CHAPTER 3: Penthesilea

She awoke to the sight of Kester keeping watch. He sat at her side with his tail curled neatly over his paws and his ears pricked up, swiveling this way and that to catch the sounds of the early-morning town coming to life around them. She shifted; one ear and then the whole cat turned to face her.

“You’re awake.”

“Good morning to you too.” She stretched and stood, brushing leaves from her dress.

The town didn’t seem quite so intimidating in the light of morning. As they followed the maze of roads past rows of houses with steep roofs and round little windows, Obelie’s mind lifted for the first time from the haze of fear she had known for so long. She knew no one here, true – her courage shrank slightly at the memory of all those people pushing past without even seeming to see her – but she could rely on herself if she had to, and she had Kester. They would find a way, she decided.

Abruptly, she came to a stop. The richest, smoothest, sweet-savory scent she had ever smelled wound down the street. Her mouth watered. She broke into a run, following it around the corner, past the church and the shops and the crooked alleyways with their strung-up laundry, and found herself outside a narrow storefront with a pink and white striped awning. Kester caught up at her heels, stopping also. Cat and girl stared up at the window together.

The sight that greeted them! Perfect little sugared buns; loaves crammed with raisins and cinnamon and fragrant orange peel; a magnificent vanilla cake on a pedestal, heaps of round red strawberries sinking into the cream, so ripe they glistened. Obelie felt her stomach constrict in a painful knot. It had been a day, she realized, since she had eaten. The cakes and buns wavered in front of her, like a mirage of cool water before a desert traveler. Painted on the glass in neat gold cursive was “Pen’s Pastries.” Tentatively, she pushed open the door. A bell jingled.

The shop was busy. A long line of customers stood in front of her, tall adults who blocked her view of the counter. She shifted impatiently, standing first on one foot, then the other. It seemed she had been waiting a very long time. Her conviction faltered for a moment —what was she doing here on her own? They would ask, they would turn her away — but Kester bumped his head reassuringly against her leg and she stood up straighter, determined.

The line moved forward. A nervous-looking woman was at the front of it, speaking in confidential tones to someone behind the counter.

“Trouble at home? Let’s see what we can do, poor thing…” a friendly voice replied. The woman left a few moments later in a rush of gratitude, carrying a small pink parcel.

The line moved forward again; Obelie was up next, behind a tall man with a briefcase.

“You don’t have anything for arthritis, do you?” he asked. “My leg has been terrible in this weather.”

“Oh dear, I know the feeling all too well,” the friendly voice came again. “I have just the thing.” Obelie saw now that the voice came from a very small old woman in thick-rimmed glasses, her hair cut in a bob below her chin and as white as snow. She disappeared beneath the counter.

Arrayed in the case were rows of bite-sized marzipan packages, painstakingly tiny ribbons and bows drawn on in different colors of icing — yellow and green and pink and orange. After several hmms and ahhs she appeared again, producing a green one and wrapping it neatly in a pink cardboard box secured with twine.

“That ought to help. And put your feet up — it doesn’t do to be running around in the rain.”

“You’re a wonder, Pen. Thank you.” The man paid, tucked the package under his arm, and left whistling. Obelie was next.

“Hello ma’am.”

The old woman didn’t see her at first. “Hello? Is someone there? Make yourself seen, I have a strict policy against invisible customers.”

“I’m down here ma’am.” She stood up on her toes. The old woman leaned down over the counter.

“Oh, a child. I’m sorry, dear — what can I help you with?”

“I’m very hungry, ma’am. But I don’t know if you can help me. I don’t have any money,” she added apologetically.

“Money, hmph!” The old woman seemed slightly offended. Adults, Obelie had noticed, often became uncomfortable at the mention of money. “We’ll see what we can do.” She disappeared behind the counter again, and reappeared with a round hand-pie. “Ham and spinach,” she announced, then added suspiciously, “You do eat spinach, don’t you?”

“Yes ma’am,” replied Obelie.

“Good. I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t like spinach — we must take the bitter in life with the sweet! Now go take a seat in the back and eat that, there’s a girl. You can come and find me after.”

Obelie did as she was told, and found a long wooden table at the back, in what must have been the kitchen. She eyed with curiosity the mixing bowls and tall racks of metal pans around her, mysterious cakes cooling in them, but decided wisely not to touch anything. She pulled out a chair at the table and sat.

The pie was the most heavenly thing she had ever eaten. It fell apart in her mouth in hot buttery flakes, the layers of crust so thin and crisp they almost shattered. Deep green spinach and bits of caramelized ham were folded inside. She devoured it almost without stopping to breathe, and licked the last crumbs and bits of oil from her fingertips. A transformation had taken place — not only was she no longer hungry, she had also strangely stopped being tired or cold. Her feet no longer ached, and she felt as if she had just risen from a full night of sleep in a deep, soft bed. She sighed and stretched, filled with the warmth of it, then went back out to the front of the store. Now that she was revived, she had become curious.

“And how are we?” the old woman asked kindly.

“Much better, thank you,” Obelie replied.

The morning crush of customers had slowed to a steady, consistent stream. They would come up to the counter one by one and confide their private problems — warts, spots, a failed test, an unrequited love — and the old woman would hmm and ahh and select from the case some little cake or marzipan figure, packaging it up and sliding it across the counter to the grateful recipient. Each thanked her profusely, and promised to come again. The bell would tinkle as they left, and the old woman would wipe her hands on the raggedy towel tucked over her shoulder, sigh contentedly to herself, and turn to help the next.

When a lull came in the activity, she would turn and talk to Obelie.

“A pretty name,” she said. “And what are you doing in Walton-on-Tye?”

“Following a cat,” Obelie answered honestly.

The old woman looked down at Kester. His keen green eyes stared back at her, and it seemed a certain glance passed between them.

“Quite so,” she replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

Obelie confessed, slightly embarrassed, that she had spent the last night sleeping under a bush. The old woman tsked.

“A bush is a fine bed for a cat, but no place for a human girl. You may stay here tonight, if you help out around the shop.” And she showed her how to fold the tabs in to assemble the pink cardboard boxes, and tie clever knots with twine. The afternoon passed quickly, and she became very good with the boxes, so that they made an efficient team, the old woman ringing up cakes and buns and tarts at the register while she wrapped them up in neat packages and secured each with a bow. It seemed the whole town came into the little store, with every problem imaginable, and each person left with their burden lightened.

Obelie did not want to seem rude, but she had grown increasingly curious. “Who are you?” she asked, when business slowed again.

“I am the witch of the bakery,” the old woman replied simply. “I am called Penthesilea, although it’s a large name for a small enough person. You may call me Pen.”

“I knew she was a witch,” Kester said when they were tucked in to sleep in the upstairs window seat. Pen lived above the bakery, and had given them a goose-feather pillow and a thick old quilt, and Obelie found she was quite comfortable, watching the rain fall past the window and into the street below. Kester had curled in a ball on top of the quilt, and was regarding her thoughtfully.

“How could you know?”

“Cats know these things,” he replied.

She contemplated this.

“She seems very kind, helping all these people. Do you think she really is? Can we trust her?” She shivered, feeling cold for a moment even here at the memory of the cruel Mr. Maypole.

Kester knew what she meant, and nestled closer under her neck. “We can trust her. She’s the good kind of witch.”

“Well then, that settles it. We’ll stay.” She felt her eyelids beginning to fall closed under their weight. “Good night Kester.”

“Good night,” came his reply.