2023-01-17 15:36:15 +00:00
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---
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2023-02-13 20:41:30 +00:00
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title: Appendix G
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2023-01-17 15:36:15 +00:00
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created: Tue, 17 Jan 2023 08:09:58 -0700
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updated: Tue, 17 Jan 2023 08:09:58 -0700
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public: yes
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---
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2023-02-13 20:41:30 +00:00
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## Appendix G: Teale
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2023-01-17 15:36:15 +00:00
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This story by mio, while technically part of the *Barefoot Quackery*
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compendium, stands on its own enough to earn its own entry in the
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appendix. I hope you enjoy it as much as we did.
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~
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#### I.
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It had been an accident at first.
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Inky had just returned from the market with two bags of produce and was halfway
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up the back stairs when one of the radishes tumbled from its paper bag and
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rolled down the steps to land on the ground somewhere near a first-storey
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window below. Setting down the bags on the second floor, Inky went downstairs
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to retrieve the missing radish, which they found easily amid light from the
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open window and a brass lamp next to the back door several paces away. As they
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straightened from their crouch with the vegetable in hand, a movement from the
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window caught their attention.
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Illuminated by lamps hanging from the rafters, a large turtle was rolling on
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the floor of what appeared to be the restaurant's kitchens. As the imp watched,
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the turtle turned in multiple directions over and over, gradually stretching
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out the dough while moulding different textures onto the surface through the
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various glyphs and markings on his shell. Inky was intrigued — they had never
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seen empanadas prepared this way before. It reminded them distantly of a
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retired ceremonial bull fighter turned pub owner they had met who would
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sometimes form cornucopia rolls with his horns to impress the tourists, but
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still generally preferred to use his hands or a rolling pin to roll out dough
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for other breads. Over the next several days, Inky would pause briefly to look
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through the kitchen window before ascending the stairs. Eventually they were
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able to watch the empanada-making process from start to finish, and on some
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late evenings, observing the way the chef would frown at a small sample of
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partly-eaten pastry on a plate, followed by a sigh, as though dissatisfied with
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the contents.
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One night, Inky passed through the Milk Market at a later hour than previous
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days. The lamps had by then been extinguished, but someone had left a window
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open and when Inky glanced in, the kitchen had been cleaned, a thin sheen of
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water evaporating quickly on the floors from the warm air outside, and the wood
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counter tops shone where they were worn smooth in some spots. The surfaces
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which would by day be occupied by trays of pastries were bare. In that moment,
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an awful idea took hold in Inky's head. Clambering nimbly through the window,
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Inky entered the kitchen, carefully avoiding the area where the pastries were
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rolled out. They checked the racks of pans and utensils hanging below the
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cabinets, the ovens, the iceboxes, then inspected the pantry. After giving
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themselves an impromptu tour of the kitchens, including a peek into the brewing
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room and root cellar, Inky went out the way they came in what was to become the
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first of multiple unannounced visits. The following night, Inky returned with a
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small plate of tapas — just a slight twist on simple fare that could be paired
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with the ale being sold at the shop. The plate was left on a table to be later
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discovered when the chef came in early to begin preparations for the day.
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The flavours of the tapas gradually increased in complexity, though not
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straying too far from the earthy undertones of the shop's signature ale. Inky
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didn't know if Enrique would even like the little tapas, though they supposed
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they could find out one way or another. In a way it didn't really matter; the
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snacks would serve as inspirational aids for the chef to pick out flavours
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and combinations for his own pastries. At worst, if the tapas irritated him
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immensely, he would likely be too busy trying to catch the intruder red-handed
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to be sighing over his efforts. Inky decided the giant turtle looked better
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with his annoyance directed elsewhere. Either way, if the turtle truly wanted
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to be rid of the tapas, he was going to have to "up his game", as the dillball
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kids in the neighbourhood would say.
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~~
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A small turtle wearing overalls, a smock and rain boots is sitting on the grass
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next to a muddy puddle of water, forming a wet ball in his hands. Sunlight
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spills into the forest clearing, illuminating the turtle's smock and boots
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which are covered in dirt and mud. Inky walks over and sits across from the
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turtle.
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"Hi, I'm __ , what's your name?" Inky asks.
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"Enrique," replies the turtle.
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"That's a great name. Hi Henry!" Inky greets their new friend.
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The turtle frowns. "My name is Enrique, not Henry," he says.
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"It is now. Why are you making mud pies, Henry?" asks Inky, pointing to the
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slightly lumpy pies stacked neatly a short distance from the turtle.
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"They're cool, and it's Enrique," the turtle replies, a little defensively.
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"They are," Inky agrees, "What's in them?"
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The turtle gives Inky a funny look. "They're called mud pies. Of course there's
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mud inside."
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"That's not a pie! That's a crusty …" Here child-Inky struggles to find words,
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"crust," they finish weakly.
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Enrique looks at Inky, unimpressed. "What else would there be if not mud?"
