A quickly snapped photo of a summer’s evening.
Sherlock was wandering along the western corridor in the mind palace, sniffing occasionally, and apparently coming to, and abandoning, one conclusion after another.
“Got a cold?” asked Anakin sympathetically. I know, sympathy’s odd for him. But I’m just saying what happened, as Starlight told me it. She was watching from her room around the corner.
“No. I know what it is! Ozone. Somebody’s in for a bad day tomorrow,” the detective said triumphantly.
“You’re doing that thing again,” accused Anakin. “How would you know what sort of day any of us are in for? You don’t even feature in any of the stories on next month’s list. And what’s ozone anyway?”
“Ozone, or O3, is a very rare molecule usually released by evaporating alcohol. Now stop talking.”
“Okay, psycho. What’s ozone got to do with a bad day for anyone?” Crossing his arms, Anakin managed to block the narrow hallway and give the impression he wasn’t planning on going anywhere anytime soon.
“Firstly, as I have said numerous times, I am not a psychopath. Yeast cells produce alcohol as a byproduct, and if you heat the yeast, the alcohol evaporates. Releasing ozone. A provincial boy like you would be more likely to recognize the smell as fresh bread. Rosalie bakes bread when she’s agitated. She is most often agitated about having to inflict damage on characters. Inflicting damage on someone means the someone is going to have a bad day. It must be plans for tomorrow because it’s gone half-past nine and nobody is ever expected to work after that. Done.”
“That’s just dumb,” Anakin retorted disgustedly. “You’re playing all master detective because you figured out the girl bakes when she’s upset? Well done. I had that pegged the day I got here.”
In the kitchen, I of course knew nothing of the deductions in the hallway. With a tea-towel folded over my hands, I was yanking a tray of braided bread rolls out of the oven, realizing too late that the cloth was wet, and you can’t use no wet towel on a hot pan. Yes, I admit it, the guys from The Help occasionally show up in the palace. You’d be surprised who you’d see there. Fortunately Minnie helps us all keep Anakin and Two-Face and Milady in line. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
Where was I? Oh, yeah. Dropping the tray all over the floor, crumpling to my knees to try and pick up the mess, and bursting into tears. It was kind of the last straw, on top of a really, really bad day.
Richard III had crashed the gates with Buckingham and Tyrell. I’ve told them a few times I may have to tolerate them in school, but I will absolutely not let them into my home. Batman and Green Arrow went on vacation just when Palpatine and Falcone met up and decided to cause havoc together. It wasn’t pretty.
So there I was weeping over a tray of broken-up bread, when – just at precisely the wrong moment, like always – the kitchen door opened and Obi-Wan came in. When I am baking, I always shut the door and usually lock it and jam a chair-back under the handle just to be on the safe side. Still, with Jedi in the house…
“Well? Who is it this time, Nasriel or Ben?”
I couldn’t look up at him and see the kindly pity in his eyes, so I kept my head bowed and swiped at tears.
“You. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh. Well, that’s all right. We’ll brave it through together.” He seemed to be studying the chaos on the floor. “Chocolate bread?”
“Really upset,” I clarified between sniffles. “It’s going to be awful.”
Swiftly, Obi-Wan knelt to pick up the broken bread. “Chocolate bread as in, not focaccia, as in, will not be improved by salt. Dry your eyes, and I’ll help with the dishes.”
Have I ever told you I think Obi-Wan is fantastic?