The bakery that Alice took him to was only a couple of minutes’ walk away from her neighborhood, and they could smell the bread well before they spotted it.

  During the relatively short walk, Alice was quiet, trying to get up the nerve to say something. Which she managed to do just before they reached the bakery. “Be nice to grandpa Brock, please, boss? He’s a good man and has done a lot for my family, really, everyone on that street.” She said to him firmly, her hands clenched tight, as she tried to hide the slight tremble in them.

  Most of the time, Alice did great at hiding her insecurities; this close to her home, or perhaps this subject was more personal in nature, it was taking her significantly more effort to hide them.

  He grinned and patted her on the head, freezing on the second pat. “Err, sorry, not sure why I did that,” Draden scratched at his cheek awkwardly. “I must be doing that to Leah too much lately.” He sniffed. “Anyway, I don’t mean the man any harm, and I was serious in my offer to him. Whether he accepts it is another matter. Speaking of, how is your father doing?”

  With that question hanging in the air, they entered the bakery.

  The warm, yeasty scent of baking bread that had spread through the street outside enveloped them the moment they stepped inside. It was a comforting blanket pushing back against the city's more offensive smells. The air was thick with the aroma of toasted grains, a hint of sugar, and something deeply wholesome that spoke of hearth and home. A fine layer of flour dusted every surface, softening the edges of the worn wooden counter and the sacks of grain stacked against the far wall. Behind the counter, a large brick-faced oven radiated a gentle, pervasive heat.

  Alice’s cheeks colored slightly as she took in Draden’s observant gaze. "My father… he’s already doing better than he has in a long time," She answered his earlier question, her voice softer now that they were inside. "The latest strain to his back is completely gone, at least according to him. At the moment, he is still taking things slow before he starts working with Brock again. It’ll take longer before his back is fully healed, but he has already made great progress.” Small tears slid from the corners of her eyes as she spoke. “I’ve been meaning to thank you, but I could never find the words.”

  “I’m just glad I was able to help,” He muttered, wishing they had finished their discussion before entering the bakery. “Wait, you said he works with Brock?” She nodded. “From what I remember, you said he was injured years ago by a careless cultivator. Was he also working for Brock then, or has he only started working for the dwarf since he moved into the neighborhood?”

  “Oh, no, he was working for someone else back then. My father only started working with Brock about five years ago.”

  Draden nodded, glad that wasn’t yet another thing Tavian was involved in. It was still a possibility, he supposed, but the odds were much more remote.

  "Is that you, Alice?" A voice, raspy with age and flour, called from the back room. A moment later, an elderly man emerged, wiping his hands on a stained apron tied around his ample middle. He was shorter than Draden, with a fringe of white hair around a bald, freckled scalp and forearms as thick as corded wood. His eyes, however, were bright and sharp, crinkling at the corners as he smiled at Alice.

  "Morning, Mr. Elmsworth," Alice said, her posture straightening. "This is my boss, Draden. He owns the restaurant I told you about. The one I’m working at outside the city."

  Elmsworth’s gaze shifted to Draden, taking in his sword, his cane, and his unassuming clothes. It was a practiced, assessing look that missed nothing. "A pleasure. Not often we get a restaurant owner in here. Usually, they send their kitchen boys. What can I do for you? Looking to place an order for our morning loaves?"

  Draden offered a small, respectful smile. "Actually, I was hoping for something a bit more valuable than your bread. I was hoping for some of your knowledge."

  The baker’s eyebrows rose, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. "Knowledge isn't free, son. And my recipes are my livelihood."

  "Of course," Draden said quickly, sensing he was on the verge of being shut down. "And I have no intention of stealing your business or your recipes. We already plan to order our daily bread from you. But I have a specific problem. It's a type of… flake biscuit. I’m from… very far away," He chose his words carefully, "And while I know the ingredients, I’m having problems with the specific amounts and really everything else. Baking has never been my specialty. Alice mentioned you make the best bread in the city. I was hoping I could observe, perhaps ask a question or two that can fill in the gaps in my knowledge. I'm willing to pay for your time, of course."

  Elmsworth stroked his chin, his gaze flickering between Draden’s earnest face and Alice’s hopeful one. He trusted Alice. The girl was a hard worker and had a good head on her shoulders. She had been his customer for years and watched her grow. He knew her. This man though, her boss, he didn’t know him, but he had at least told him everything upfront and seemed forthright.

  "Flaky biscuits, eh?" The old baker grunted. "Tricky little devils. Normal biscuits can be fairly simple to make, but flaky ones… that’s another matter entirely. Some recipes can take a lifetime to master. The humidity, the grind of the flour, the temperature of your hands… it can all make a difference. Hopefully, your recipe isn’t that finicky." He let out a long sigh. "Fine. But you don't just watch. You work. You'll get your hands dirty, and I’ll answer your questions as we bake."

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  A wave of genuine relief washed over Draden. "Thank you. I’d appreciate that more than you know." It was a very good thing that he didn’t need to do any preparations at the restaurant for the next few hours. He turned to Alice. “Are you staying?”

  She nodded. “This was my idea. I should see it through till the end.”

  The old man humphed, attempting to hide his smile at her words. It was another point in Draden’s favor.

