The kitchen is a whirlwind of flour and sugar, the scent of butter and yeast thick in the air. Marigold moves with practiced precision, her hands a blur as she shapes and fills the dough, each Pączek a tiny masterpiece. Traditional rosehip jam, rich vanilla custard, and even a daring passionfruit caramel—her own twist, something unexpected yet irresistible.
The work is soothing, mechanical yet creative, a perfect distraction. The Nevers were scarce lately—an unlooked-for blessing. No small hands reaching for dough scraps, no impish pranks or chiming bells, lovely once but grating the thousandth time - their peeping eyes slowing her boggan hustle to what feels like a standstill. No, just soft quiet, save for the rhythmic thud of her rolling pin and the soft sizzle of frying dough.
By the time the last batch is dusted in powdered sugar, the counter is lined with golden, perfect pastries. The Freehold will feast well today! Marigold, however, simply wipes her hands on her apron, surveying her work with weary satisfaction. She doesn't stay to watch them be devoured, or linger to soak in praise.
Instead, she slips away, exhaustion pulling her toward solitude. The kitchen hums with warmth and sweetness, but she leaves it behind, retreating to the quiet of her own thoughts. As the bustle of work fades, it's replaced by a dull ache settling in her joints, slow and insistent, like a storm rolling in. Cruel, she thinks with a bittersweet smile, that Spring, the season of renewal, brings with it the damp that makes my bones protest so.
Fat Tuesday will come and go. But where was her daughter? When will return Gwen and her friends?
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