“Whatever for, man?”
“Well,” he said, “you haven’t been by.”
The big man had better bide his time; it wouldn’t do to just blurt things out.
“Oh, been languishing — miserable. This town is so sordid! Had to move: to Red House, near Hog’s Hole and hard by the route taken by Chaucer’s Canterbury pilgrims. Extremely medieval. Ruins of an Augustinian priory just down the road. But the work involved in fitting it up, Gilles, the work …”—he had never called the baker by first name before—“ ’twas exhausting. I’ve been but a dead man knocking at a gate.”
“Then come make yourself useful!”
Will’m followed him in.
Was it a dream — was it just a dream that he had dropped her there in the first place? Then he had a joyful thought: what if the skid-row grapevine had been wrong? Or, better yet, that George Fitzsimmons’s gathering of intelligence had originated in the smoke of his devil-pipe! His mood lightened considerably, and while he wouldn’t dare say it, his heart overflowed in anticipation of espying her there in the back room — of a sudden, he could see the flour-powdered shock of curls and himself kissing her chewed-up nails. He smiled, allowing the luxury (for it had been a terrible week) of conjuring her in a little apron, vaulting into his arms. He thought he’d been very clever to have steered her there for shelter from the elements, knowing she would find comfort at the source of her favorite confectionary treats; partaking of them would make her think of him and have faith that all would turn out well.
These ruminations happened in the wink of an eye, and though in a greater context a relatively short amount of time had passed since he’d dropped off his ward, it was a continual wonder how elastic that dimension could be. Yes, he had heard of her capture and lived with those squalid images for some days now; yet another part of him imagined the orphan already sprung full-blown into rosy-cheeked maiden and baker’s apprentice, a busy schoolgirl with eager contingent of boyish suitors — a vital and beloved member of the community, indispensable to her proud, adopted family: Frenchie’s Bakery and Fine Pastries.
As they entered the rear, his heart sank. Instead of the girl there was a woman, whom Gilles effusively introduced as his wife. Toweling one hand with the other in preparation to greet him, Lani’s eyes grew large. She shook his hand, happy to finally meet one of her husband’s stories — his best and biggest one — made flesh. By hirsute, tweedy bulk and sheer stylish volume, Will’m could not disappoint; for those of any sensitivities, he downright astonished. She cleared her throat and nervously smoothed her clothes, as if a celebrity had just stepped in. The baker positively cooed, knowing Will’m to exceed any and all expectations.
“So this is the secret weapon!” she said. “I’ll have to admit my husband used me as a guinea pig for some of your early creations.” She was referring to the pomegranate-and-almond mille-feuilles. “He wouldn’t tell me they had been baked by someone else — not at first. And he’s been trying to duplicate them ever since! But I’ll have you know he’s been an abject failure.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” said Will’m graciously, and Gilles was gladdened he’d rallied to his defense.
“My husband tells me you also design fabric.”
“Suchwise I have been known to indulge.” The words came forth, but he felt emptied out and wickedly desolate.
“Quite the Renaissance man! I’d love to see one of your patterns,” she said diffidently. “When you have the time.”
Gilles offered coffee and sweets — a few customers came and went — Will’m mopped and moped — all the while pondering how to wangle things around to the girl.
“Tell me, Gilles, do you and the wife have children?”
“No.”
“Well then, niece or nephew?”
“We have two nieces,” offered Mrs. Mott.
“One this high?” he asked, holding an enormous hand around the height of Amaryllis’s crown.
“No — why do you ask?”
“It’s just that I was passing by some days ago and about to come in. And I thought I saw a child — I was afraid I’d give her a fright, so I stayed away. I am loud and unkempt, you know. So I kept a distance. And I was just wondering … well if she belonged to you.”
“Oh no! Heavens!” he said, looking at his wife with the realization.
“Gilles, he’s talking about the girl.”
“The girl! Yes. She appeared out of nowhere.”
“Then there was a girl,” said Will’m anxiously.
At ease now and happy to have a story of her own, Lani recapped their experience — how she had received a call from her husband alerting her to the emergency; how, in her duty as a trained court-appointed special advocate and occasional volunteer at children’s court, she had phoned the child-abuse hotline (legally required, she added); how the police had come to the bakery, then taken the girl to the precinct; how Lani held her ground so that she was allowed to stay while the child was interviewed by the social worker, who was “rather green” (just then Gilles reached over and proudly patted her hand); how Lani then accompanied both girl and CSW to yet another building until “suitable placement” was procured—
“But,” stammered Will’m, “but where is she now?”
“Now? Well … we — we don’t know,” said the baker, turning toward his wife. After all, she was the professional.
“With a family, I suppose,” said Lani. “Hopefully, a nice one.” This last, she smugly directed to Gilles.
“But — but why did you call the police?”
“She already said. She had to.”
“I am required — by law,” answered Lani defensively. “As a court-appointed special advo—”
“—but why didn’t you take her in yourself—”
“You can’t just ‘take in’ a child, Will’m,” said Gilles, shoring up Lani with a cocked eye. “They put you in jail for that sort of thing.”
“That’s a very long process. And besides, Gilles and I — we’re not set up for that.” Meaning (not that it was anyone’s business) that adopting a child wasn’t an option. Lani set about her chores again in contrived fashion, wishing she were someplace else.
“The girl will be all right,” said Gilles, vacantly. He ascribed their visitor’s overweening interest in the castaway’s cause to sheer eccentricity; all the man needed was to be reassured. “She’ll be fine. We did the right thing, Will’m — by the book!”
“She will not—she will not be all right. And by whose book, sir!”
Lani stopped and beheld him. She was quaking.
“You say they’d put you in gaol — when it’s her they put in there! They chased her down and shackled her up like an animal! The girl was meant to be here, that’s what I told her — that you were my friends and would let no harm befall her! Now I see I’ve done the worst thing — sold my girl to the murderous police! The police, who give twopence for hill or valley or heart or soul! ‘You’ll do right well with him’—him meaning you—I told her. I swore to her as the poor thing looked straight in my eye. She’d have jumped through a hoop from a building if I’d told her — and now it looks as if she has, into deep space! See what’s done? My girl’s alone out there! And me a dead man, knocking at a gate!”