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"Loads! Fruits, lots of berries, nuts, custards and jams," Inky exclaims,
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picturing the table spread for tea-time. After some thought, they add, "There's
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also mushroom pot, but I don't know where to get that yet."
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"Mushroom pot? There's no such thing," the turtle says, sceptical.
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"There is, I've tasted it," child-Inky insists. "Want to go find mushroom pot
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together? We'll get some blackberries, redcurrants and sunflower seeds for your
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pies too."
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"Fine," the turtle replies eventually, after thinking it over. "But you're
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wrong about the sunflower seeds. Nobody puts that in their pies."
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"Then you'll be the first to do it, Henry!" Inky laughs. "Race you to the
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giant oak with the big nose!" With that, they hurtle off through the trees.
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"It's Enrique!" the turtle huffs, but trots towards the direction of the oaks.
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#### II.
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"Why don't you ask him?"
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"Because it'll ruin the surprise! He'll know in a pinch something's fishy,"
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child-Inky wails a bit in desperation. Lowering their voice, they finished
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imploringly, "I got him a pair of mittens after he said he lost one last week,
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but I want to make him something he can eat too. Like food cooked on a real
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fire. Mud cookies really aren't very tasty."
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The large matronly turtle chuckles, a deep, throaty sound. "No, I don't suppose
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they are," she concedes. Tapping a claw on her chin in thought, she blinks a
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few times then smiles. "But I know just the thing."
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~
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"Another five minutes should do it," Enrique's mother tells Inky.
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Inky peers into the cob oven at the tapas sitting on a wooden board with a long
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handle. "Thank you, Mrs. T." child-Inky says politely.
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Over the past few afternoons, Enrique's mother instructed child-Inky on making
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a basic bread tapa with three different topping combinations based on her son's
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favourite foods, while Enrique had gone with his father to visit one of the
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barley farms that supplied the brewery where Mr. T. was chief brewer. The
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results were now bubbling a little as the enticing smell of tostadas and pepper
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sauce slowly wafted out from the oven.
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The lady nods. "It'll be good for Enrique to have a friend over to celebrate.
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He takes after his father, being too serious for his young age. He's already
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learning beercraft from him when he ought to be outdoors playing with his
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fellow schoolmates."
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"Is there anything else I can help with?" Inky asks.
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"It's all right, dear, I'll manage. Why don't you wash up and wait in the
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parlour? Enrique and his father should be back from the brewery any moment
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now." She sounds put-upon at the last words.
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At Inky's curious look, Enrique's mother explains, "Our birthday boy wanted to
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try the ale." She sighs. "I'd put my foot down but he looked so disappointed
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when I objected. Well, I did make his father promise not to let him get too
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drunk. Besides," she adds with a wink, "We spent all this time baking him a
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cake and snacks, we can't have him falling asleep on us before he's had any of
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it, can we?"
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~~
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Inky was avoiding the kitchens downstairs.
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While it had been amusing at first, and Inky was fairly sure they wouldn't be
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caught (it helped that the chef's routine was awfully predictable and the staff
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were even worse, especially that surly hobgoblin who always sneaked off three
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hours early on Primedays), they didn't really want to end up in Enrique's bad
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books or banned from the shop if he found out. The blood pudding had been a
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sobering reminder of the consequences of meddling in other people's business.
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Still, they could not bring themselves to stay away from the shop entirely,
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just as they had been drawn to the weathered sign over the door and the aroma
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of bread fresh from the oven mixed with the malty undertones of robust ale
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within the first few days when Jarrod had invited other members of the party to
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his newly-acquired premises. There was something almost homely about it, which
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was strange since Inky rarely made empanadas (in the strictest sense of the
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word, though some breadpunks would argue anything edible with a filling counts)
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and did not particularly favour most alcoholic drinks (ink had a wider sensory
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range and none of the hangovers, in their opinion) and only imbibed when an
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occasion called for it. This feeling carried into the kitchens, with its wooden
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counter tops covered in scratches and stains, shelves stacked a little
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precariously with sauces and spice jars, and even the gaping maw of a big stone
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oven next to the more conventional mechanical oven. It had to be the most
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common sight of every bakery on the continent and yet, there hadn't been any
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place quite like it ever since Inky had left a small town for life in the city.
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So it was in the evenings when Enrique was most likely busy in the kitchens or
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in storeroom taking stock of supplies for the next day that Inky would visit in
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the guise of a tea seller, either to put in a larger order for whoever of their
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party was around upstairs or have supper in a shadowed corner of the
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restaurant. At the latter times, Inky would request different items from the
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previous day, partly to not draw attention from the kitchen, as well as to keep
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things more interesting for a little game they liked to play which involved
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coming up with various inks to complement the evening selection in the time it
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took to eat it. Sometimes, when mulling over new produce from the market, Inky
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would also try to rearrange the current dish in their head, replacing
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ingredients and preparations until it resembled nothing like the crispy
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delectables of the original. Inky wouldn't really do that to the empanadas with
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actual ingredients, but it was funny to picture the turtle's annoyed expression
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at the very thought anyway.
