27 – Cloud Cakes

We sit at the table, having not run out of a single thing to talk about, when the men barge in. The sweet smell of fresh baking fills the air – somehow during our morning of pampering, Lydia had also found time to make cloud cakes.

“Lydia, my queen, I believe three hours is long enough for a girls day in the middle of the week when things need attending,” Isaiah announces, trying to sound tough but failing miserably. “And I know you didn’t just make cloud cakes without me, did you?”

“The aromatic compounds suggest they were baked approximately thirteen minutes ago,” Seven observes. “Their molecular structure appears remarkably similar to pre-Shift confections known as…”

“Seven,” Asher interrupts gently, “maybe let Lydia describe them first.”

Seven’s head tilts downward slightly, his normally precise movements becoming uncertain. “I was only attempting to be informative,” he says softly, and steps back to stand near the window, his mechanical fingers moving in small, distracted patterns as he processes the interaction.

Lydia smiles and steps into the kitchen. She returns with a second dish of cloud cakes dripping with honey and hands them to Isaiah. “I know you! I was waiting to see just how long before you started whining about not getting any.”

“Oh yeah! That’s my girl!” Isaiah exclaims as he swats Lydia on the hind end. They giggle like kids in love before Isaiah turns to the others, offering the pastries to them as well.

“Neeka, my dear girl,” Papa says, ignoring the cakes. “You look like a different person. As beautiful as always, but maybe too delicate and lady-like all cleaned up.”

The room goes quiet, and all eyes turn to me. Asher’s gaze lingers a moment longer than the others before quickly dropping to the floor, a slight flush creeping up his neck. Braam had just taken a large bite of cake and almost chokes when he looks at me. His eyes shift between all of us girls as he forces himself to swallow the mouthful of cake.

“You girls can’t go out like that,” he fusses.

“Why not?” Lydia demands an answer.

“Do you have any idea how many blokes I’ll have to beat up? They’ll be fawning all over all of you.”

“Your protective instincts, while admirable, seem to underestimate Neeka’s demonstrated combat capabilities,” Seven points out helpfully.

“Will it make you feel better if we wear keffiyahs?” I ask him, and catch Asher hiding a smile behind his hand. When our eyes meet briefly, there’s something warm in his gaze that makes me quickly look away.

“Much,” Braam grumbles around another mouthful of cake.

After we finish our treats, Isaiah suggests showing us around the village. Seven and Asher decide to stay behind with Lydia – no need to risk being seen unnecessarily.

The hard-packed dirt streets bustle with life – shepherds herding livestock, merchants trading their wares, lovers walking hand in hand. We pass royal protectors without fear, just as Isaiah promised. The whole scene feels surreal after the tension of Arcmire and the Dread Wastes.

Suddenly, a scraggly white goat charges past us, followed by a stumbling man shouting creative obscenities at the animal. The man trips, scrambles to his feet, and continues his pursuit, still hurling increasingly colorful insults at the goat.

“What was that about?” Papa asks, staring after them.

Isaiah chuckles. “Oh, that’s just Frank and Farley. They have it in for one another. If you stay in Graven Pointe long enough, you’ll see it’s a common occurrence. Quite entertaining, to say the least.”

Our first stop is a long, narrow building that stretches longer than most buildings in Graven Pointe, with high windows that let in strips of natural light. Unlike Eden’s sterile medical facilities, this place feels alive. Dried herbs hang from the rafters, their subtle fragrances mixing with the sharper smell of medicines. Along the southern wall, leather and canvas cots hold several patients, while shelves of carefully labeled bottles line the northern side.

A man tends to an elderly woman on one of the cots, his movements gentle as he changes a poultice on her arm. The whole place has an efficiency about it, but not the cold kind in Eden. This is the efficiency of people who genuinely care.

“Chelsea!” Isaiah calls out as a woman approaches. She moves with the confident stride of someone used to making quick decisions, her arms stained to the elbows with what looks like berry juice rather than blood. Dark curls escape from her practical braid, and her eyes are sharp but kind.

