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‘The blue ones it is, then,’ said Ginger. She finished one of the braids and bound it with a short piece of kitchen string. Her hands flew quickly through the other braid, and soon it too was done and bound. The length of one of the blue ribbons, the one the color of a bluebird’s feathers, was cut in two and twin bows soon found themselves perched securely on each of Wren’s braid ends.
Ginger glanced at the half-hour glass. The sand had almost run through. She peeked into the oven, noting the tops of the cakes were still wet looking. Closing the oven door once again, she turned the timer over.
‘Well, I suppose we could get these washed up and chopped,’ she said pointing to the carrots and taters and onions Aman had brought in from the garden. Cook does want to have some nice thick chicken soup for supper, but . . .’ She pursed her lips, then grinned at Wren.
‘If we’re quick about it, there’s a wardrobe of clothes that travelers have left in their rooms and never come back to collect or sent for. I’m certain there are skirts and blouses and dresses that would fit you. In fact, I know there are – I’ve looked at them myself.’ She held Wren at arm’s length and twirled her about. ‘You’re a Big Folk child, but still we’re about the same height. I’ve got maybe an inch or so on you.’ She took Wren by the hand and pulled her quickly up the back stairs of the kitchen toward the attic rooms above her own and the other server girls. ‘Step lively. We wouldn’t want the cakes to burn,’ she said, hurrying the girl along.
Ginger flung open the door and sneezed a bit in the stirred up dust. ‘There’s the wardrobe over there,’ she said pointing to a corner near one of the attic’s small windows. ‘Help me get the doors open, won’t you. They’re a bit sticky.’
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