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When Inky was satisfied they had an answer for inks depending on the most
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recent harvest and season, they would sit for a while, back to the wall and
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glass of kale juice in hand to idly survey the room or half-listen to the
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breadpunk gang debate the merits of quick rise yeast over traditional starters.
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The staff (whose names and shifts Inky had long since obtained for security
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reasons and definitely not because they were a little obsessed) were probably
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used to customers of all sorts, including reticent ones, and mostly left Inky
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to their meal. Leaving a decent tip (and on one occasion, a tea-based poultice
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for a waitress who had been holding her left arm at an awkward angle the entire
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time, with pictorial instructions for its application sketched on a sheet of
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fine notepaper), Inky would depart with a small bag of treats for their
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marketing manager before the shop's proprietor emerged to check on the dining
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area and chat with his regular customers.
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Said marketing manager also became Inky's quality assurance tester, and was
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rewarded with an extra sample of each tapa recipe that met the duck's
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discerning taste. Only recipes that had the duck's stomp of approval were
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delivered by hare mail to the Emporium. It didn't see a need for the recipes to
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be put through the post — the shop was right below their feet! — but Inky had
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gone to the post office each time and even spoke in rabbiton to one of the
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delivery workers there.
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Gradually, however, the duck noticed something strange — the more Inky had
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dinner at the shop downstairs, the fewer and farther in between the recipes
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came, until they eventually stopped appearing altogether. Initially it had
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tried to remind Inky by stomping its foot and nudging their hand with its beak,
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but Inky had only smiled wanly and said they didn't have any good ideas right
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now. The duck began to suspect this was patently false when, while following
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Inky around on a trip to the market one afternoon, Inky had opened to a page in
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their notebook to jot down a few words. Hopping up onto a wooden crate to get a
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better view, the duck saw the notebook was almost completely filled with
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ingredient lists, preparation steps and extensive notes.
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It looked up to admonish Inky, and saw the rabbit imp was staring wistfully at
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a barrel of pimientos. When the duck looked back again, the expression had
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vanished, as did its owner, who had already crossed to the other side of the
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road and was walking at a brisk pace towards a juice stand. The duck gave an
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indignant quack and hastily waddled after them. How is a marketing manager to
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keep up when the recipe developer is twelve steps ahead of the process?
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#### III.
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"How did you do on the writing homework?" the turtle asks the imp.
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They are sitting at their favourite spot in the forest clearing — or rather,
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Enrique is leaning back against a tree with his knees partially drawn up, while
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Inky is sprawled on their back on the grass gazing at the clouds overhead,
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the schoolbooks next to Inky's head momentarily forgotten.
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"I don't know. I only know you wrote that you plan to be an ale brewer." Inky
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replies airily.
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Enrique looks down at the imp. "How did you know?"
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"It's written on your face, Henry. Literally. There's still hops pulp on your
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forehead. I'm sure you'll get a good grade though, most of the teachers like
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boring bottle answers like that."
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The turtle glowers at the imp's chuckle and swipes at his own forehead.
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"What did you write?" he retorts.
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Inky does not immediately respond.
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"Well? What *did* you write?" he asks again.
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"Invisible Ninja Kookie Yulestarter."
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The turtle blinks, slowly. "What— what's that?"
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"I don't know." replies the imp.
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"You don't know?" Enrique echoes, perplexed.
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"I just made something up. How would I know what I want to be in two-score
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years? It's not like I've met and had tea with future two-score-year me. Next
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year I'll be an Intergalean Neuestar Kickback Yorkie for sure." Child-Inky nods
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at Enrique sagely.
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"You really are something." The turtle shakes his head in exasperation, though
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a small smile appears on his face.
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"A terrible infant? That's old news, Henry." laughs the imp.
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"Telling the truth never gets old."
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Inky pouts. "Ouch. You win. But only because it was a quote from your mother."
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"Finish up your homework. I'm going back to the brewery soon to check on the
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new batch." Enrique gets up and brushes off his clothes.
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The imp gives him a pointed look. "Yes, Hen-reek."
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~~
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"Henry—" Child-Inky pleads.
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The young turtle looks extremely frustrated, almost angry. "For the umpteenth
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time, it's Enrique! See, that's your problem. You have no respect for other
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people's wishes and boundaries. Everything is a silly little game to you. Can't
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you be serious for once?"
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"Okay. Are we *seriously* going to the play—"
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"No." says the turtle firmly.
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They are standing at the dark iron gates leading into the brewery. Enrique has
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finally exited a huge building after Inky had stood for half an hour outside
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repeatedly yelling his name. But no matter how child-Inky wails and pouts,
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Enrique has still refused to accompany him to see the new garden play being
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performed in a field of scorpion grasses up the road from the forest.
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"Why not?" Child-Inky asks, head tilted to one side, not understanding.
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"Because I have things to do at the brewery. A new dryer has arrived. Father is
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going to show me how to use it and I need to get the moisture levels right."
