Desire enjoyed the mornings. After her morning work was done, she enjoyed going to her favourite spot beside the tower to gaze out over the water at the mountains and enjoy the breeze.
As she was wandering back through town to the bakery, she stumbled upon an empty cottage. The garden was overgrown with daisies. They reminded her of those at the orphanage where she grew up. She used to pick them and place them in her hair, dancing about, pretending she was a lady of the court. The nuns used t scold her for her dreams, telling her to accept her fate and their ways. All they same, they could not stop her from dreaming her dreams. She bent to pick a daisy and then tucked it behind her ear.
She cupped her hands about her eyes to peer into the window of the cottage. It was furnished, but the dust was thick and she could tell that no-one had llived there for a very long time. She tried the door and it opened. She stepped in and explored. She paused at the window in back. The view was breathtaking. She gazed out over the waters, losing herself in thoughts of the past.
She wondered how her life might have been different if she had not run away from the convent, if she had taken her vows. She could not bring herself to do it. She did not feel “the call” that she felt she should if she were to become a nun.
Then she had fallen in love with that scoundrel. She became his mistress. She should have known that he would never leave court for her. When she told him she was pregnant, he had beat her savagely and left her for dead. She survived, but the child did not.
She sighed and turned, scolding herself for giving into daydreams once again. She headed back to the bakery.
As she worked the dough for the sticky buns, she thought about the strange woman she had met the night before, Salome. She said that she was Barnard’s wife, and when she said his name there was a hint of malice in her voice. “A wife?” Desire thought. Salome had talked with Gus in a low voice, and all that Desire had picked up from that was the word “daughter.”
When Barnard had talked to her about his past, he had left out any mention of a wife and daughter. “Men,” she thought. “They leave out the most important details.”
She kneaded the dough roughly, moreso than was required.