Who knew rest actually helped me? I should've done this sooner at my old job... was Marron's first thought as she woke up inside her room at the inn. Her hands almost felt normal again.
Instead of a constant ache, the pain faded to a dull stiffness. She carefully flexed her fingers as she sat on the cart's little folding stool.
Mokko looked at her like she was a frail cub and he was a mama bear.
"Just make sure you don't push yourself," he said as he slid a jar of honey onto the counter. "Our trades from yesterday will last a day or two, at least."
Marron opened her mouth to protest, but felt his sincerity and the weight of his words. "Alright. I'll… take it easy. Today. My hands aren't 100% healed anyway."
"Yay!"
Lucy already launched herself between the food cart's shelves and containers. She absorbed loose beans and plopped them back into jars, cleaned in between the spice jars, and stacked bowls into gleaming towers.
She had a knack for knowing where things belonged, and she'd make a soft bloop of approval each time she put something in order.
I guess that's what a kitchen slime does best.
"I swear she's reorganizing the cart better than I do," Marron said.
Mokko grunted. "Better than I do, too."
"Helping!" Lucy chirped, and they both agreed, petting her soft, gelatinous head.
"Still can't believe you just clean anything you touch." Mokko said. "I don't know how we ever survived before you came along."
+
Lyra arrived mid-morning, her hair dusted with dirt and a sprig of green poking from one ear.
"The seeds are in the ground," she reported, stretching her arms. "But it'll be years before they bear fruit."
Marron sighed. "So no endless apple supply just yet."
"Not yet," Lyra said with a sly grin. "But you still have those fermented ruby apples. You could turn them into something else. Something bigger than dumplings. Pie, maybe."
As the words left her lips, Marron already imagined it:
a gorgeous lattice that showed off the apple pie filling like a window.
The beautifully golden and flaky crust that snapped in the most satisfying way, and the cross-section that revealed the fermented apple filling.
She could even imagine the steam of a hot pie curling and the deep inhale of cinnamon.
"Say no more."
The prep took the rest of the morning.
Lucy perched on the counter, watching with unblinking enthusiasm as Marron rolled out the crust, dotted it with chilled butter, and folded it into thin, flaky layers.
+
"Hmm...I think the fermented and the baking apples will be perfect."
Fermented apples were a completely different beast from fresh fruit. It had a crisper texture and a richer taste with the tangy fermentation that tickled the tongue. The baking apples were firm and a little more tart, so she had a feeling they wouldn't turn into mush when she cooked them down.
She added both kinds into a saucepan and tossed them with the cinnamon bark, brown sugar, salt, and a dash of the wildflower honey Mokko had traded for. The filling began to bubble and thicken in the pan, coating the apples in a beautiful amber glaze. Each time Marron stirred, Lucy made a delighted bloop sound.
"Timing is everything," Marron murmured, pulling the pan from the heat just before the sugar could burn. She spooned the filling into the crust, folded the top over, and crimped the edges. Then she added a lattice top and brushed the whole thing with a honey and water mixture.
The communal oven was already hot, so she slid it in and stood back, hands on her hips.
By the time the pie emerged, its crust was a burnished gold and the filling's juices had thickened into ruby-colored ribbons that bubbled with delicious promise beneath the golden lattice. Marron finished the pie with a sprinkling of sugar, for the extra crackle.
The first buyers were children—wide-eyed, noses twitching—who traded small carved toys and marbles for slices. Then came a pair of wolfkin hunters, skeptical but drawn in by the scent.
They took a bite, and Marron's heart soared when she heard the crunching noise from the sugar. When they finally did, they all said "More, please."
That was all the other beastkin needed to approach her, curious or interested in a slice.
I'm so glad they liked it. It was the greatest feeling in the world for her.
And then, the atmosphere shifted.
Three snakekin approached her cart, the beastkin making way for them even if their teeth were bared. One of the snakekin opened her mouth in turn, and Marron saw long white fangs. That made some more aggressive beastkin retreat, not wanting to risk their poisonous bite.
"Apple-chef," one of them hissed in greeting. They lowered their hoods and she saw them: all smooth heads, each one a rippling muscle covered in glossy scales. All three of them had baskets of goods to trade: lemongrass bundles, labelled spice mixes, and even a sack of pale blue grain Marron had never seen before.
Their eyes lingered on the pie once, before the female snakekin offered her sack of grain for three slices.
Across the square, a few wolfkin watched the trade with narrowed eyes. But others began to mingle, curiosity outweighing habit. It wasn't a sudden unity—but there were fewer sidelong glances, more shared space.
By sunset, Marron's counter was bare. Her apron was dusted with flour, her hair was loose from its ponytail, and her basket of trades overflowed with ingredients she'd never seen in Whisperwind.
She sat on the cart's step, cradling the sack of blue grain in her lap. "I think," she said to Mokko, "we could make something seasonal. And maybe… both sides will come for it."
"That's ambitious," Mokko said, but his voice held no doubt.
High above the market, on the shaded balcony of Whisperwind Hall, Lord Jackal watched the mingling crowd.
"She's been busy," he said quietly.
Kael, standing beside him, followed his father's gaze. "Busier than most humans would dare to be here. She's not just trading—she's changing the flow of it."
"And what do you think of that?" Lord Jackal asked.
Kael's tail flicked once, slow. "If she keeps going, the town will change around her. Could be good. Could be dangerous."
Lord Jackal's eyes narrowed, not in displeasure, but in calculation. "We'll watch. And see which it becomes."