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The aspiring brewer seems to be at the end of his patience.
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"But we haven't done anything fun together for a whole fortnight!" Child-Inky
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protests.
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The turtle wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. "I don't have time to
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trawl around the forest anymore."
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"You're saying that now, but I'll come by tomorrow and we can go see it then,"
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child-Inky says anyway.
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"No."
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"The day after tomorrow?" asks child-Inky hopefully.
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"No."
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"The tomorrow after tomorrow?"
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"No means no. This isn't the time for fun and games."
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"What if I don't come back tomorrow? Will you go see the play with me?" Inky
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asks, eyes watering and expression wobbly.
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"That's not how it works. Go home, __. I have to get back inside to check on
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the boilers." The turtle turns and walks along the path back into the building.
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"Then I'll come the day after the day before tomorrow!" Child-Inky calls after
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him.
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"You didn't say no, is that a yes? Henry!"
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~~
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Blurriness, gradually coming into focus in the form of an elderly man's face
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with thin eyebrows, kind brown eyes, round spectacles and a concerted frown on
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the unfamiliar features.
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The man spoke slowly. "I see you've finally woken up. What's your name, little
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one?"
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"I—I …" The imp winced as a sharp prickling pain in their head made itself
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known at the sudden movement, followed by confusion and alarm when they attempt
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to answer the man's question and drew a blank.
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"It's all right, easy now, nib." said the elder as he helped the imp sit up
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with some rustling of bedclothes. "How are you feeling?"
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"A bit sore but … okay? What … happened?" asked the imp.
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"We found you two days ago on the river banks right outside of town. Some of
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the fisherfolk say there was a flash flood from a big storm a few hundred
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miles up the rapids which washed collapsed buildings and other debris
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downstream." The man explained.
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"Then where … where am … ?"
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The old man smiled. "Welcome to the township of Waterlan."
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~~
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"I'm sorry, Mr. Iridis. I haven't recalled anything yet." The imp said sadly to
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the ink craftsman as they sat at the small table over dinner. It had been
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almost a week since the elderly man had taken in the imp and assured them they
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could stay as long as they wished.
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Mr. Iridis was unperturbed by the news. "Hmm, well, we should still call you by
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name in the meantime … how does Inkulos sound?"
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#### IV.
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"Uggghhh!! That group of flaming owes were such noisy slobs. Dropping chunks of
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bread everywhere on the floor, squawking at a hundred decibels a minute, then
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accidentally scorching the table. Why can't we have more customers like the
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Swanson family?" Marnie groaned, tail twitching in irritation as she rubbed her
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temples.
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"Or that tea seller," added Gil sympathetically.
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Enrique hadn't heard from old Takao in a long time. The elderly, jovial tea
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merchant who previously came with his partner and parakeet on weekends had
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retired a few years earlier to his ancestral home in Rana'For Valley. Maybe
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they had returned to visit relatives in the city.
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"Tea seller?" He turned to his head waiter, a portly frog named Gilgamesh.
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"Yeah, they've been coming almost daily for the past couple o' months now when
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they didn't disappear for a week or two in a row. Don't talk much but tip
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pretty well for a street vendor. Even left us free samples a few times. Marnie
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said the pepperwood blend did wonders for her headaches. I'm not a tea drinker,
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y'know, but she made me a cup once and it was definitely the real deal. Not the
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horse piss those shady asses over at Normington Mews try to pass off as tea."
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It wasn't Takao, but someone new in the district. Months? How had he not
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noticed before?
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"How does this tea seller look like?" he asked.
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"Short imp, dark eyes, kinda young? Wears a brimmed hat, carries around a tea
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flask and a wooden box. One of my neighbours saw them a few weeks ago at a
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market and thinks they're half-rabbit, but he says stuff like that about half
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the people he meets anyway."
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Enrique frowned. He knew all his regular patrons, young or old, and was sure he
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would remember seeing someone who fit the description.
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On further questioning his wait staff, he found out a few more things about
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them: they usually came around the same time most evenings when he was in the
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kitchens; had no particular menu preferences that Gil or Marnie could name
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(which was unusual, even the most adventurous of his customers reverted to a
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few personal favourites after some time); sat at the same corner table, the one
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he himself made use of occasionally on slow days where he could have an
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unobstructed view of the room and out into the street; and sometimes ordered
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enough for a gathering of associates, who did seem to have more distinct
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selections.
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He had seen his share of tight-lipped customers who were only there for a hot
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meal before or after a gruelling day of work and he was not one to pry.
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However, word of this new tea seller had piqued his interest. Maybe he'll buy
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them a round and have a look at their offerings. While ale would always remain
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his pride and joy, he did enjoy a good steaming cup on some of the coldest days
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of the year.
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Time for tea and a new acquaintance.
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~~
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The tea was excellent.
