Work Text:
Rua awoke gently, with her dear companion Ophelia nestled in her arms. The sky was still dark; it was the church bells ringing Matins which had woken her.
“Mrftgl?” Ophelia mumbled.
“I am going to start the dough.” Rua pressed a kiss to Ophelia’s brow and slipped out of bed. It was a moment’s work to dress, then she padded down the stairs and donned her apron.
It was a peaceful life she had built for herself. In times past, Rua had believed that a crown would end all her struggles. She had schemed to win one for her husband. Yet high station had only piled sorrow upon sorrow; her husband grew cruel and fearful, no longer the man she married. In time she could bear it no longer; thus, Lady Macbeth died, and Rua the baker lived. When the little café was full of the living, there was no room for ghosts; with flour and cardamom dusting her hands, it was easier to remember that they were not stained with blood. Rua paused in her kneading to scrutinize the crimson splatter on the kitchen wall.
When Ophelia came downstairs, Rua asked, “Do I need to clean the wall?”
“It’s as clean as it ever was,” Ophelia said gently. “Has the milkman been by yet?”
“Not yet.” Rua paused in her work to embrace her partner, who was warm and caring and blessedly real. Ophelia giggled.
“You’re getting flour on my shawl, dreadful woman. Come, I’ll boil us an egg.”
Rua had travelled to Denmark first, and encountered Ophelia there, afflicted in her own way by the machinations of royalty. They had conversed, found common ground, and then Rua had helped Ophelia feign her death in turn. They had come away to this city of Helsinki, where no one knew them, with its peculiar but elegant tongue, and many delicious pastries. Their jewels had gone to purchase this modest establishment, and Rua felt herself wealthy beyond measure.
Their breakfast was boiled eggs, tea and leftover pastries from the day before. Afterwards, Ophelia started the coffee brewing while Rua lined up baked sweets on the shelves. The milkman arrived with cream, butter and eggs, as well as a piece of cheese for their luncheon. When she returned from storing the supplies in the larder, Ophelia was standing at the counter with a quill in her fingers, staring into nothing.
“Ophelia?”
She blinked. “Oh dear, did I go away again?”
“Only briefly,” Rua assured her. Having customers in the shop would help. They had a steady stream throughout the day: housewives on their way to market, scholars who insisted that coffee sharpened their minds, a clutch of widows who spent afternoons gossiping by the tile stove.
While Ophelia poured drinks and spoke to the patrons, Rua wrote out an order for the spice merchant. They needed more cardamom. Cinnamon and ginger. Perhaps a vanilla bean? Infused in spirits, one bean would last them a long time.
A distressed sound drew her attention to the counter once more. One of the scholarly types was leaning on it; Ophelia drew back from him, trembling. Rua seized her rolling pin and drew herself up like the queen she once was. “Sir, what, pray tell, are you doing?”
He attempted a friendly smile. “I was just telling the young miss that she needs a good man in her life.”
Rua sniffed. “If you should meet such a man, you may give him our greetings. Did you plan to make a purchase?”
The cad retreated in disarray, and Rua ran her hand over Ophelia’s hair. “Would you like a cup of tea? I can mind the till for a short while.”
“That would be lovely.” Ophelia made herself a cup, and the widows waved her over to their table. They started chatting about a minor scandal concerning a neighbor’s sunflowers, and pointedly did not mention men at all.
One of the widows tottered up to Rua. “What would you say to getting a cat? Calming to have about, they are.”
“We’d need a way to keep it out of the cream.” The image of Ophelia doting on a kitten did appeal, though. “I shall think on it.”