By high spring, Bryn could tell what kind of day it was going to be from the way Crumb shut the oven door.

On good days, the door closed with a firm, satisfied thump. On tired days, it went softer, as if Crumb was apologizing to the bricks. On bad days, it was sharp and fast, like a full stop in a sentence.

Today, it was the last kind.

Thump-click.

Bryn winced.

He hadn’t caused it. Not this time. The wagon from the mill had arrived late, half a sack short, and the flour that had come was damp. Crumb had been muttering ever since.

“Damp flour is like damp promises,” he said, pressing a handful between his fingers. “Feels solid until you put weight on it.”

They were behind before first light.

Orders had piled up on the slate: market loaves, a Lantern Week make-up for a family who’d been snowed in, and—on top of everything—a wedding order.

Wedding Feast – 1 crown loaf, 6 sharing rounds, 80 rolls.

“Who gets married right after Hungry Winter?” Bryn grumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“People who don’t want to argue with the weather about their anniversaries,” Crumb said. “Coat on, Bryn. We’re moving.”

By midmorning, the bake room felt like a pot left too long on the fire.

Heat pressed in from the oven. Steam curled up from pots. Voices collided. “Watch your elbow,” Lorne snapped as Bryn swung around with a tray.

“Watch where you put your bench,” he shot back. “It’s not my fault your braids take up half the valley.”

“They take up as much room as they need to,” she said. “You’re the one who insists on carrying three trays when you could carry two safely.”

“It’s faster.”

“It’s stupid.”

Mila, at the stove, didn’t look up from the pan of toasted seeds she was stirring for the wedding rounds.

“Can we not set each other on fire until after the crowns are in?” she asked. “I’d rather the bride’s family not smell singed apprentice with their rolls.”

“We’re out of shelf space,” Bryn said, ignoring her. “If I don’t triple up, Crumb will start stacking loaves on my bed.”

“Maybe they’d be safer there,” Lorne said. “At least you’d have to look at them before you dropped them.”

“Children,” Crumb said mildly from the oven. “If you’re going to fight, save it for the bread that deserves it. Right now it’s innocent.”

Bryn bit back a retort and set the tray down harder than necessary. One of the half-proofed loaves jolted, slumping slightly at the edge. “Great,” Lorne muttered. “Now they’re sulking.”

“Loaves can’t sulk,” Bryn snapped. “They can if you beat them up,” she said. Mila slid the toasted seeds off the heat.

“Timing,” she announced. “If the wedding rolls don’t go in within the half hour, they’ll be either under or over. Pick one and live with it.”

“We’ll make it,” Crumb said. “If we stop talking and start folding.” They did.

For a while, the only sounds were the soft slap of dough, the creak of proofing baskets, and the mutter of the oven.

Then the bell at the front rang. Twice. Three times.

Mila winced. “They’re here,” she said. “The bride’s family?” Bryn asked.

“Or their messenger,” Crumb said. “Either way, we’re about to have an audience.” He wiped his hands and headed for the front.

“Stay on the bench,” he told them. “Don’t come out unless the oven burns down.”

As soon as he was gone, the pressure in the room changed.

It was always like that when Crumb left—like someone had taken a lid off. Bryn’s shoulders loosened a notch. Lorne’s jaw tightened another. Mila inhaled once, deep and steady, like she was bracing for a wave.

They worked faster. Too fast.

Bryn shaped rolls with his usual triple-speed hands, pinching and tucking and lining them up. Lorne scored the sharing rounds with quick, sure cuts. Mila brushed egg wash over the crown loaf like she was painting a shield.

“Don’t forget the pattern,” she reminded Lorne. “Crumb said they asked for the wheat sheaves, not the circles.”

“I know what he said,” Lorne replied. “I was standing here. Unlike some people.” Bryn rolled his eyes. “If this is about the time I forgot to mark the feast loaves—”

“It’s about this morning when you shoved your tray into mine,” she snapped. “And yesterday when you left the peel leaning against the oven door. And last week when—”

“Last week,” he cut in, “I saved your braids when you miscounted and had the oven too hot.” “You didn’t save anything. Crumb fixed it.”