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It was easily the best tea he's had since Takao and Kaiya had moved away from
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the city and were unable to find a successor before they left. He ended up
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procuring more than he may have originally expected after sampling five
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different teas, including two recommended by the vendor, and found them all
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very pleasant, one even lightly invigorating. The tea seller, who went by the
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name Inky, was mild-mannered and polite as they described each blend in turn
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and answered questions about its origins. However, the imp had declined payment
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for the teas and when pressed, had mumbled some excuse and looked as though
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they wanted to leave. Eventually Enrique got them to accept some ale from the
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shop with a bit of haggling.
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Enrique had begun their conversation by introducing himself and inquiring about
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the meal earlier, whether his new regular had anything they liked in particular
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from the menu. Inky had responded positively, but seemed genuinely confused by
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the second question and only repeated "everything". After tea tasting, the
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topic had turned to the daily running of the shop and the effects of the late
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barley harvest this year on the breweries and their products. As a brewer
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himself, he was always keen to talk about his ales and beercraft in general,
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and was only a little startled when after some time, Gil appeared at their
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table to let him know the staff were done with cleaning and bid him goodnight.
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To his surprise, Enrique found himself a little reluctant to chase out his new
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frequent customer so he could close the shop for the day. He turned back to
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his guest apologetically, but the tea seller had gotten the waiter's hint and
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was already on their feet with their flask and box. The imp thanked him, gave a
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quick little bow and was out of the shop in two blinks of an eye.
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The turtle stared after the closed doors for a moment, then returned to
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clearing away the tableware. Rinsing out their glasses, he collected the bills
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left on the table, counted them, and mentally shook his head. Little wonder his
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wait staff were so amenable to the tea seller's presence — it was enough to pay
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for a nice full-course dinner for two. Normally he would bristle at a potential
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insinuation that he was not paying his staff properly, but was oddly calmed at
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the sight of the boxes still sitting innocently on the table, almost as though
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he'd just had another cup of peppermint tea. Ridiculous, he told himself, and
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turned off the lights.
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|
~~
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"Why do you keep calling me Henry?" Enrique eventually asks as they walk
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|
though the forest on the way to his house. The imp is facing him as they trot
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backwards along the path, but at his question they turn and skip ahead a few
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paces before replying.
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"Because."
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"Because … ?" The turtle prompts.
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The imp says matter-of-factly, "Either your name's Henry or it's too long.
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Would you like to be called Too Long?"
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"No, but learning to call someone by their name properly wouldn't hurt."
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Enrique says evenly.
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The imp spins around and comes to stand in front of him, hands clasped behind
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their back and leaning right into his personal space. "Yes, it would, Henry.
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|
How would you like people calling you 'Julienne' all the time?"
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"I don't see anything wrong with that. Julien is a good name," he replies
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honestly.
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The little imp wrinkles their nose. "It's irritating. They never pronounce it
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correctly. I'm not a bunch of little matchsticks." They say peevishly and take
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a short step back, arms crossed.
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"Is that why you keep changing your name every other week?" the turtle wonders.
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His friend swings their arms to and fro as they resume walking, this time on
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tiptoe. "I haven't changed it yet. It's just written differently," they reply,
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|
bottom lip jutting out slightly and looking a bit thoughtful.
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Enrique recognises the expression as one that would appear whenever the imp was
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about to say something outlandish, and is proven right the next moment when the
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imp suddenly smiles.
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"Aren't you going to ask how?" The imp hops from side to side, as though
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|
jumping across invisible holes in the dirt.
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The turtle sighs internally. "All right, how is it written this week?"
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|
"J-o-u-l-e." His friend recites proudly.
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|
"That's … different." Enrique says consideringly.
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"Obviously." The imp seems pleased with their announcement as they shift into
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|
step next to Enrique along the path.
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"Didn't you say you were only changing the way it's written?" Enrique points
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|
out, and is rewarded with a cheerful reply.
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"Nope. Changed my mind just because you asked. You're welcome."
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|
|
~~
|
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|
Over the course of several months he got to know more about his new tea
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|
supplier, partly from the imp themselves and mostly through rumours and hearsay
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|
from his other regulars, though what he'd learned only brought more questions.
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He knew Inky occasionally departed the city on some business, joining a caravan
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|
with other travellers that went up and down the countryside to restock as well
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|
as hunt for new items and products. This Inky had told him once after they had
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|
been gone for almost two weeks and returned with a particularly zesty blend
|
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|
of citrus maghrebi. The imp had been adamant that it was a gift, and although
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Enrique had protested mildly at first, he was grateful nonetheless.
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|
When the tea seller was in the city, they would peddle on the streets during
|
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|
the day around various districts including some of the poorest neighbourhoods,
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|
though from what he was hearing from other diners, they were succeeding at
|
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|
handing out more cups of tea than they were at selling them. They didn't have a
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shop or trading office that he was aware of — he had tried asking for
|
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directions or an address where he could request a new supply, but the imp
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assured him with a quirky little smile they would come around regularly to take
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orders for their special tea enthusiasts.
