Sourdough in the Gloom

The problem with having a death sentence with an expiration date is that insomnia becomes unbearably loud.

Upstairs, on the noble floors, the forged iron bolts screeched every twenty minutes with a dry, poorly oiled groan, as if it hurt the hinges just to exist. Every turn of the key echoed up the chimney flues to my cot, reminding me that the notary of Peñafiel loved sealing files until late and that Sibila de Moncada was still awake, conspiring at her leisure. To top it all off, the corset stays had left a bruise on my ribs that throbbed to the rhythm of the rain against the skylights.

So I escaped.

Again.

Sneaking down to the lower kitchens at three in the morning wasn't in any sensible survival plan, but staring at the oak beams waiting for my head to be cut off in eighty-nine days was even worse. I slipped along the damp wall, dodging the foul puddle dripping near the guard latrines and the stale wax stench of the dying candles. My velvet slippers made no noise, though the thin soles let the killer cold of the granite flagstones straight through as if I were walking barefoot over blocks of ice.

There was not a soul in the scullery.

The low oven fire wasn't entirely dead; barely an eye of red embers covered in ash that gave off a dense, comforting heat, mixed with that reek of fried pork fat and dried lemon scrapings clinging to the holm-oak countertops.

I took a deep breath. At last the air didn't smell like fear.

I went straight to the corner cupboard, bypassing strings of garlic hanging from the ceiling like vegetable bats. If in Bogotá the remedy for midterm panic was baking bread until the kitchen looked like a flour cloud, here it wasn't going to be any different. I needed to burn adrenaline or I was going to lose my mind.

I located the loot in under two minutes:

A burlap sack of rye flour: medium quality, rough texture, and heavy enough to dislocate a wrist if it dropped suddenly.

Next to it, a glazed earthenware jar with sourdough, sealed with a linen rag and esparto cord: bubbly, sour, and alive like a gremlin.

I untied the twine with my teeth while holding up my skirt with my other hand. The sourdough let out a sour, fermented puff that tasted like manna from heaven. I plunged my fingers into the rye sack; the ground grain was harsh, scraping the skin of my knuckles which I had scraped raw the day before.

I dumped two generous handfuls onto the work table, letting the grayish dust float under the dim light of the rain coming down through the leaded skylight.

I sneezed.

I covered my mouth with my forearm just in time, holding my breath while I stood rigid, waiting for a Gray Guard halberd to burst through the door. Nothing. Only the dull dripping of the gutters outside and the creak of the wood settling with the moisture.

I scratched my nose with my shoulder so as not to get dust on my face. I tied my dress sleeves up to my elbows with two clumsy turns and started mixing. Flour, a pinch of coarse salt from a cracked bowl, a splash of warm water from the embers cauldron, and that sticky ferment that smelled of stale beer and past-due fruit.

I sank both hands in hard.

The dough resisted at first, cold and dense, but with the heat of my palms it gave way, stretching into an elastic mass that made wet snapping sounds against the board.

I didn't think about Sibila.

I didn't think about the scaffold.

Only the fold, the push with the heel of the palm, the ninety-degree turn. A routine so physical and silly that any complex thought dissolved between the rye and the sweat on my forehead.

Midway through the third knead, a piece of wood creaked above my head.

The ventilation hatch connecting to the dock cellar drain lifted three centimeters. A gust of salty, cold air swept across the table, lifting a veil of flour that coated my eyelashes.

I froze on the spot, my fingers buried in the paste up to the knuckles.

A worn leather boot descended the iron rungs hammered into the masonry. Then another. The guy climbed down with a silent agility you only learn when your life depends on the sergeants not hearing you arrive late for guard duty.

Damián Sanchis stepped onto the flagstones without making the slightest sound.

He wore his doublet unbuttoned, his chainmail slung over one shoulder, and a dark smear of ash crossing his left cheek. In his hand he held his scratched bronze compass, twirling it between his fingers with the casualness of someone playing with a fake coin.

He stopped dead in his tracks upon seeing me.

I was standing there in the middle of the night, dressed in ducal silks but covered in flour up to my elbows, with hair slipping out of my hairpins and a deformed ball of raw dough between my hands.

"Seriously?" he blurted out in a raspy whisper, blinking.

"There were no cookies," I whispered back, without moving a single muscle.

Damián put the compass in his brigandine pocket, looked down at the workbench, and then fixed his eyes an inch above my forehead, true to regulation. He didn't shout. He didn't blow the alarm whistle. He didn't even draw his service dagger.

He took two calm steps forward, reached up toward the open hatch above us, and pulled it down with a maddening slowness, snapping the iron latch into place with a soft click, muffled by the palm of his hand.

"Move along," he muttered in a harsh whisper, feeling the bulge of the twisted horseshoe nail hidden beneath the lining of his doublet. "Kneading won't stop the gallows."