“I was the one who pulled them and moved them to the cooler side.” “At random.”

“We don’t have a map drawn on the stones, Lorne. You can’t act like—” The oven door opened.

Heat blasted out. Bryn shut his mouth, suddenly aware of how close he was standing to the edge of a loaded tray.

“Are those the first fifty?” Crumb asked, stepping back in.

“Forty-eight,” Bryn said. “You said we could finish the last thirty after the sharing rounds.” Crumb glanced once at the rolls.

“Forty-seven,” he said. Bryn frowned. “No, I—”

Crumb tapped one with his finger. It left a small dent that lingered.

“This one,” he said. “Overworked. It’s going to chew like rope. We’re not sending it to a wedding table.”

Bryn’s cheeks flared.

“I did them all the same,” he protested.

“No,” Lorne said quietly. “You did that one when you were arguing.” Bryn shot her a look.

Crumb’s gaze flicked between them.

“Put it in the staff basket,” he said. “It’ll feed us fine. But it’s not going with the ones that have to convince two families they can sit at the same table.”

He slid the rest into the oven.

As the door shut, Bryn muttered, “It’s not my fault we’re behind.” “Whose fault is it, then?” Lorne asked. “The miller? The river? The loaf?”

“Maybe yours,” he snapped. “If you didn’t fuss over every cut like it’s a Lantern mark—” “At least my fussing doesn’t break anything,” she shot back.

“Enough,” Mila said sharply. “You’re splashing on everyone.” They turned to her, surprised.

She rarely raised her voice.

“You two can tear each other apart later,” she said. “Right now, we are what stands between that bride and stale bread. If we ruin this, it’s not just flour. It’s her day.”

“We’re not ruining it,” Bryn said. “We’re just—” “Distracted,” Crumb finished from behind him. Bryn hadn’t heard him come back fully in.

Crumb leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. His face wasn’t angry. That was somehow worse.

“You’re not wrong,” he said. “The flour is damp. The order is heavy. The day is too short. Those are facts.” He nodded toward the crown. “So is the fact that you’re both working on the same loaf for two different stories.”

“What does that even mean?” Bryn demanded.

“Lorne is trying to make sure every cut tells the bride, ‘We paid attention,’” Crumb said. “You’re trying to make sure we finish before midnight so we don’t die.”

“Also important,” Bryn said.

“They are,” Crumb agreed. “The problem is, you’re fighting each other instead of the clock. So we’re going to change the fight.”

He reached for a clean cloth and wiped his hands. “Bryn,” he said. “Mila. Lorne. New task.”

They all straightened automatically.

“You,” he pointed to Bryn and Mila, “are going to make the festival loaf.” Bryn blinked. “The what?”

“The center loaf,” Lorne said immediately. “The tall one. With the braided ring and the twists and the… you’re going to let them touch that?”

Crumb’s mouth twitched. “I am,” he said. “Because if they can’t make one loaf together without killing each other, we have no business sending eighty rolls out there with our name on them.”

“But I thought—” Mila began.

“I was going to have Lorne lead it,” Crumb admitted. “She’s been practicing the form. But I think the lesson’s louder this way.”

He turned to Lorne.

“You’ll take the rolls,” he said. “Which need steadiness more than they need art today. Can you do that without turning them into tiny crowns?”

Lorne swallowed, then nodded. “Yes,” she said.

“Good.” He clapped his hands once. “All right. Festival loaf. Bryn, Mila, with me.” He moved to the center bench and set down a wide, low bowl.

“This isn’t on the slate,” Bryn said, eyeing it. “We didn’t count flour for—”

“We’re using the damaged loaf’s share,” Crumb said. “And some from the staff basket. It will be enough.”

He poured in flour, water, starter. Salt. A bit of honey. He didn’t weigh it this time. He did it by feel.

“This is a loaf on the house,” he said. “Not one on the ledger. It doesn’t have a price. It has a purpose.”

“What purpose?” Mila asked warily.