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The lack of an address was bewildering. Surely with tea of such quality and the
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right customers they could afford rent for a small nook at the docks, or even
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|
near the shopping districts if they were serious about their trade? Moreover,
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|
what kind of tea seller gives away their wares freely like that? The imp's
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|
attire, while clean, was worn in several spots and had clearly seen better
|
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|
days, yet they had no compunctions about any of the menu items nor problems
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|
|
settling the tab afterwards. Maybe they were some type of mercenary who dabbled
|
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|
in a side business. If a customer did not wish others to be privy to what they
|
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did out of the city, he would leave it be.
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|
Their menu selection was another puzzler. Enrique looked forward to the tea
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|
seller's arrival and had made a point of getting some of his next-day
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|
preparations out of the way a little earlier so he could talk briefly with the
|
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|
imp on less busier evenings. However, after months of conversation he was still
|
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|
no closer to finding out what this regular customer of his liked. Inky seemed
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|
to order anything with no discernible pattern in the way some diners would
|
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|
always order a herb bake on Liandays, only that they never ordered the same
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|
dish to the day before, and rarely the same dish more than once a week.
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He did often have customers who relished variety, and this had been an impetus
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for Enrique to endeavour to come up with novel breads and recipes that would
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|
draw a new crowd and occasionally offer a bit of excitement for his repeat
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|
customers. Lately he had been trying out variations of the little elf's most
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|
recent recipe, but something was lacking. Offhandedly he mentioned his problem
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|
of the missing ingredient to the tea seller one night as the latter made their
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|
way through one of his carrot and cucumber loaves. Inky had merely looked at
|
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|
him and said "shishito". At that moment he was called away with another
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|
customer's request, but after all the patrons had left, he remembered their
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|
conversation earlier and went back to his recipe, this time adding the
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|
suggested peppers. The resulting flavours melded wonderfully — he had hit upon
|
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|
a winning combination.
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|
The next evening he prepared a small plate of his new empanadas for the tea
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|
seller to try, but the imp did not appear.
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|
#### V.
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|
It had been some time since he had heard from the little elf, as Enrique had
|
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|
taken to calling them in his mind. The tapas had stopped appearing, replaced
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|
with delightful recipes by mail from wherever it was helper elves went between
|
|
|
|
visitations (the letters had no return address). Meanwhile the brewer busied
|
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|
|
himself with expanding his selection of empanadas through the recipes, even
|
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|
|
adding a new kale telera in a stroke of inspiration.
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|
More concerning was the fact that it had been at least several weeks since he
|
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|
had seen or heard from the tea seller. All manner of strange folk passed
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|
|
through his shop from time to time, so he shouldn't be surprised the tea seller
|
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|
|
may have decided to move on to another city altogether. Still, he did feel a
|
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|
|
pang of disappointment at losing good company, or the way the imp had left
|
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|
|
without so much as a farewell. There was something about the tea seller that he
|
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|
|
couldn't place that came with the ease with which they would talk of various
|
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|
|
subjects, from beer-making to the pilgrims who would stop in at the shop
|
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|
|
occasionally.
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|
|
On his way back from the market on one of his few days off when the shop was
|
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|
closed, he passed by the post office and was struck by a sudden thought. He
|
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|
went inside and showed the rabbit postmistress on duty the last message he had
|
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|
|
received (he had taken to carrying one or two of them on him for new ideas
|
|
|
|
whenever he went to the market) and inquired about the sender. The postmistress
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|
was initially reluctant to answer on account of customer confidentiality, but
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|
|
after hearing his concern over the plight of his little elf friend, eventually
|
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|
relented. She recognised his shop address and was able to recall the appearance
|
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|
|
of a half-rabbit whose description matched the tea seller. Enrique walked the
|
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|
|
rest of the way back from the post office to his shop, thinking hard.
|
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|
|
Stunned bemusement soon gave way to vague worry — it was unlike the tapas chef
|
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|
|
to go silent for long without a leaving message, usually accompanied by a
|
|
|
|
recipe. If the tapas chef and tea seller were the same person, it was possible
|
|
|
|
they had gone with one of those caravans and something horrible had befallen
|
|
|
|
them on the journey. He sighed and threw himself back into his ales and
|
|
|
|
pastries with a single-minded focus, trying not to dwell on the possibility the
|
|
|
|
imp might not return.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
~~
|
|
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|
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|
|
|
"Enrique," his mother called.
|
|
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|
|
When he appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, his mother hesitated before she
|
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|
|
said, "I have some upsetting news, dear."
|
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|
|
"Mrs. Sapaverde came by earlier. She said one of the mill workers saw a small
|
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|
imp at the bottom of the hill from the brewery on her way home before the
|
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|
storm. The worker tried to warn the imp about the storm, but the child insisted
|
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|
they had to meet someone at the brewery."
|
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His mother was looking at him now with concern in her olive-coloured eyes. "We
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think it may have been your friend looking for you, not knowing the brewery was
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closed because of the weather."
