By midweek, the dough under Lorne’s hands knew her better than most people did.

It knew the way her fingers hesitated for half a heartbeat when she saw an air bubble near the surface and had to decide whether to smooth it out or leave it. It knew the way she pressed a little harder on the last tuck under the seam, as if she could pack every stray thought into the loaf and bake it out.

It knew she preferred the back of the bakery to the front.

Out there, in the shop, people wanted smiles and small talk and the kind of easy brightness that never seemed to fit right on her face. In here, the dough only wanted honesty. If you were sloppy, it slumped. If you were impatient, it tore. If you were steady, it rewarded you with shape.

She could live with that kind of conversation.

“Those twists are too pretty,” Bryn said, sliding a tray onto the rack beside her. “You’re going to make the rest of us look lazy.”

Lorne didn’t look up from the braid she was finishing. “Good. Maybe you’ll try harder.” He snorted. “I try exactly as hard as Crumb makes me, and no more.”

“That’s the difference between us,” she said. “I try like the bread is going to tell on me.” “Bread snitches,” Bryn said. “That’s a terrifying thought.”

She allowed herself the ghost of a smile and set the finished braid aside. The roll was tight, the seams tucked under, the plaits just loose enough to open in the oven.

On the wall near her station hung a scrap of slate with a list Crumb had chalked in his uneven hand:

● 70 plain rolls – morning

● 40 seeded rolls – market

● 24 braids – “go to those who need something pretty”

● ??? crumbs – “we always need crumbs”

The question marks annoyed her. She liked clean lists, clear numbers. But Crumb insisted there was always a pile of crumbs waiting to be born from the mistakes and miscuts of the day.

“It makes people feel better,” he’d said when she remarked on it. “Knowing some of the work has room to be imperfect.”

Lorne didn’t want that kind of room. She wanted the braids to come out exactly like they looked in her head.

“Those twenty-four are done,” she called, tapping the line with her knuckle.

Crumb glanced over from the main bench. “Good. Set aside six for the front. The rest go with the cart.”

“The cart?” she repeated.

“The infirmary and the far end of the Guard barracks,” he said. “Those braids are for them.” Lorne frowned. “They didn’t order any.”

“Not in chalk, no,” Crumb said. “But they’ve had a long week. Too many broken bones and not enough sleep. They deserve something that looks like a celebration, even if no one there remembers what they’re celebrating.”

He said it like that settled it.

Lorne wiped her floured hands on a cloth and set six neat braids on a tray for the front counter. The rest she lined up on a separate board, marking the edge with a quick, small symbol so she’d remember which were which.

“That’s a waste,” Bryn muttered, coming up beside her with another tray of plain rolls. “Fancy bread for people who aren’t even going to see the front of the shop.”

“They’ll see the bread,” Lorne said.

“Will they?” he pushed. “Or will some tired healer cut it up into chunks and throw it in a pot with onions, and no one will ever know how perfect those braids were?”

She felt his words like a hand trying to muss her work. Her shoulders tightened.

“If they notice, it matters,” she said. “If they don’t notice, it still matters. Just not to you.” Mila, who was kneading at the next bench, winced in sympathy on Bryn’s behalf.

Crumb’s voice floated over the worktable. “If you have breath to argue, you have breath to work. There will be plenty of time for philosophy after close.”

Bryn made a face and went back to his rolls.

Lorne finished lining up the braids and reached for the next batch of dough. She tried to let the rhythm of the work settle her, but Bryn’s words stuck like flour on damp skin.

No one will ever know how perfect those braids were. The thing was, he wasn’t entirely wrong.

By midday, the bakery was humming. The front-of-house bell chimed almost constantly. Mila took a turn at the counter, and even Bryn was dragged out for a stretch to help carry baskets to the door. Lorne stayed at the back, as she usually did. Her hands kept moving—rolls, knots, coils—but some small, stubborn part of her kept track.

Six braids into the display basket.

None of the customers who came through the shop saw the others.

She imagined them: carried out the side door, loaded into some cart, trundled off down a road out of sight. Eaten under poor lamplight by people who didn’t know, didn’t care, that she had fussed over every plait.

After the noon rush, when the worst of the noise had ebbed, she finally gave in and spoke.

“How do we know those braids even get where they’re supposed to go?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the dough.

Crumb looked up from the ledger he was updating. “Which braids?”

“The ones we send out,” she said. “To the infirmary. The barracks. The people who don’t come into the shop.”

“They go with Timo,” Crumb said. “He makes the deliveries at second bell.”

“And we just… trust that?” she pressed. “We send the best of what we have out the side door, and we never see what happens to it?”

