"Why do you know everything?"
Elara asked this on a Tuesday — not a market day, but I'd started visiting the bakery on off-days too. Partly because the bread was good. Partly because Elara was the only person my physical age who I genuinely enjoyed talking to.
We were sitting in the bakery's back room, surrounded by the warmth of ovens and the smell of rising dough. Elara's father, a large, quiet man named Henrik, was working in the front. He'd accepted my presence with the stoic tolerance of a man who'd learned that arguing with his daughter was futile.
"I don't know everything," I said.
"You knew that Old Man Garrett's wheat was going to be bad this season before he did. You knew that the bridge on the south road needed repairs because of — what did you call it? — structural fatigue. You knew that my sourdough starter was dying because the ambient temperature in the storeroom dropped. You're seven."
"Knowledge isn't the same as intelligence. I just read a lot and pay attention."
"Nobody reads that much. Nobody pays attention like you do. Even the seminary kids don't know half the stuff you know."
She wasn't accusatory. Elara didn't do subtle — if she suspected something sinister, she'd say it directly, probably while throwing bread. This was genuine curiosity. She wanted to understand.
And she deserved... something. Not the full truth — I couldn't give that to anyone except Edric, and even that had been a calculated risk. But something.
"Some people are born knowing more than they should," I said. "Like how some people are born with stronger mana cores, or faster legs, or perfect pitch. It's not that I learned it all from books. It's that when I read things, they connect to things I already... feel. Like the knowledge was always there and the books just give it words."
This was technically true, from a certain point of view. The knowledge WAS already there. It just came from a previous life rather than innate talent.
Elara considered this with the seriousness she reserved for important matters — bread quality and things Lucien said.
"So you're like... born wise?"
"I wouldn't say wise. I make plenty of mistakes."
"Name one."
"I once ate an entire wheel of soft cheese in one sitting and was sick for two days."
"That's not a mistake, that's a lack of self-control."
"The distinction feels academic when you're vomiting."
She laughed. A bright, unselfconscious sound that filled the warm back room like bread filling an oven. There was flour on her nose. There was always flour on her nose.
"You're my best friend, you know," she said casually, as if stating a fact about the weather. "You're my only friend who doesn't treat me like I'm dumb because I'm a baker's daughter."
Something tightened in my chest. Not painfully. Just... a recognition that this small, flour-dusted girl trusted me, and that trust was a fragile, precious thing.
"You're not dumb," I said. "You're one of the smartest people I know."
"Now you're just being nice."
"I'm being accurate. You learned to read in three weeks what takes most children three months. You understand fermentation chemistry better than anyone in this town. And you just used the word 'distinction' correctly in a sentence, which means my teaching is working."
She beamed. Full wattage. It was like looking at a small sun covered in flour.
"Can I tell you something?" she said.
"Sure."
"I want to open the best bakery in the kingdom someday. Not just Mireth — the whole kingdom. I want to travel to the capital and learn from the master bakers there and then come back and make bread so good that nobles ride from the capital just to taste it."
She said this with absolute conviction. No hesitation. No qualifier. Not "I think" or "maybe." She WANTED it, and the wanting was so pure and fierce that it almost hurt to witness.
"I think you will," I said.
"Really?"
"Elara, you're seven and you already have a better work ethic than most adults I've... known. You'll get there."
She smiled again, but softer this time. Quieter. The kind of smile that meant she'd remember this conversation.
"Thanks, Lucien."
"Stop throwing bread at me, though."
"Never."