“To sit in the middle,” Crumb said. “Between two sides that might not trust each other yet.”

He nodded toward the door, where the sound of voices drifted in from the front—the bride’s family, laughing too loudly; someone from the groom’s side, already asking if the rolls would be soft.

“This loaf,” Crumb said, “will have to survive being cut by nervous hands. It will have to hold its shape in a room full of opinions. It will have to be strong enough that, even if someone takes a slice too big, there’s still enough for the person who comes after. Sound familiar?”

Bryn and Mila glanced at each other, then away. “Hands in,” Crumb said.

Bryn obeyed out of habit. So did Mila.

Cool dough squelched between their fingers.

“Work together,” Crumb said. “Not beside each other. Together. You each have one hand. The other stays away unless I say otherwise.”

“That’s not—” Bryn began.

“Fair?” Crumb supplied. “It’s not supposed to be. It’s supposed to be educational.” He nodded at the bowl.

“Fold,” he said.

Bryn’s right hand moved with his usual speed, trying to pull the dough toward him. Mila’s left resisted.

“Stop tugging,” she said.

“You’re not moving fast enough,” he replied.

“The dough isn’t ready,” she said. “You’re going to tear it.” “I tear it all the time. It’s fine.”

“Your definition of ‘fine’ makes me nervous.”

“Your definition of ‘ready’ means we never get anything done.” Crumb watched for a moment, then spoke.

“Remember the flour line,” he said. “What doesn’t cross?” “Flour and blame,” Bryn muttered.

“And?” Crumb asked.

“Hands that don’t trust each other,” Mila added softly.

“Good,” Crumb said. “Right now, this bowl is your flour line. The dough doesn’t care whose fault the mill was late. It doesn’t care who’s tired. It only knows pressure and timing. So if you need something from the other person, say that. Not everything else.”

He stepped back, giving them space. Bryn exhaled slowly.

“Fine,” he said. “Mila, I need you to push harder when I pull. If I do it alone, it folds wrong.”

Mila nodded once. “I can do that,” she said. “But I need you not to rush the turn before it’s ready. Can you give it one breath after you want to move?”

“One?” he asked.

“One,” she said. “You’ll still be faster than most people.” His mouth twitched.

“Deal,” he said. They tried again.

This time, when Bryn pulled, Mila pushed in the opposite direction, guiding the dough instead of fighting it. He waited—barely a heartbeat, but it was something—before twisting.

The dough responded. It tightened, smoothed. Crumb nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Now we knead until it tells you it’s had enough.” “How do we know?” Bryn asked.

“You’ll feel it,” Crumb said. “When it starts pushing back like a stubborn guest, you’ve gone too far.”

They worked.

It wasn’t graceful. Their hands bumped. Bryn’s fingers slipped once and nearly poked Mila in the wrist. Mila’s patience frayed and she hissed once when he rushed a fold.

But slowly, the dough changed.

It went from shaggy to cohesive. From sticky to tacky. From resentful to springy. “You feel that?” Crumb asked.

“Yeah,” Bryn said. “It’s… listening. Sort of.”

“It’s meeting you,” Mila said.

“Exactly,” Crumb said. “All right. Turn it out.”

They flopped the dough onto the bench. Crumb divided it into three pieces. “One for the base,” he said. “One for the braid. One for the top knot.” “You’re going to let us touch the top?” Bryn asked. “First try?”

“You’re not going to do it alone,” Crumb said. “That’s the point.” He nodded at the first piece.

“Base,” he said. “Mila, you lead. You’re good at groundwork. Bryn, you follow her hands.”

Mila shaped a round, tucking the edges under, gently pressing the center to keep it from doming too much. Bryn mirrored her movements. When impulse struck, he bit it back. One breath. Then move.

They set the base aside.

“For the braid,” Crumb said, “Bryn leads. Mila follows. He’s better at fast decisions. You’re better at checking his angles.”

Bryn rolled the lengths out, quick and sure. He almost twisted the wrong way on the second loop, but Mila nudged his wrist.

“Other side,” she said. “Or it’ll torque.” He corrected.