  "Don't thank me yet," Elmsworth grumbled, turning to lead them past the counter and into the spacious, oven-warmed kitchen. "You might regret it when I have you scrubbing the proofing boxes. Now, apron's on the hook. Wash your hands. The first batch of the day is for the miners' guild. They like 'em hearty."

  For the next hour, Draden became the baker’s apprentice. He did exactly as he was told, measuring flour from a massive bin, fetching ingredients, and observing every move Elmsworth made with an intensity that surprised the old man. Draden was able to quickly note down the measurements the man used for his bread recipes. He would need to change the amounts since he wasn’t baking enough bread to feed a battalion of miners.

  However, that was only the least of what he learned from the old-timer. Some of the ingredients Elmsworth used were fundamentally different than what Draden used, and the resulting conversation led to a revelation of sorts.

  Where Draden would have used butter in his own bread recipe, Elmsworth didn’t. Instead, he reached into a large stone crock and pulled out a scoop of pearly white, solid fat.

  "What is that?" Draden asked, unable to keep the curiosity from his voice.

  "Stone lard," Elmsworth said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Rendered fat from a grizzleboar. Best thing for nice, fluffy bread. Butter’s for spreading on toast, boy. It’s got too much water in it. Makes the dough tough when you work it. Stone lard melts at a higher temperature, see? Gives you these little pockets of air when the steam hits it in the oven. Makes it nice and fluffy… or in your case, could help make your biscuits flaky."

  He demonstrated, rubbing the lard into the flour with his fingertips until the mixture resembled coarse crumbs. It was a simple, yet profound, revelation.

  "And you don't use buttermilk?" Draden asked, watching Elmsworth add fresh, creamy milk from a jug.

  The baker snorted. "Waste of good milk. A splash of sourberry vinegar in the jug five minutes before you use it does the same trick. Cheaper, too."

  He was creating his own buttermilk, not that normal bread required it.

  It was a cascade of small, crucial details. Local solutions to culinary problems he hadn’t even thought of. Draden absorbed it all, the muscle memory of his own baking experiences recalibrating with each new piece of information. He helped Elmsworth roll out the dough, then split it into pieces and form them into logs for the proofing pans. They needed to proof for an hour, and then they could be put in the massive brick oven.

  Ever since they had arrived, the large oven had been maintaining a set temperature as Elmsworth rotated pans inside it and occasionally replaced them. The entire store was filled with the intoxicating aroma of baking bread.

  That had been the last batch of bread that needed to be made, and while Draden took care of cleaning everything, Alice and Elmsworth spoke in low tones in the front. She had handled the few customers that had come in while they were busy in the back. Normally, the old man’s wife did that job, but she was busy helping their granddaughter give birth at the moment.

  Their conversation was easy and familiar, touching on neighborhood gossip and the health of Alice’s father. Draden realized Elmsworth was more than just a neighbor; he was someone who had been a constant fixture in her life.

  His mind went back to the matter of the butter. At first, it seemed like a small matter, and that may have indeed been the case. However, it had reminded him of something he had once learned. He typically used American salted butter; however, this was where it got interesting. Apparently, there was a difference between American and European-style butter. American butter had a lower fat and a higher moisture content than the European version.

  There were similar differences in just salted versus unsalted butters. It was something to consider, as moisture could lead to a denser texture in baked goods.

  He didn’t have his normal notebook with him, but he did have a smaller one that he used to make a few quick notes. This wasn’t something he wanted to forget, and the information was written down right next to the measurements for the old man’s bread recipe.

  It wasn’t necessarily information that he intended to make a ton of use out of, since he wasn’t really a baker. But it was still useful to know.

  When the next batch of bread came out, golden brown and risen to perfection, Elmsworth broke one open, letting some steam billow out and revealing a fluffy interior with open pockets from the air just as the man had promised. They weren’t large enough to make you feel like you had been ripped off; instead, they added a nice bit of texture to it.

  He handed the piece to Draden. "There, that’s the kind of bread I make. I hope it helped you with your problem."

  Draden took a bite. It was better than the bread he’d brought from the deli’s back on Earth. He had never had truly great artisanal bread or been to San Francisco or Paris, where some of the best breads were. That said, if he had made this, he wouldn’t be ashamed in the slightest. It was light, fluffy, with a rich, savory flavor that melted in his mouth.

  "This is… incredible," Draden said, his voice filled with genuine gratitude. "Thank you, Mr. Elmsworth. Truly." He reached into a pouch at his belt. "For your time and the lesson." He placed several gold coins on the flour-dusted workbench, a sum that made Elmsworth’s eyes widen. It was far more than a simple baking lesson was worth.

  "That's… that's too much, son," The baker stammered.

  "No, it's not," Draden insisted. "Knowledge is never cheap. Besides, consider it a deposit on our future orders. And for looking out for Alice and her family."

  Alice flushed, looking down at her feet. Elmsworth stared at the coins, then at Draden, and a slow smile spread across his face. He finally understood. This wasn't just about biscuits. This was about respect and taking care of his own. This was about community.

  "Alright, son," He said, scooping the coins into his pocket. "Alright. You're a good man, Draden. You take care of this one." He nodded toward Alice. "She's a good girl."

  Draden nodded. “I take care of everyone who works for me.” He replied, his tone serious.

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