Crumb set his charcoal down. “Do you suspect Timo of eating all your hard work in a secret alley somewhere?”

Lorne flushed. “No. That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean, then?” His tone wasn’t sharp, just curious. She hesitated. The words felt childish even as they formed.

“I meant…” She shaped the small coil twice before she was satisfied enough to finish the sentence. “I meant that I never see their faces. The people who get the braids. Or the rolls we send with notes. Or the loaves you mark for someone who can’t pay this week. I don’t know if they’re grateful. If they even like what we did. If it’s helping.”

Bryn looked over, interested. Mila’s hands slowed on her dough, but she didn’t stop. Crumb studied Lorne for a long moment.

“Does it matter if they’re grateful?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said immediately, then caught herself. “No. I mean… maybe.” She huffed, frustrated. “It feels like the front is the real bakery. People come in, they see the shelves, they smile, they complain, they come back. We know if what we’re doing works. Back here, we just… send things out like messages in bottles. It would be nice to see if any of them land anywhere.”

Crumb’s mouth twitched.

“I see,” he said. “We’ve made a mistake.”

“Which mistake?” Bryn asked. “We make so many.”

Crumb ignored him. “We’ve kept Lorne in the back so long she’s forgotten there’s a world attached to these benches.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Lorne muttered.

“Good,” Crumb said. “Then you won’t mind going to visit it.” She blinked. “What?”

“We’re due to send the cart,” he said. “Timo’s running behind at the mill this morning. You can handle a handcart without breaking yourself?”

Lorne straightened immediately. “Of course I can.” “Good. Mila, you’ll ride with her.”

Mila’s head jerked up. “We’re leaving the shop?”

“Bryn and I can hold it for half an hour,” Crumb said. “Unless he’d like to push the cart instead and show us all how fast he is.”

Bryn held up his hands. “I’m needed here,” he said solemnly. “For the good of the ovens.”

“Mm.” Crumb didn’t bother hiding his amusement. “Lorne, load the cart. Bottom layer, plain loaves and rolls. Braids on top. Mila, take two extra baskets. You’ll bring something back.”

“Bring what back?” Mila asked.

“You’ll know it when you see it,” Crumb said.

Lorne wiped her hands once more than necessary, then went to the side door. The handcart stood waiting in the narrow passageway—a simple wooden frame with a broad flat bed and two sturdy wheels. It smelled faintly of past deliveries: bread, onions, sawdust from crates.

She and Mila stacked the orders carefully: a crate of plain loaves for the barracks, two baskets of rolls for the infirmary’s general table, a smaller basket with thin, sliced bread and broth biscuits for the people who couldn’t chew well. Lorne laid the braids on top, each in their own cloth, like a layer of decoration on a very practical cake.

She hesitated before covering them.

“What if it rains?” Mila asked, following her gaze to the open patch of sky visible through the alley.

“Then we get wet,” Lorne said. “The bread will be fine if we tie the cloth tight.”

She secured the coverings and straightened, feeling a stretch in her back that told her she’d been hunched over the bench too long. Mila took one side of the cart’s handles, Lorne took the other. Together, they pushed out into the alley and turned toward the road.

The Crossroads felt different from this angle.

From inside the bakery, the world came in as sound: voices, wagon wheels, the occasional shout. From the handcart, the village unfolded in color and motion. Merchants set up stalls with rough, practiced efficiency. Children chased each other around the fountain, boots splashing in the muddy edges. A woman in a blue shawl stopped to smell the air as they passed, eyes closing briefly.

“That’s ours,” Mila whispered, a little awed.

Lorne felt it too. The cart left a faint wake of warmth in the cool morning. People turned their heads as they went by. Some waved. Some simply breathed a little deeper.

At the first corner, Mila glanced sideways at Lorne.

“You really never come out during deliveries?” she asked.

“Someone has to keep the bench moving,” Lorne said. “And Crumb’s not going to put Bryn in charge of braids. He’d tie them like rope and use them to swing from the rafters.”

Mila laughed. “Fair.”

They navigated the cart across the square and down the narrower side road that led toward the barracks. The Guard buildings sat at the edge of the village, more functional than pretty. The main hall was stone; the barracks themselves were timber and plaster, sturdy enough without being impressive.

Lorne had always pictured the Guards’ food as equally unimpressive. Gruel, maybe. Tough bread. Things that filled stomachs without asking anyone’s opinion.

A young Guard with a lopsided haircut met them at the side door, eyes brightening when he saw the cart.

“You’re early,” he said. “Good. The night watch just came off shift. They’re about ready to eat their boots.”

“Please don’t let them,” Mila said. “We didn’t bake boots today.”

