A M A L I A
Set up the stalls. Set out wares. Hang up banners. Survive. Hers is not the most well-adorned booth: in her grandmother's time it would be bursting with flowers, a patch of sunlight among stars, the mixed aroma of spring blooms and spices drawing droves of customers throughout the day. There would be children, dancing and begging for stories; helpers, young and old, happy to volunteer in exchange for choice loaves; elderly gossips pointing out wearings and pairings, commenting on everything from the quality of the players to the taste of the beer. And at the center of it all Anjali Chandrakant, pillar of the community, bright light in the darkness, an institution of the Hollowed Grounds.
And this year? This year there is only Amalia, and the sunlight does not shine.
Oh, she has decorated as well as she can, strung up banners and put out flowers, lit lanterns painted stands, her actions mechanical, driven more by instinct than love. She had been looking forward to Fiat Lux: she always did, ached for it throughout the winter, the reminder of joy and spring and life. Never one to partake of the dancing, Amalia would help behind her grandmother's stall- and later, Evie's, or anyone else, a flickering spark of candlelight always on the periphery, but burning nonetheless. Not a dancer, not an artist, never one to socialize- but she could help, she could serve, she could bring smiles and ease burdens, and that had been enough.
And as the evenings drew dark and couples broke away, Amalia would watch, the lonely ache in her anxious heart offset by the glowing comfort of familiarity, of community, of peace.
Except nothing is familiar anymore.
Standing behind the counter of her stall, surrounded by faces and voices and song, Amalia feels alone. It is the first time the bakery has had a booth since her grandmother died, and the old sign which reads Devas Bakery in Anjali's hand feels like slap in the face. Weeks ago she had been excited, bolstered by Ludo's message, Safrin's purpose, her makeshift family of new and old friends. But now?
Now the festival of full of unfamiliar faces, and the barrier is down, and nothing makes any sense.
She has some help, mercifully: a couple of her grandmother's friends drop in and out, standing behind the counter, offering to relieve the girl, but Amalia does not go. She is nervous, anxious, too small for the booth, too lonely for the crowd. Her bread is not as beautiful, her pastries not as sweet- she can see it, feel it in the way people react, pitying smiles on their faces as they reach for snacks. "Isn't that Rishi's girl? The quiet one? The Devas stall looks so drab- Anjali used to do so well. A shame, really, that her granddaughter couldn't do better."
And though their judgment isn't audible, Amalia can hear it nonetheless.
But she puts on a bold face - or tries to, anyway, though the cracks are evident, the strain clear. She is lost within herself, drowning in her darkness, victim of anxiety, a raincloud on a sunlit day.
