The Baker's Daughter (Working Title) | #Wattys2018

Chapter One

Summer in AppleMill was the time of year Rosalinda liked best, when the meadows surrounding the mill were blooming with wildflowers and heavy with the scent of dry grass mingled with the fresh river that cut through the fields. When the air was alive with the curious buzzing of insects and the calling of birds, and when the small piglets she had raised through spring were becoming more independent of their mothers and her doting hands. 

But Summer was also the season of delivery and harvest, and the time when she rarely ever saw her father outside of the Millhouse. It was the time of year when their home was busiest, with guests were often invited to stay overnight after riding many miles to deliver their grain, and when the ranks of their works doubled in size. From a young age, Rosalinda had learned to keep away from the Millhouse and keep within the grounds of their small cottage at the behest of her father, who cared for her safety and wished her to stay out of harm's way. 

She spent most of her days as a girl with her mother, who taught her the craft of sewing and cooking, and as she grew older, she began to venture out of the confines of the cottage and across the road outside to the river, where she spent her days with her feet dangling into the crystal clear waters, or else into the woods that stood tall behind the cottage, where she spent time exploring, but never adventured far off enough that she couldn't hear her father's calls in the evening. 

Upon reaching her sixteenth birthday, she began venturing into the village just beyond the hill with Tom on his deliveries. Tom, a man of middle age, had been part of their family since her grandfather when her father was but a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes. She called him Uncle Tom, and he was a kind-hearted and hard-working man, loyal to her father and his closest friend. He treated her as his own daughter. One day, while on the way over the crest of the hill on their old cart pulled by their faithful steed, Hamish, Rosalinda's curiosity got the better of her.

"Uncle Tom?" She waited for him to reply.

"Yes, Rosie?"

"Why don't you have a wife?"

The man remained silent for a long while, until she was sure he hadn't heard her properly. She was about to ask her question a second time when he spoke up. 

"I don't have the time." He replied simply, in that rough but kind way of talking he had. She giggled, but questioned no further. Perhaps one day, she thought as the cart rumbled along the dirt road, he would meet a wife while on one of his deliveries. The thought alone made her giggle in glee. 

The village, though small, was a whole new world that lay outside the confines of the cottage. Here, the streets were bustling with working men and women with children alike, and the scent of burning wood, dry dirt, and livestock was prevalent. 

Here, the road was smooth dirt, hard baked under the sun and usage. The cottages that lined the road were humble, made of wattle and daub, with only a few built of grey and white stone. In her dress of periwinkle blue adorned with bows and embroidered flowers and her red hair, the same colour as her mothers, lying against her back in a long and neat braid secured with a ribbon, she stood out against the faded browns, blues, and reds of the villager's attire. 

The cart trundled on under Hamish's relentless power across the worn road through the village, and as it passed through, Rosalinda found her head turning on her neck so much that it began to hurt. 

Finally, the cart came to a halt outside a small stone building, quaint looking with the shutters thrown open and with smoke billowing from the chimney. Out through the open windows wafted the mouth-watering scent of freshly baked goods. A wooden sign hung from its wrought metal bracket read Cobb's Bakery.