Success!?

Estaria trudged through the bakery’s back door early the next morning, inhaling the familiar scent of yeast and flour. Guilt gnawed at him - he should be at the inn with Sara and the girls. But the contracts there had revealed all they could. Now he needed to follow a different trail.

“Welcome back,” Old Tom called from the ovens. Heat radiated from the brick walls as Estaria passed, making his skin prickle. “Wasn’t sure when we’d see you again.”

“Thanks.” Estaria managed a wan smile. “Thought it was time to get back to work.”

He settled at the small desk in the corner, pulling out the leather-bound ledgers. Their familiar weight provided an odd comfort. How many mornings had he spent here, carefully recording deliveries and sales? Now each entry held potential answers.

The sharp scent of cinnamon wafted past as someone opened the oven. His stomach growled, reminding him he’d skipped breakfast. A tray of pies cooled on the rack beside him - sympathy pies, no doubt. He’d seen dozens like them at the inn, brought by well-meaning neighbors for Clara and Beth.

“Quite a morning already,” Tom commented, sliding another batch into the oven. “Seems like everyone wants pie these days.”

Estaria nodded absently, already absorbed in the columns of numbers. He needed to relearn their rhythm, their patterns. Where had he seen that technique his father used? Start with the most recent entries, then work backwards…

There. His finger paused on a familiar name. Valens. The ink was faded, but the amount was clear enough. A substantial loan, dated… He squinted at the date. Right around when he’d started working here. His chest tightened.

“Stop it,” he muttered to himself, forcing his attention back to the current month’s entries. He couldn’t let suspicion cloud his judgment. Not yet. Not until he had proof.

The morning stretched into afternoon. Estaria’s neck ached from bending over the books, but he kept his place at the desk. He turned pages, made notes, asked appropriate questions about recent sales. All while his mind raced ahead, planning.

He needed those ledgers from home. The ones in his father’s study would tell the real story - not just of the bakery, but of everything. Every “acquisition,” every ruined family. But how? His mother’s watchful presence made sneaking impossible. And his father…

The scratch of his pen paused. His father. Always so careful with his bookkeeping. Always insisting on handling certain accounts personally. The connections blazed bright in Estaria’s mind, a web of carefully recorded destruction.

But he needed time alone in that study. Time to search properly, to understand the full scope. His parents would have to leave the house - both of them. But how?

Estaria rubbed his eyes, realizing the light had grown dim. He’d spent the entire day here, supposedly catching up on work, while his mind spun useless circles. The bakery’s ledgers could wait. He needed a plan.

He carefully returned the books to their shelf, his movements mechanical. Tomorrow he would make his excuses to Sara. The girls would understand - or at least, they would eventually. Right now, he had to focus on uncovering the truth.

“Heading out?” Tom asked as Estaria gathered his coat.

“Yes. Thank you for…” Estaria gestured vaguely at the desk. “For letting me ease back in.”

The old baker’s eyes crinkled with sympathy. “Take all the time you need, lad. Some wounds heal slower than others.”

If only he knew, Estaria thought as he stepped into the cooling evening air. Some wounds weren’t meant to heal at all. Some were meant to fuel the fire of justice.

He walked home slowly, his mind still churning through possibilities. There had to be a way to get his parents out of the house. Some errand, some obligation they couldn’t refuse. Something that would give him enough time to search those ledgers properly.

The answer would come. It had to. For now, he had to maintain his grieving facade, had to keep playing the role of the dutiful son. Each careful deception brought him closer to the truth - and to whatever justice he could wring from this tragedy.

Estaria lay in his bed, staring at the wooden beams above while his mind raced. Every creak of the house made him tense. His mother’s footsteps passed his door twice already - her familiar, measured stride that revealed nothing of her thoughts.

The moonlight cast shadows across his room as he turned ideas over in his mind. Getting both parents out of the house seemed impossible at first, but then he remembered his mother’s careful cultivation of political connections. How her eyes lit up at any mention of influence or power.

He sat up, inspiration striking. Tidalrest. The busy port town held exactly the kind of opportunities Klindon craved. A letter from the mayor might work - but it would have to be perfect. His mother would spot any flaw.

The next morning, Estaria rose early. His hand shook slightly as he selected the finest paper from his father’s study. The morning light streamed through the window as he practiced the mayor’s signature first on scraps, then carefully crafted the invitation.

