The Becoming

“Good texture.” He nodded as he chewed. “Just a touch of sweet from the honey. Chewy, but not tough. These are Troll-worthy bagels. They get a dozen. The other dozen are for Nan and Morena and the rest of them.”

“You made two dozen bagels?”

“Two baker’s dozens. We keep the extra one for us tomorrow.”

“I was thinking you should open a musical bakery, but you should open a musical diner. You’d rock it.”

Late in the morning, they carted boxes of baked goods through the woods and over to Talamh.

“This is never going to get old,” Marco decided when they stepped from sunlight into a thin, misting rain.

As they approached the road, Breen shifted her boxes and paused. She watched Cróga dive out of the clouds. Shimmering with wet, dragon and rider soared down to land in the center of the road.

The ground trembled, then stilled. “Jesus, oh Jesus. It’s big. It’s really big. I think I forgot something back at the cottage.”

“Just breathe, Marco.”

“What’s all this then?” Keegan slid down, running a hand over Cróga’s glistening scales.

“The baked goods for bartering.”

Keegan scanned the boxes as he walked to them. “And are you after trading for all the stones in Talamh?”

“I wasn’t sure how much I’d need. And this little one’s for Nan and Sedric. Marco’s got separate ones for the farm and for Morena’s family.”

“Well now, let’s have a look.” He flipped open one of the boxes himself. “What are these little pastries here?”

“I made mini cream puffs.” Marco kept his gaze focused like a laser on Cróga. “Is he just going to stand there looking over here?”

“He won’t do you any harm, brother.” Keegan took out a tiny cream puff, popped it into his mouth. “Sure and I swear, that’s fit for the gods. And you’ve little tarts as well.”

“If you’re going to sample everything, maybe we can get out of the rain.”

Keegan barely spared Breen a glance as he took out a tart. “’Tisn’t for me. Take this, Marco. Cróga’s got a taste for sweets. Toss that over to him.”

“Oh, you know, you go ahead.”

“Ah, sure you’ve more spine than that. Just toss it out.”

Trapped, Marco winged the tart. Cróga just whipped his head, caught it. Then made a sound a pride of lions might after a fine meal of antelope.

“Does that mean he liked it?”

“He did indeed. And it appears he’ll make the trip to the mines after all.”

“We’ll go there on him?”

“We’ll ride, but all this he’ll take, as we’d need a packhorse otherwise, and that’s too slow for the trip.” Standing in the wet, Keegan scanned the sky. “The weather should clear by midday, but it’s best if we leave a bit earlier yet. I’ll come round to Marg’s when it’s time.”

He snagged two cookies, and as he walked back to his dragon, broke one in two. Tossed half to Bollocks, the other half to Cróga. Ate the other as he swung back into the saddle.

“Sure the gods would weep, Marco.”

The dragon glided straight up with his wings sending the air into a whirl. Then they were gone, swallowed by the clouds.

“I fed a dragon a fruit tart.”

“Yay. Let’s get all this to the farm. I’ll take Nan’s after we drop them off. I might not see you until it’s time to go back.”

“I’ll be okay. I know the way to Finola’s if Morena’s not here at the farm. Plus, I fed a fruit tart to a big-ass dragon.”

She carried the box to Marg’s and spent the rest of the morning learning and practicing a barrier spell.

When the rain cleared as Keegan predicted, Marg led her outside and into the woods.

“Now, tell me what’s here.”

“Here?” Breen looked around. “Trees, the stream, your workshop.”

“You are one with the air, with the earth. You are always connected to the light, to the water. All is connected, all that lives. Open yourself to hearts that beat, to what reaches for the light, what spreads through the earth.

“Hear the beat of my heart.”

Understanding the first step was to quiet her mind, Breen closed her eyes, deepened and slowed her breathing. Opening herself to Marg had become as simple as that breathing.

“I hear you, Nan, your strong heart. I feel your light. And Bollocks. The thrill of chasing a squirrel—no, no, a chipmunk. Its heart beats so fast as it races up a tree. A chestnut tree. Old, the tree, it’s old, and its bark is deeply furrowed, but its heart is still strong. Its leaves have gone gold for the fall and have begun to drop as the wind stirs them. Year after year, decade by decade, birds sing and shelter and nest in those leaves, green in the spring.

“But the chipmunk’s young, and he scolds Bollocks from the safety of the branch. He doesn’t understand Bollocks wouldn’t hurt him. He only wants to play.”

Stunned, as she’d seen it all so clearly, knew it all so surely, she opened her eyes. “Nan—”

“What else is here?”