The braid came out uneven in places but held. They lifted it together and set it on the base. “For the knot,” Crumb said, “you do it in silence.” They blinked.

“Why?” Bryn asked.

“Because you two fill the room with words when you’re nervous,” Crumb said. “Let the dough talk.”

Mila swallowed.

They shaped the top without speaking. Bryn rolled; Mila adjusted. They both reached for the same edge once, fingers brushing, and jerked back. Then, without comment, they tried again.

Finally, a small, twisted knot sat atop the braid and base, like a crown on a crown.

Crumb stepped forward.

“It’s not perfect,” he said. “But neither are they.” “They?” Bryn asked.

“The couple,” Crumb said. “The families. The people who are going to stand on either side of this loaf and try to carve it without stabbing each other.” He brushed flour off his hands. “Now we let it rise. And while it does, we talk.”

Bryn groaned. “I knew there’d be talking.” “Sit,” Crumb said.

They perched on stools at the edge of the bench, within arm’s reach of the proofing loaf. “What are we talking about?” Mila asked warily.

“Bread,” Crumb said. “And whatever else is sitting under it.” He considered them.

“When you two fight,” he said, “what are you actually angry about? Not the flour. Not the trays. Under that.”

Bryn huffed. “She slows me down.”

“She rushes me,” Mila said at the same time. Crumb waited.

Bryn rubbed his face. “Fine,” he said. “I’m… scared we’ll fall behind. That we’ll waste sacks we don’t have. That the next Hungry Winter will eat us.”

Mila stared at the table. “I’m scared we’ll hurt people,” she said softly. “That we’ll send out bread that’s beautiful and wrong. That we’ll say, ‘We see you,’ and then prove we weren’t paying attention.”

Crumb nodded slowly.

“So,” he said, “you’re both scared. Which is fine. Fear is as common as flour in here. But instead of saying, ‘I’m scared,’ you say, ‘You’re the problem.’”

Bryn shifted. “Feels better in the moment,” he admitted. “Feels worse afterwards,” Mila said.

Crumb glanced at the loaf.

“It’s the same with them,” he said. “The bride and groom. Their families. Today, they’re going to stand in front of each other with all their old fears stacked up behind them like sacks of damp flour. Some will be afraid of not having enough. Some of being wrong. Some of being seen too clearly.”

He tapped the bench.

“When they fight, they’ll say, ‘You’re the problem,’ instead of, ‘I’m scared.’ If we’re lucky, they’ll learn better. If we’re not, they’ll just get louder.”

He looked back at them.

“In this kitchen,” he said, “we learn the other way. Or we try to.” Bryn scowled. “We’re not getting married.”

“Thank the river,” Lorne called from the other side of the room. Mila snorted.

Crumb smiled.

“No,” he said. “You’re not. But you are tied to each other, for a while. To this bench. To these orders. To my name. You don’t get to tear that apart just because the oven’s hot.”

He nodded at the loaf.

“That,” he said, “is the bread between you. It doesn’t belong to you alone. If you tear it in half before it ever hits the table, you’re not just letting each other down. You’re letting down everyone who was meant to eat from it.”

They were quiet.

The loaf rose, slowly.

After a while, Bryn cleared his throat.

“I’m… sorry,” he said, staring at the dough. “For calling your care ‘fussing.’ And for acting like the clock is more important than your hands.”

Mila swallowed.

“I’m… sorry,” she said. “For acting like the only safe speed is mine. And for treating your urgency like it’s always selfish instead of sometimes… protective.”

Crumb nodded once, satisfied. “Good,” he said. “Now we score it.” He handed them each a lame.

“One cut each,” he said. “No more. No less.” “That’s not enough,” Bryn protested. “It needs—”

“Room,” Crumb interrupted. “To rise. To surprise you.” He nodded at Mila.

“You first.”

She leaned in and made a single, clean cut—a curve from one side of the top knot down to the braid, like a river wrapping around a stone.

“Of course she makes it poetic,” Bryn muttered. “Your turn,” Crumb said.