He grinned. “I’m Jem. I’m supposed to carry the bread in and not drop it. Crumb says if I drop it, I have to eat it off the floor and tell him how the dirt tasted.”

“That sounds like him,” Lorne said, unable to quite hide her amusement.

Together, they unloaded the plain loaves and rolls. Jem balanced more than he ought to in his arms, but he moved with the surefootedness of someone used to carrying weight.

“What about these?” he asked, nodding toward the covered braids once they’d lifted the last basket of rolls.

“Those are for you,” Mila said.

“Also for you,” Lorne added. “But… in a different way.” Jem frowned in confusion. Lorne pulled back the cloth. Even she had to admit they looked good.

The braids were golden, the ridges catching the light. A few had been topped with seeds that made them seem even more festive. They were the kind of bread you expected to see at a holiday, not on a tired weekday morning at the barracks.

Jem’s eyes widened. “Lanterns,” he breathed. “What are those for?”

“Your tables,” Lorne said. “Crumb thought you might need something pretty.”

“We don’t have pretty here,” Jem said, almost reverent. “We have stew and bruises.”

“Well, now you have stew and bruises and braids,” Mila said. “Tell whoever’s carving to slice them thick so they don’t fight with the soup.”

Jem swallowed. “I—” He looked like he wanted to say something else, but the words tangled. Instead, he simply nodded. “Thank you. I’ll… I’ll make sure everyone knows where they came from.”

As they turned the cart around, Lorne glanced back.

Through the crack of the half-open door, she saw the edge of a long table. Men and women in mismatched bits of armor sat slumped on benches, faces lined with fatigue. As Jem carried the first basket in, heads lifted. One of them smiled, quick and startled, at the sight of the braids.

Lorne felt something unclench in her chest.

She hadn’t seen all their faces. But she’d seen enough. “Worth it?” Mila asked quietly as they pushed away.

“Maybe,” Lorne said. Then, after a moment, “Yes.”

The infirmary was farther, up a slight rise that made Lorne’s arms burn by the time they pushed the cart to its door. The building was whitewashed, its front stoop swept clean despite the muddy street. The air here smelled different—herbs and boiled linen, undercut with the sharper tang of things gone wrong.

An older woman in a sturdy apron met them at the entrance, wiping her hands. Her hair, streaked evenly with grey, was pulled into a knot so tight it made Lorne’s own scalp ache in sympathy.

“You’re not Timo,” the woman said, looking between them.

“Timo’s at the mill today,” Mila said. “Crumb sent us instead. I’m Mila. This is Lorne.”

“Ah.” The woman’s gaze softened a fraction at Crumb’s name. “I’m Healer Bessa. You can put the bread there.” She gestured to a table just inside the door.

They carried in the baskets: rolls for the general pot, sliced bread for the invalids, a smaller parcel wrapped separately.

Bessa frowned at the last one. “And that is…?” Lorne untied the cloth.

Inside were four small braids, not as large as the barracks ones, but no less carefully made. She had shaped them with narrower plaits, thinking vaguely of hospital beds and hands that might not be able to manage too much weight.

“Those are for you,” she said. “And the staff. Or for whoever you think is in the worst mood.” Bessa stared at the braids as if they’d spoken.

“We didn’t order those,” she said.

Lorne opened her mouth to repeat her earlier explanation, but Mila beat her to it.

“Crumb wanted you to have something that wasn’t thick soup and thin patience,” she said. “He said the people who take care of everyone else don’t get much taken care of.”

Bessa’s face did something complicated. For a moment, Lorne thought she might cry. Instead, the healer cleared her throat briskly and wiped at the corner of one eye with the heel of her hand.

“That man,” she said. “Always making more work for my feelings.”

Mila smiled. Lorne didn’t, but only because she was watching too closely.

Bessa picked up one of the braids and held it carefully. “You can tell him it’s appreciated,” she said. “And you can tell him that if he keeps feeding my staff this well, they’ll start thinking they’re valued.”

“They are,” Lorne said before she could stop herself.

Bessa looked at her with sudden sharpness, as if reassessing. “You’re the one who made these?” she asked.

Lorne shrugged, embarrassed. “We all had a hand in the dough.” “But the braids,” Bessa pressed.

“Yes,” Lorne admitted. “Those are mine.”

Bessa nodded, something satisfied in her eyes now. “Then thank you, Lorne-who-braids. There are people in these beds who won’t remember the names of the herbs I give them or the prayers I mutter, but they will remember that once, the bread on their plate looked like someone took extra time.”

Lorne swallowed around the lump in her throat.

“Do they… know it comes from us?” she asked. “Or does it just appear?”

