Page 17 of Wateredge

The Tavern is serving a brand-new menu, and Crow’s Cupcake, the latest yummy endeavor of pastry chef extraordinaire and island’s own Deryn Crowhart, has opened by the pier, much sooner than planned—to the delight of tourists and locals alike. It’s hot out of the oven, if you would. Yes, yes, we’re on a roll and will stop with the baking puns any minute now. Maybe.

The Refuge is preparing to host a fundraiser to increase their funding stream and ensure the recently opened institution’s continued operations and expansion.

Additionally, the hiring of local and mainland crews continues at a steady pace as the new regulations and incentives installed by Mayor Allende go into effect.

See? Voting matters. Now go enjoy those blueberry muffins and all that amazing bread—because all you knead is a sourdough—and watch double the number of ferries dock on the island.

PS: We lied about stopping with the baking puns. Sorry, that’s just the way the cookie crumbles.

—Crow’s Caw

Standing in the middle of the bustling kitchen at the Tavern, Lark found herself counting backward from ten, hands shaking. When she reached zero and her hands hadn’t steadied, she began counting again, mouthing the numbers.

“The counting thing, that’s an old wives’ tale, songbird. I’d know, as I am one. Technically, a widow, but you know what I mean.”

Victoria breezed by, her own hands full of what looked like fresh fish wrapped in brown paper.

“You still haven’t told me what I’m doing here. I should go back to the dishes.” Lark stepped up and helped unwrap the fish.

Victoria let her handle it under her sharp gaze and then pointed toward the massive chalkboard in the middle of the wall before them.

“The dishes won’t go anywhere. And we have cod on the menu today. I thought you’d help me with it.”

Lark gave her a sideways glance. The fish was beautiful.

“I don’t think⁠—”

“You shouldn’t, songbird. Thinking is tiresome. Scale, rinse, gut, fillet, trim. No thinking involved.”

A large fillet knife with the thinnest blade Lark had ever seen appeared before her, Victoria holding it carefully.

“I know you’ve done it before. Sure, maybe not in a Michelin-star kitchen, but we will not be serving it to Michelin Guide inspectors. I would like to see your work. You’ve been doing a good job with the dishes, but then, they’re just dishes. And if you let me, I’d like to figure out how and where you’d really fit in. Maybe not here. Maybe at Deryn’s. Or Seren’s. Or at the resort. But it’s time to challenge yourself.”

“Challenge myself?” Lark cocked her head. Victoria huffed out a breath, impatience personified.

“If you want to be a dishwasher, that’s fine by me. Be a dishwasher. You’ve been applying all over the island for that job, and you’ve shown me you’re excellent at it in the time you’ve been here. But is that really all you are? Is that really the woman who guessed sauce ingredients by taste alone?”

Lark’s mouth suddenly went dry.

“It’s safe.”

“Dishwashing? Sure is. Anything that doesn’t push you is safe. Maybe it’s time?”

Victoria crossed her arms over her chest. Lark gave her a sideways glance. Seconds ticked by as they stand at each other in expectant silence. Lark was the first to break.

“I have a feeling you’ll shove me even if I don’t agree that it is indeed time.”

Victoria laughed but did not contradict her, and Lark looked at the blade set down between them.

“Okay. Challenging myself. While not thinking.” Lark grabbed the knife and got to work.

Some time later, Lark straightened her back and observed the carefully portioned pieces of fish in front of her. As if summoned by her thoughts, Victoria appeared at her side. She hummed a couple of times, lifted a few pieces. Her eyes narrowed.

“What have you done here, songbird?”

Lark’s hands went numb.

“I haven’t… I didn’t…”