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Enrique stilled. His father along with the other brewery employees had been
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anticipating the storm and had stayed late the day before carrying out
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preparations — elevating crates and barrels, tying down equipment, stacking
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sandbags, checking the waterproofing and other tasks. Before they left for the
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night, the employees were advised not to come in the next day due to possible
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flooding and mudslides. They had later learned the area around the hill had
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been flooded for the better part of two days. Fortunately the brewery sat atop
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of the hill and was mostly spared from damage aside from a small amount of
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rainwater in several rooms and some spoiled dry stock. Everyone had been aware
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of an impending thunderstorm and would have done the reasonable thing and
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stayed home … or so he thought.
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"Thanks … for telling me, Ma." He managed after a moment, and was instantly
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brought into his mother's comforting hug. His mother eventually let him trudge
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back to his room with a mug of cocoa and milk roll in hand.
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The first night he didn't have to return from storm cleanup at the brewery and
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immediately fall asleep from exhaustion, he dreamt of an imp at the gatepost,
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and of teatime, bears and tuckleberry jam.
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~~
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"QUACK!"
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A small yellow duck was standing in the open doorway of his shop and looking
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directly at him while he was checking on the ale taps, almost as though it was
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beckoning him. As he came closer, the duck hopped out of reach and onto the
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street, looking from him to a spot next to the shop and back again, staring at
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him. When he was standing just outside the building, the duck nipped at his
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tunic, then padded towards a set of stairs that led up to the Milk Market on
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the second floor. It turned back and looked at him.
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Thinking perhaps his affable landlord wished to speak with him and had sent a
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messenger, Enrique followed the duck up the stairs into a spacious landing with
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a corridor with a series of rooms along one side, and another that led to what
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appeared from a distance to be a larger area with big vats. The duck waddled
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down the corridor into a room at the end of the hall.
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The brewer walked into what looked like a cross between a small office, a
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shisha den and a bath stall. At one end of the room was some sort of wooden tub
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filled with water attached to a mushroom sprinkler, and a thick towel laid out
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on the floor. Next to the tub in the corner was a short chest of drawers with
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all the drawers pulled out, like a staircase leading nowhere, and stuffed
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woollen carrots, toys and other objects peeking out. A chia plant with some of
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its leaves chewed off sat atop the chest. Croutons, a bag of candy worms with
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its contents half-spilled onto the floor, crumpled notes, an oval wicker
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basket, cushions of all shapes and sizes on a tartan rug, a writing block with
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notepaper, a quill case, an uncorked bottle of ink and a small stack of books
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were scattered about the room.
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In the midst of the carnage sat the imp, hatless, cradling a cup of tea and
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looking dejectedly out the open window at the foot traffic passing through the
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alley below. The sight brought back a distant image of rainy afternoons and a
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child's face pressed against the window of his old bedroom, as though they
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could will the rain to stop if they stared long enough.
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He would recognise that sulk anywhere.
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The eyes that turned to him in surprise (chased by a slight edge of panic,
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though it was gone before he could be certain), outside the dim recess of the
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shop and lit by broad daylight coming from the window, were a startling deep
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blue. A colour he had many memories of in a different place and time.
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"Joule?" he called out disbelievingly.
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"Hullo Enrique," his irritating, impish friend replied sheepishly, casting
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their gaze downwards, though not before sending a tiny look of betrayal at the
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duck's retreating form.
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Relief, amazement, annoyance and a myriad other emotions flashed through him
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and for several beats he was at a loss for words. He eventually settled for
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rightful indignation.
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"You!" he groused. "Why didn't you send word that you had returned? Even Gil
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thought you'd tripped over a rock and broke your neck out in the country
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somewhere! Have you been right here above my shop the entire time?!"
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"Not the entire time, I just got back last month and …" the imp's attempt
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at an explanation trailed off under Enrique's reproachful glare.
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"And if you had the gall to break into my kitchen, you can sure as well have
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the guts to show your face and own up to it." Enrique bit out.
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They remained silent for a long time, the turtle's bulky frame filling the
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room as he stood with folded arms and a heavy frown a few steps away from the
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entrance, and the rabbit imp on the floor looking thoroughly chastised with a
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half-empty teacup and legs tucked beneath them.
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Enrique finally spoke. "You're a terrible adult." There was no heat to the
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words. When the imp didn't respond, he continued, "Come down downstairs to the
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back when you're done here, and bring some of that pepperwood if you have any.
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Marnie's been hankering for more, and I suppose I wouldn't mind a cup myself
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after this." He gestured with one arm around the room. "If this is your trading
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post, I can certainly see why you don't invite your customers here."
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"It's my marketing manager's office." Joule, or Inky, as they were now known to
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the locals, had started picking up stray bits of paper and books and was
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clearing a path through the litter from window to doorway.
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"You have a marketing manager?" Enrique asked.
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"QUACK!" The duck had re-appeared at the door and was looking at Inky
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expectantly.
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"Five more minutes, okay?" Inky said to the duck. To Enrique, "It wants its
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bath and basket chair back." The candy and croutons had been scooped up into a
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small pumpkin-shaped metal bucket and set next to the chia plant.