“Some notice. Some don’t. Some can’t,” Bessa said. “But I know. The staff knows. And sometimes that’s what stands between a hard day and a worse one.”

They left not long after, the handcart lighter under their hands. On the walk back, Mila was quiet for a while.

“Still feel like the back isn’t the real bakery?” she asked eventually.

Lorne watched a boy run past them, a piece of plain bread in his hand. He took a bite so large it left crumbs on his chin and grinned at nothing in particular.

“I feel like…” She searched for the words. “I feel like the front is where the bakery talks loudly. The back is where it whispers.”

Mila smiled. “Whispers to who?”

“Whoever is too tired to come stand in line, I guess,” Lorne said. “To the Guards who don’t have time to cook. To the healers who forget meals are allowed. To the old woman down the lane who leaves her coin in a jar and takes a loaf without a fuss.”

“You’ve seen her?” Mila asked, surprised.

“From the window,” Lorne said. “I’m not trapped back there. I just… prefer the company.” Mila laughed.

When they pushed the cart back into the alley, Bryn was waiting, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

“You were gone an age,” he said. “I almost had to learn to braid.”

“Don’t worry,” Lorne said. “The bread is safe from you.”

She moved past him into the bake room, the familiar heat closing around her like a welcome. The benches were in that half-chaos state of mid-afternoon: flour dusted across every surface, bowls stacked, trays waiting.

Crumb looked up as they entered. “You still remember how to walk?” he asked. “No wheels for your feet now.”

“We made it there and back,” Mila said. “No bread lost. No carts broken.” “Any complaints?” he asked.

“About the bread or my driving?” Lorne said. “Either.”

Lorne hesitated, then shook her head. “No complaints.”

Crumb’s eyes narrowed slightly, reading more than she was saying. “And the braids?” “They saw them,” she said. “The Guards. The healer. The staff. They noticed.”

“And the people in the beds?” he asked gently.

“Some did. Some didn’t. Some couldn’t,” Lorne echoed Bessa’s words. “But someone noticed at every stop.”

“Then the bread did its work,” Crumb said. “That’s all we can ask.” He turned back to his dough, but Lorne lingered.

“Crumb?” she said. “Yes?”

She worked the edge of her apron between her fingers. “Do you ever… wish they all came in through the front? So you could see, every time, who you’re feeding?”

He considered this.

“When I was younger,” he said. “I wanted everyone at one table. Loud. Visible. Easy to count.” He dusted flour over a lump of dough and began to shape it. “Now I’m older. I’ve learned that some people will never step over a threshold like that. Pride, fear, grief, work… it keeps them away.”

He looked up at her. “Does that mean they don’t deserve hot bread?” “No,” she said, firmly.

“Exactly,” he said. “So we build a world where some of the tables are in the front room, and some are in barracks and infirmaries and quiet kitchens. Some are at bedsides, some are on stoops. Some of them will never know the name of this bakery. That’s fine. They don’t need the name. They need the bread.”

Lorne thought of her earlier complaint—that she never saw their faces. She thought of Jem’s expression at the sight of the braids. Of Bessa holding one like something fragile. Of tired Guards and patients catching a bit of beauty they hadn’t expected.

She nodded slowly.

“Then…” She cleared her throat. “Would it be all right if I kept making the braids for the cart? Even on days we don’t have extra orders?”

Crumb’s smile was small but bright. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He nodded toward her bench. “Mark them on your slate, so we remember they exist. Sometimes the guests we don’t see are the easiest to forget when flour runs low.”

She moved back to her station and picked up a fresh piece of dough.

The bench felt different now. Not less important than the front, not more. Just… connected.

As she worked, her braids formed a quiet procession: some destined for the display basket, for people who would praise them aloud and hand over coins with flour on their fingertips; some bound for the side door, for people who might never know her name, but who would take one look at the bread on their plate and feel, if only for a moment, that someone had thought of them.

By the time the afternoon light had shifted toward gold, the slate above her bench had changed.

● 24 braids – front

● 12 braids – cart

● ??? crumbs – “in case we miss”

Lorne smiled at the question marks this time.

Later, after close, when they swept the floors and banked the fire, she slipped out the side door for a breath of cooler air. The village had quieted. Lamps burned in windows. Somewhere in the distance, a Guard laughed, the sound carrying faintly on the evening breeze.

She pictured a table in the barracks, half-empty plates, crumbs scattered. A healer biting into a slice of bread between rounds. An old woman in a corner bed smiling at the sight of ridges in her supper roll.

She couldn’t see their faces. But for the first time, that didn’t bother her. The bread knew where it had gone.

That would have to be enough.