Bryn hesitated. Then he made a straight slash across the other side, firm and decisive. There was a brief, awkward pause.

“Together,” Crumb said.

They both reached out and, without thinking, touched the center of the loaf at the same time, just below the knot.

“May it hold,” Mila murmured, surprising herself. “May it not sink,” Bryn added.

Crumb smiled. “Amen,” he said.

The loaf went into the oven.

When it came out, it wasn’t perfect. The knot had listed slightly to one side. Bryn’s cut had bloomed wider than he’d intended. Mila’s curve had opened just enough to look like it was reaching for the other.

But it was beautiful.

Even Lorne admitted it, grudgingly.

“That’ll make a mark,” she said. “They’ll remember it.”

“Good,” Crumb said. “Because when they cut it, I want them to feel the effort that went into not letting it fall apart.”

He let it cool just enough to be safe, then wrapped it in cloth and set it on a board. “Bryn,” he said. “Mila. Take it out.”

They exchanged a glance.

“You’re trusting us with the center loaf?” Bryn asked.

“I’m trusting you to carry something you made together,” Crumb said. “Without arguing.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Can you?” “Maybe,” Bryn said.

“Yes,” Mila said at the same time. They each took one side of the board. It was heavier than Bryn expected.

He could feel Mila’s grip through the wood.

As they stepped into the front, the room fell briefly quiet.

Two families filled the space—the bride’s, in clothes mended but neatly pressed; the groom’s, in slightly richer fabrics, eyes assessing. The bride and groom stood in the middle, fingers loosely linked, mouths tight.

Mila and Bryn walked between them, the loaf a small, solid world on the board.

“Festival bread,” Crumb said from behind them. “On the house. For the middle of your table.” The bride’s eyes widened.

“We didn’t order—” she began.

“You didn’t have to,” Crumb said. “Some things you can’t ask for with coin.” Her eyes shimmered for a moment.

The groom swallowed. “Thank you,” he said quietly. Bryn met his gaze and, for once, didn’t make a joke. “Don’t cut it in half right away,” he said.

Several heads turned.

“Why not?” someone from the groom’s side asked.

“Start at the middle,” Mila said, surprising herself. “Work out. That way no one feels like they’re stuck at the edge.”

There was a murmur of agreement. Crumb’s mouth twitched.

When Bryn and Mila came back to the bake room, they set the empty board down and exhaled in unison.

“That was… something,” Bryn said. “Scary?” Mila asked.

“Yeah,” he admitted.

“Good,” she said. “Means you were paying attention.” He bumped her shoulder lightly.

“Next time we fight,” he said, “remind me of that loaf.”

“Which part?” she asked. “The bowl? The cut? The carrying?”

“The middle,” he said. “Where we had to touch it at the same time.” She nodded.

“I will,” she said.

From the oven, Crumb called, “Hands, not mouths! There’s still a wedding to feed!” They jumped back into the rhythm.

The rest of the day wasn’t suddenly peaceful. They still snapped at each other. They still moved too fast, then too slow. Bryn still rolled his eyes. Mila still pinched her lips when he did.

But under the noise, there was a new thing on the bench. A memory of shared weight.

Of a loaf that belonged to neither of them and both of them.

Weeks later, when another argument flared—this time over who had forgotten to cover the starter—Crumb didn’t launch into a speech.

He just picked up a scrap of chalk and, without comment, drew a small, crooked ring on the corner of the slate.

Bryn saw it first.

“We’re not making another festival loaf,” he grumbled.

Mila smirked. “No,” she said. “We’re remembering the one we already made.” Lorne rolled her eyes.

“Just kiss already,” she muttered.

They both spluttered.

Crumb, kneading at his bench, hid his smile in the dough.

He knew they’d forget, again. And remember, again. That was the way of apprentices. And bakers. And people.

What mattered was that, in this year, they had learned—once, at least—that bread could hold more than flour and water.

It could hold the space between two stubborn hearts long enough for both to realize they were afraid of the same hunger.

And that, at least in this bakehouse, that space had a name. Not contract. Not profit.

Just:

The loaf in the middle.