He chose his words with precision, each sentence crafted to appeal to his mother’s ambitions. “Regional trade developments” seemed appropriately vague yet important. He even added a small ink smudge - just enough to look authentic without appearing careless.

After placing the letter in the usual spot by the door where important correspondence arrived, Estaria hurried to work. The bakery’s familiar warmth did nothing to calm his nerves. Each time the bell above the door chimed, he jumped, expecting his mother’s knowing stare.

“More pies for the Miller wedding,” Old Tom announced, breaking through Estaria’s anxious thoughts. The routine tasks helped, but time crawled by like honey in winter.

Near midday, the bell chimed again. This time, familiar voices lifted his spirits.

“Estaria!” Beth’s small voice carried across the bakery. She wasn’t exactly smiling, but her eyes held more life than yesterday. Clara followed, standing straighter than she had since the fire, though shadows still lingered under her eyes.

“We thought we’d find you here,” Sara said, adjusting her shawl. “Hiding in your numbers, I see.”

“Not hiding,” Estaria protested weakly. “Just…”

“Working through it?” Sara’s understanding smile made his chest tight. “I’d do the same if I could. Better than sitting around dwelling on things.”

Beth wandered over to peer at his ledgers. “What are all these numbers for?”

“They tell us how many pies we’ve sold,” Estaria explained, grateful for the distraction. “See here? These are all the apple pies from last week.”

Clara joined them, her usual sharp curiosity flickering briefly across her face. “That’s a lot of pies.”

They spent the afternoon together, the girls helping count inventory while Sara shared stories about their morning adventures in town. It wasn’t quite happiness, but it felt like something healing. Something growing stronger, even if slowly.

As the sun began to set, Sara gathered the girls to leave. “Same time tomorrow?” she asked, and Estaria nodded, surprised by how much he meant it.

“I’d like that,” he said, watching them go. The girls still moved carefully, as if the world might shatter again at any moment, but there was color in their cheeks now. It wasn’t the same as before - it never would be - but it was something new. Something growing.

Turning back to his ledgers, Estaria tried to focus on work, but his thoughts kept drifting to the letter waiting at home. Had his mother found it yet? Would she believe it? The remaining hours of his shift stretched endlessly as he waited to discover if his plan would work.

Estaria’s heart hammered against his ribs as he approached his house, each step carefully measured despite the blood rushing in his ears. The familiar path felt different today - charged with possibility. He took a steadying breath, adjusting his expression into what had become his habitual mask of grief.

Though perhaps, he considered, it was time to let that mask slip just a fraction. He’d maintained the same heavy silence, picked at his food, kept his eyes downcast for weeks now. Anyone watching would expect small changes to emerge. A gradual return to life.

The thought steadied him as he reached for the door handle. When it swung open, he nearly stumbled - several travel packs sat neatly arranged by the entrance, their leather straps pulled tight and buckled.

“Ma? Pa? You going somewhere?” His voice carried through the quiet house.

“In here, dear.” His mother’s voice drifted from the kitchen.

The scene that greeted him was oddly domestic - his parents finishing their evening meal without him. Steam still rose from their nearly empty plates. The unusual timing made the hair on the back of his neck rise.

“Sorry dear, we’re in a bit of a hurry tonight.” Klindon gestured to the waiting plate at his usual spot. “Sit, there’s enough for you. Mind you eat up. It won’t do to have you starve.”

Estaria studied them both carefully as he took his seat. His father seemed distracted, checking his pocket watch more than once. His mother’s movements were precise as always, but held an undercurrent of urgency he rarely witnessed.

They rose from their chairs, gathering the last of their dishes. His mother paused to kiss his cheek - another oddity. “We’ll be out of town for a couple of days,” she explained, smoothing her skirts. “Business matters in Tidalrest that simply can’t wait.”

His father squeezed his shoulder in passing. “Take care of yourself, son.”

Estaria picked up his fork and began eating with more enthusiasm than he’d shown in days. From the corner of his eye, he caught his mother’s approving nod before she turned away.

The door closed behind them with a soft click, leaving Estaria alone with his thoughts and half-finished meal. He chewed slowly, processing what had just occurred. The plan had worked - better than he’d dared hope. In all his years, he’d never known his parents to leave town together, let alone with such obvious eagerness.

Something about their rapid departure nagged at him, but he pushed the thought aside. What mattered was that they were gone, leaving him free to search for answers.