. They had just come to the edge of what Socair thought to be the poorer part of the town. They were welcomed by a stout man with curly hair and a wide smile.

“Let me know what it is you need and you’ll ‘ave it.”

He gave a nod and went back to his work arranging the loaves on shelves that lacked for them and rearranging the ones that remained to be more presentable.

Práta practically ran to the case of pastries at the front of the shop. The color and variety were as Socair had never seen. Bread was bread, as she understood it, and while she’d had sweet breads and sour alike, they had always been white at least and generally square and without mystery to speak of. The man approached, having noticed the two of them staring longingly into the case.

“Yer new faces. Visitin’ Casúr?”

“We are,” Socair said. “From Abhainnbaile.”

“Haha! Wonderful. You’ve got that look about you, must say. And lovers too if I know my nose from a mew.”

“We are!” Práta chirped, not looking up from the pastries.

“I’ve an eye for love. And I’d find myself remiss if I let two lovers leave my shop unsatisfied. Tell you what. Anything you like, you’ll have a second for free.”

“We couldn’t.” Socair began a protest but was waved off by the man.

“I’ll not hear a word of it. Now! What is it that strikes your fancy?”

“I have never seen the like of these, I fear I don’t know what to make of them.” Práta pointed to a deep purple roll. “What is this one?”

“Ah, the Blackwood. Blackberry bread full with beetroot custard.”

Práta pointed at a fair few others and he described them. Sweetbread topped with a crisp exterior and filled with macerated Bais fruits. A bread tinted deep red, full with divots of baked custard and dark jelly. Nearly a dozen of them in all and each of them may as well have been forged by some magic. Práta chose three to take with her and the shop owner placed six of them into a small bag made from paper. They paid and left. It was still a bit of a walk to the inn, so Práta immediately pulled one of the pastries from the bag and set about eating it.

“You’ll be ruined for supper.” Socair said jokingly.

Práta swallowed the bite she’d taken. “You’re welcome to some if that’s jealousy I hear in your voice.”

“Jealousy? No, I will have the rest of them while you’re not looking.” Socair laughed and Práta playfully clutched the bag tight against her side.

The walk back to the inn was not so bad, though the air was growing colder by the minute and the sky was well on its way to being full with clouds. Socair frowned at the turn in the weather. They would not be free of the north before the snows came at this rate. The doorman waved them down as they approached.

“Welcome, again. The young girl, Nath, she took a meal and has been quiet in the room since so I did not knock for fear she may have taken a nap. Near end of the second floor.”

“You have my thanks,” Socair said, nodding as she passed the man to enter the hotel.

They entered and climbed the stairs for the second floor, coming to the end. Socair could not help but notice the distance from their door to the far wall of the hotel and she grew a bit nervous.

“We have been given something audacious again, I fear.”

Práta was looking in the bag of breads and seemed not to be bothered by it. “Would you prefer it to the treatment in Theasín?”

Socair could not argue the point. She twisted the handle, finding the door unlocked. Nath had not locked it, it seemed, and the doorman had not seen fit to correct her mistake.

The room was grand. Deep green with rosy