The Baker's Tale Read Online Free PDF

remained devoted in attachment to Marie and Christopher. And the crowning glory of it all was that she was without guile and seemed totally unaware of how delightful she was.
    When Ruby was young, little boys had fallen in love with her, often making gifts of small trinkets, nuts, and apples. Now came attention of a similar kind from boys who were older. She kissed a few but nothing more.
    â€œYou have your mother’s look of beauty,” Christopher told her. “You are to tell me, not only if you ever fall into trouble, but also when you fall in love.”
    He and I met on occasion for a glass of ale. Once, as we drank, he spoke to me of Ruby’s mother.
    â€œShe was a beautiful woman, whose life was destroyed by a madman. It is all in the police records. It is not necessary for Ruby to know.”
    He continued to work cheerfully in the bakery from sunrise until dark. As Ruby grew older, she often worked with him. I watched one afternoon as she made an apple pie. Kneading away at the dough, rolling it out, cutting it into strips, lining the pie dish with it, slicing the apples, raining cinnamon upon them, packing them into the dish until it was full and wanting only the top crust.
    She wondered at the beauty of flowers, the depth of the ocean, the height and blueness of the sky. And she fell in love with reading, treasuring every book she read and receiving ongoing words of encouragement from Octavius Joy.
    â€œHow is my favorite scholar today?” he would ask each time he saw her.
    She was in his home from time to time. She grew familiar with the dining room, parlour, drawing room, and kitchen, his study on the ground floor where he conducted business, and the wonderful staircase with a balustrade so broad that she might have walked up it almost as easily as on the stairs themselves.
    But her favorite room—and it was Mr. Joy’s favorite as well—was the library. It was a large room lit during the day by windows on the south and west walls and by lamps at night. There were comfortable chairs and an ornate carpet. But its most remarkable feature was shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling and were lined with books. Some were in fine leather-bound sets. Others had the appearance of having been collected here and there at different times.
    â€œThere are a great many books here, are there not?” Mr. Joy had said to Ruby on one of her visits when she was young.
    â€œYes, sir. I never saw so many.”
    â€œSomeday, you shall read as many of them as you like. With a few, the back and cover are the best parts. But the insides are better where most are concerned.”
    Almost always, their conversations touched on reading. At age six, Ruby had given Mr. Joy an alphabet chart on which she painstakingly drew all twenty-six letters in an array of colours. On each of her birthdays, he gave her books commensurate with her reading skills.
    â€œAll people should be able to reap the harvest that is stored in books,” he told her. “It is through reading that one learns the wonders of the world, the mighty changes of time, and the name of the street that one is walking on. The demon of ignorance and poverty feeds on illiteracy. I will not stand for it.”
    On Ruby’s sixteenth birthday, Mr. Joy sent word that he would like to see her at his home. She went, not knowing what to expect. He met her at the front door and brought her to his study.
    A large bay window looked out onto a bright flower garden. There was a tea service on a silver tray and a plate of nectarines beside another plate that was filled with sponge cakes.
    Mr. Joy gave Ruby a small box wrapped in red paper. She opened it. There was a necklace inside. A gold necklace with a sparkling ruby.
    â€œAs befits your name,” he told her. “And now, there is something else that I would like to discuss.”
    Ruby waited, uncertain as to what would come next.
    â€œYou are a young woman of special