“I got your message,” she says, “and I’m relieved to see you back in one piece.” She starts to embrace him but stops short, gesturing to her stained hands with a laugh. “Probably not a good idea. I’ve been crushing blackberries for tinctures all morning.”

“This is Braam, Neeka, and Jeremiah,” Isaiah says, then adds with particular emphasis, “And this is Amari, the healer I mentioned.”

Chelsea’s eyes light up with professional interest as she studies Amari. “Isaiah mentioned your work with victims in Arcmire. We don’t have many healers who specialize in serious trauma. Most of what we see here is farming accidents, childhood scrapes…” She gestures around the ward. “Though lately we’ve seen a few more serious injuries.”

Amari’s eyes dart to a corner where a man sleeps fitfully, his shoulder wrapped in familiar-looking bandages. “You’re using frostvine fiber in your wrappings,” she observes quietly. “I didn’t know it grew this far south.”

“It doesn’t,” Chelsea says. “We trade for it. Expensive, but nothing else works as well for deep tissue healing.”

The two women move deeper into the ward, already lost in detailed healing discussions. I notice how Amari’s usual timidity fades when she talks about her craft, her hands moving expressively as she explains something about her methods.

“We’ll leave you to it,” Isaiah says, leading the rest of us back outside where the sun feels almost too bright after the ward’s dimness. “Next stop on our tour is the tinkersmith,” he announces cheerfully.

Papa’s eyes light up like Maggie’s had when he fixed her toy. The workshop sits squat and solid, smoke rising from three different chimneys. The heat hits us as soon as we enter – not the oppressive heat of the desert, but the living warmth of forges and creativity.

A large woman with forearms like tree trunks works at a central bench, her leather apron covered in scorch marks and oil stains. Protective goggles push up into her grey-streaked hair as she wrestles with what looks like a twisted heap of metal and gears. Each movement speaks of years of practice, of muscles trained to precision.

“Yeah?” she asks gruffly, not looking up from her work.

Papa steps closer, his head tilting in that way it does when he’s solving a puzzle. “Is that a reverse decombobulator? Pre-Shift design, but you’ve modified the intake valve?”

She looks up, eyes narrowing. “Yeah. What of it?”

“The spring tension’s fighting you because the calibration’s off,” Papa says, moving closer with the confidence of someone who speaks fluent machinery. “May I?”

She hands over the mechanism with surprising readiness, perhaps recognizing a fellow craftsperson. Papa manipulates something I can’t quite see, his tongue sticking out slightly in concentration. There’s a small click, then a whirr, and suddenly the heap of metal looks more like a proper tool.

“What do you know about tinkercraft?” she asks, but her tone has shifted from suspicious to evaluating.

“It would be better to ask what I don’t know,” Papa responds, still examining the mechanism. “I can work from a blueprint or zero-base my problem solving. And I know tinker is more art than science – you have to feel the machine’s rhythm, understand its peculiarities. Every piece has its own personality.”

The tinkersmith’s face breaks into an unexpected grin. “Finally, someone who speaks sense. These young ones, they think it’s all about following diagrams and matching parts. They don’t understand you have to listen to the metal, feel what it wants to become.”

Isaiah quietly guides Braam and me out, leaving Papa deep in discussion with his new colleague. Outside, the sun has climbed higher, and the streets are even busier now.

“You better not be bringing us to the protector station,” Braam warns.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” says Isaiah, a mysterious smile playing at his lips. “I have something special cooked up for the two of you.”

Looking around at the life flowing through Graven Pointe’s streets, I think I understand why Isaiah fought so hard to return here. This isn’t just a settlement. It’s a place where people can be themselves, even if who they are doesn’t fit neatly into the world’s expectations.

I wonder what special plans Isaiah has for Braam and me, but I find my thoughts drifting back to the quiet way Asher looked at me over the cloud cakes. Maybe in Graven Pointe, there’s room for all kinds of new beginnings.