Where does one find a palm tree branch?

  Minnie had never seen root nor branch of a palm tree. Such things didn’t grow in the sparse forests and rolling fields she knew. But she vaguely remembered an illustration in one of Martha’s books. When asked, Martha reminisced about the sweet fruit an occasional merchant used to bring to Greengrove, back before the Wall. Clim had only scoffed, muttering that dates looked like cockroaches and he would never put something like that in his mouth.

  While Minnie puzzled over the impossible riddle of a palm tree branch, the wool practically fell into her lap.

  One of the oven workers, a tall man with soot-smudged sleeves and a permanent scowl, misjudged his swing. He brought a tray too close to the fire. In an instant, the corner of his oven mitt ignited. The flames flared sharp and fast, and he barely stifled a yelp as he tore it off and smothered it against the stone counter.

  When the fire was out, he picked up the mitt with trembling fingers.

  It was in bad shape, the fabric scorched through, blackened and brittle along the edge, the padding half exposed. He turned it over once, twice, then just stared at it, his jaw clenched. The colour drained from his face.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Minnie had seen that look before, on farmers holding broken tools they couldn’t afford to replace. He made a mistake, and in this place, mistakes were punished. Harshly.

  He glanced around. Clearly debating whether he could hide it. Whether it was worth trying.

  Before he could decide, Minnie stepped forward.

  “I can fix it,” she said, soft but steady.

  He looked at her like he couldn’t understand what she was saying. Then, slowly, he handed it over. His shoulders sagged a little and she felt a bit guilty for using someone’s misfortune for her own ends. Still, she was helping him as well, so there was no need to hesitate.

  That night, Minnie worked on the mitt until the small hours. She’d been good at this back home, but tonight her hands were raw from the day’s work, and the only light came from the hallway lantern, slipping through a narrowly cracked door. She pricked her fingers more than usual, and by the time she finished, she was blinking hard to keep the tears down.

  Before she started, she had gently plucked out a small tuft of the wool stuffing. She wrapped it in scrap cloth and tucked it into her apron.

  The next morning, she returned the mitt to its owner, without a word.

  He took it with a grim, uncertain expression, then turned it over in his hands. When he saw the stitching, and that the mitt held together, he looked up with quiet gratitude. He also kept quiet.

  And then he turned back to the ovens, and Minnie returned to her running.

  The hardest task was still waiting.