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Enrique stared at his friend in bewilderment after the duck wandered off again.
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"Your marketing manager is a duck."
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"Yes?"
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"How do you have a duck as your marketing manager?"
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Inky shrugged. "It followed me back and we made a deal."
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The turtle was unconvinced. "You mean you roped it into following you back."
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"Have it your way if you must insist on rewriting history, but for the record
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there is no forced labour involved and it gets all the benefits and perks." As
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they talked, Inky opened the writing block lid (actually the tea seller's
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wooden box now that Enrique had a closer look), pushing aside items inside
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before extracting two bags of fine tea leaves which they tossed at the turtle,
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who fumbled a bit but caught them. With Inky's teacup, books and quills packed
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away, they left the room to a mildly disgruntled duck who waved at them before
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strutting inside for a well-earned nap.
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Enrique looked around the hallway leading to the stairs. "Is your office also
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on the same floor?"
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"No, don't need one." said the imp as they descended the stairs.
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He frowned, but before he could ask, Inky answered his unspoken question. "I
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don't sell tea, Enrique." The ale brewer was about to argue the point when
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the imp's words abruptly came back to him: *Please consider it a gift.* He
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turned to Inky and found his friend already watching him from the bottom step.
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Waiting.
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A grin slowly spread over Enrique's face. "That's a pity. I was just thinking
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my tea seller might want to try my new line of empanadas on the house after
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making the deliveries."
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The imp only rolled their eyes. "Great. So your diners won't have to turn into
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skeletons to get their bread after all."
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The giant turtle chased the laughing imp all the way back to the kitchens.
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#### Epilogue
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Enrique looked up from checking on the walnut bread in the oven when Inky
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walked in accompanied by an unfamiliar face. A toque, newly arrived to the
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city by the looks of it, he guessed.
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After depositing a small box on one of the worktables, Inky settled atop an
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icebox and waved the visitor to a wooden stool nearby. Enrique greeted them
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both before closing the oven door again and stepping towards the worktable.
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"What brings you into my kitchen today?"
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Inky gave the chef a serious look that was immediately undermined by the
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humorous tenor in their next words. "I bring you a problem."
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Enrique snorted. "Just one?" he asked, but a small smile quirked on his face
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nevertheless. He opened the box to preview the contents and found one of his
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favourite blends. He set it to one side of the table for later.
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"For now. This one," Inky gestured to the toque next to them looking around at
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the loaves cooling on the racks with barely concealed excitement, "has never
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had an empanada in their life. And they have the gall to call themselves
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Bread!"
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Enrique shook hands with the toque. "Hi Bread, I'm Enrique. Unfortunately the
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troublemaker is right, you must try them. Made by hand as they have always been
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from the first day, every one of them!" informed the chef with a definite note
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of pride in his voice. He handed Bread a pair of enticing golden brown pastries
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wrapped in a paper sleeve from a tray kept warm on a broiler.
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To Inky, he said, "So you wanted me to give them a quick demo?"
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Inky grinned as they replied, "Even better, have you thought about taking on an
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apprentice? Bread here is a sturdy hand, hard worker and keen to learn."
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The empanada chef stroked his chin with a thumb and fore claw thoughtfully.
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"Well, I suppose I have, actually. The nut breads we talked about have been
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flying out the door so fast I can barely keep up. At this rate I'd need another
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one of me to get more out there!" He chuckled.
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He looked at Bread again, assessing. "When can you start? We'll be up early to
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get the dough going and all the ingredients prepared for a long day. How about
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we begin with the basics, see where you're at, and go from there?"
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~
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Inky had left with Bread shortly after the latter had further introduced
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themselves and they had arranged for the toque to return the following week.
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Although Enrique had reiterated it would be on a trial basis initially, he had
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a good feeling about the new hire. Maybe it was the way the toque's eyes lit up
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at their first bite of empanada. The fact that this was someone Inky had
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casually dragged in should set off all of his mental alarms. Still, despite his
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friend's often flagrant disregard for anything inedible, they could be very
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observant when they wanted. Clearly they had seen something in the toque's
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character to recommend them personally.
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He was already going through lesson plans in his head, and was so engrossed in
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making a list of things to gather for his new apprentice that when he turned
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around to grab a pair of oven mittens, he had to do a double-take. There, on
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the icebox that the imp had recently vacated, a small green turtle stared back
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at him from where it sat on a cocoa-coloured pie slightly wider than the
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turtle. On closer inspection, the ensemble appeared to be a cake decorated with
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cream and dark chocolate buttons for eyes, set on a round wooden plank lined
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with parchment. Under the plank was a note in the now-familiar crisp blue
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lettering: "ENJOY YOUR TERRAPAN :)"
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Enrique huffed out a laugh. He already knew what he would find on the other
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side of the note without turning it over. Pocketing the slip of paper carefully
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in his apron, he went to get a knife and plate to help himself to a slice of
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delicious mud pie.
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