(no subject)
Rae had to stop to tuck a stray lock of her hair, having gotten loose from the sunflower-dotted kerchief that was supposed to be keeping her hair out of her eyes, before she could put the last tray of muffins into the oven, reaching that top rack with barely a wobble.
Whew.
The ovens were going full-blast, the timers all set, and even the usually heat-tolerant Sunshine was beginning to feel the heat. It might as well have been August in there (though if it were August, Sunshine would have spent the noontime hours outside); the ovens of Milliways could probably give the big industrial-size oven of her bakery back home pointers on how to bake a room.
Others might wonder at her sanity, wearing a mere tanktop and jeans in the dead of winter, but she knew what kind of temperatures she would be dealing with, baking most of the afternoon and well into the evening. Though perhaps the electric-blue tanktop and the purple jeans hadn't really been the best of choices (nor the red sneakers), she thought idly, as she dumped the mixing bowls, whisks, spoons and measuring cups all into the sink and turned on the water. The faint dustings of flour that had gotten past her apron showed up annoyingly well on the vivid colors.
Especially the handprints on the fronts of her thighs, from where she had forgotten. The silver ward with its sun, its tree, its deer and its running water (...don't we outnumber...) in her front left pocket was there and reassuring in its weight, but the lack of corresponding weight in her right pocket still left her feeling vaguely off-balance. She absently patted at the flour on her jeans to mixed success before starting in on the dirty dishes.
Whew.
The ovens were going full-blast, the timers all set, and even the usually heat-tolerant Sunshine was beginning to feel the heat. It might as well have been August in there (though if it were August, Sunshine would have spent the noontime hours outside); the ovens of Milliways could probably give the big industrial-size oven of her bakery back home pointers on how to bake a room.
Others might wonder at her sanity, wearing a mere tanktop and jeans in the dead of winter, but she knew what kind of temperatures she would be dealing with, baking most of the afternoon and well into the evening. Though perhaps the electric-blue tanktop and the purple jeans hadn't really been the best of choices (nor the red sneakers), she thought idly, as she dumped the mixing bowls, whisks, spoons and measuring cups all into the sink and turned on the water. The faint dustings of flour that had gotten past her apron showed up annoyingly well on the vivid colors.
Especially the handprints on the fronts of her thighs, from where she had forgotten. The silver ward with its sun, its tree, its deer and its running water (...don't we outnumber...) in her front left pocket was there and reassuring in its weight, but the lack of corresponding weight in her right pocket still left her feeling vaguely off-balance. She absently patted at the flour on her jeans to mixed success before starting in on the dirty dishes.