Meme to follow when she doesn't hear her footfalls, the corner of her lip lifting the slightest bit at her stuttered, "c-coming!"
Meme follows Maka's red, fluttering hood-the only tangible thing she can see in the oppressive darkness. She doesn't know how Maka can see herself, but figures she follows the moonlight that cuts through the canopies above them. The patches of lights are what Meme decides to focus on, not the shade that hides undulating bodies; maskless faces and bright, piercing, eyes. It was all her imagination, as Master Maka said. She grips her basket tightly in her hand, remembering her oath: she could never become a master baker unless she hand-delivered her best desserts to Grandmother Liz for approval. Then, she could leave the isolated cottage at the edge of Death Valley and acquire a luxurious job at the King's Castle-far, faraway from her current home.
"Say," Meme begins, nervously. "Master Maka?"
"Yes?" Maka hums, her step never faltering.
"You're one of the best bakers Grandmother Liz's Baking Academy has ever seen...so that means that you passed Grandmother's test, right?"
"That's right. That's why I'm head baker at the cottage."
"Then...why didn't you go to the King's Castle and live richly, like all the other bakers?" Meme braves, holding her breath. Not one of the ten girls in the small baking school had dared ask Master Maka the question. It was well known that the school had been funded by the king in an effort to hire only the best of the best, Grandmother Liz having been legendary for her bread and elegantly plated desserts. Yet, despite Maka's cheerful and friendly demeanor, the girls had seen her angry too many times to be free with their words.
"Well, Grandmother Liz is too old to teach herself. So I decided to stay here and teach the next generation like she did to me," Maka answers simply.
But Meme had anticipated this answer. "B-but...you could have gone a few years to the King's Castle, couldn't you? Grandmother Liz could have stayed f-for a few more years, right?"
"Oh...well-!" Maka stops suddenly, Meme crashing into her.
"S-sorry-!"
"Meme, hold my hand," Maka demands, shielding the girl with her own body. She measures the dark around her silently while Meme's voiced cracks with her tears behind her, shaking so bad, the leaves that rustled above them were drowned out by the sound of her clacking boots. "Now, Meme," she motions for the basket held between Meme's knuckle-white hands. "I need you to spare a cookie or a muffin-...you didn't pack extra treats like I told you to, did you?"
Meme was practically crying now, squeaking a sob of apology while Maka pinched the bridge of her nose.
"It's okay-Meme, stop crying, it's fine! We'll just have to-!"
"Didn't know bakers were so noisy," another voice drawls, deep and husky. It sounds sweet, like melted dark chocolate on a tabletop. But like dark chocolate, there's a bitterness-aggressive, unyielding- that runs through it and Meme chokes out:
"Master M-Maka..."
