S2 Chapter 8: A Pain No Lesser For Being Shared

AQUILO Season 2 Chapter 8 A pain no lesser for being shared. Agnes looks so small, as if the anger inside her has its own gravitational pull drawing her in. She walked into the cafe, ready for her shift. Early, even. She probably expected to come in, suffer through my repeating of the same instructions of the last two days before taking charge of the lunch crowd.

Maybe crowd is a bit of an overstatement. Normally, I do get quite a few people standing in line to purchase a wrap or sandwich. My salads have also been quite popular this summer. That's right. Salads. They're fresh and filling, perfect for a warm day, and my marinated chicken and dressing are the stuff of legends. In the last few days, however, since Agnes started working for me...

My clientele has dwindled from a river to a trickle. If things had remained as they were, I'd have stayed and worked lunch with Agnes before leaving the Aquilo in her care. As it stands, I'll be doing neither of these things.

Instead, I'm going to fire Agnes, especially if what I suspect is true. What did I do? she asks again, stepping closer to the counter and to her brother. Peter reacts by flinching away from her, away from her question and away from the clenched fists at her side. Agnes looks small, but she's a tightly wound ball of fissile material about to reach critical mass. You hit Peter, didn't you? The question, the accusation, might as well have been an assault of its own. Agnes recoils from its impact.

like a cat that's been kicked on the sidewalk, unsure whether to retaliate or flee. Her eyes are wide but locked in an angry scowl, while her shoulders are hunched and her feet firmly planted into the ground. I can see myself in her again. It's the knee-jerk reaction to an accusation. It's my reaction to every single time I was summoned into the dean's office while I was still in cooking school.

I can feel my fingers digging into the arms of the chair across from his desk while listening to him go through my list of sins. Agnes's heels do the same with the floor of my cafe. It's like looking into a mirror. But it's a funhouse mirror, distorted and wrong. What I'm accusing her of is hitting someone and giving them a black eye.

The worst crime I've been blamed of is telling Chef Gagnon how he's a pompous, half-qualified know-it-all. I was merely stating a truth everyone else lacked the courage and wherewithal to say. Agnes is a violent psycho. Similar, but... Different circumstances. Is that what you told her? She asks her brother, white-knuckled fists ready to go. Again. He didn't have to tell me anything.

I explain, the grasp on my own patience ever more slippery. And I know you went after him the other night, too. I don't know how you hit it, how you made me forget, but I know. There's a slight change that goes over Agnes. Her teeth vanish back behind lips as they curl into a slight, knowing smile. The focus of her attention shifts back to me, but the aggression drains from her muscles as they lose tension.

This, too, echoes previous interactions of mine. I can remember Dean Mack telling me that I was in trouble with Chef Gagnon for the last time and assuming that I would skate away from the conversation unscathed. He and I had baked those cookies together so often that I recognized the recipe and was more than ready to go through the motions. I was wrong. Someone had switched the ingredients. We'd moved kitchens.

And I didn't notice the change. I don't know what gives Agnes the impression that she's got the upper hand, but just like I did, she's about to learn a harsh lesson about who picks the menu around here. Fine, she says.

You got me. I hit him. But he had it coming. And he deserves so much worse. And with that, her defensiveness melts away. She takes a moment to adjust her trademark black and white striped shirt, shift her eyes around the cafe, then start to walk towards the register. I let her get close. I know what she's doing.

acting like nothing's happened, like hitting Peter is just a normal part of their household's operation and I should just let it go. He deserved it, she claims. What does a brother have to do to deserve being attacked with a broken bottle by his sister? Or get a black eye? What could the guy who buys a kid soda and cookies as payment for a simple chore have possibly done to earn physical punishment? Did he leave the toilet seat up? Forget to pay a bill?

Eat the last of her goddamn cakes? And now she has the gall to act as if that was all the information she needed to give in order to absolve herself. Not on my watch. What do you think you're doing? The voice that comes out of my mouth feels like it belongs to someone else. One of my teachers, perhaps. Or maybe I borrowed it from Helen Edna.

It's cold and unfeeling with maybe a drizzle of severity. It's the tone of a director or mentor laying the groundwork for admonishment. And Agnes recognizes it. Her hand, for a moment resting on the counter as she was about to go around and join me near the register, pulls back as if the surface had turned to molten metal. The smile is knocked right off her little red lips and her pretty gold eyes are filled with sudden doubt.

Starting my shift? she asks, realizing something's off. Are you out of your mind? I explode. I was already considering letting you go. You didn't do the register last night. You don't split tips. You take food without accounting for it. And look at my customers. Look! My arm sweeps around, urging anyone listening to see for themselves.

My dining room is half empty, at lunch hour, and the few patrons who are there might as well be asleep or in waking comas. That's not me, she tries to explain, but I don't give her the luxury. You're bad for business, which is bad enough on its own, but now I find out you're hitting my friend? I let the question marinate in her mind for a moment. Let her finish putting together what I'm saying.

Let her come to terms with the significance. I need this job, she whines. There's something in her tone that begs me to listen with more care. A voice within the voice that's an echo of a former me. I need this diploma. Words from the past telling me I'm making a mistake. But I can't listen to yesterday's Miriam. She doesn't know about Aquilo, the cafe, the demon in my backyard, or the legacy of Doris Dufour. She means well by drawing this convenient parallel, but she's missing the point.

Agnes is nothing like her. Agnes is poison. And I need my customers. They're my friends and neighbors.

I need them happy and I need them healthy. And I need you not to be beating up my friend. One final change comes over Agnes. When she first came into the Aquilo, following in her brother's shadow like a wounded dog creeping after its owner, she was nothing but doubt and fear wrapped in a caustic blanket of aggression. This knew Agnes. Freshly fired from my employment is a different beast. Her spine looks straight for the first time and her shoulders hold firm.

This tension isn't the ash of burning anger, nor is it the stress of an overloaded pressure cooker on the verge of exploding. This is toxic determination. It's the confidence of those who find few or no choices left available to them. I hate to admit it, but for a moment, this new Agnes scares me. What do I know of her? She walks around with a chip on her shoulder, showing very poor impulse control. She's already attacked her brother on at least two occasions, one leaving him wounded.

What could she do to me if pushed into a corner? I'm Miriam Dufour, owner of the Aquilo Cafe. I've tamed a demon and I can cook better than anyone else I've ever met. But what do I have to defend myself against a psychotic girl with fantasies of vengeance? You, she says, pointing my direction, but beyond me. I don't even need to turn to see who she's addressing.

Why are you doing this to me? Agnes, Peter replies, his voice trying to be soothing but coming out pleading. You're doing this to yourself. I expect her to blow up at last, to channel her tension into a concentrated burning retort full of anger and vitriol. I expect to be able to measure her reaction on the Scoville scale. Instead, The tension breaks into a quivering of her lower lip. Agnes struggles to keep her composure from breaking. She holds on to her indignation and fury as best she can.

It's the crutch that keeps her dignity standing lest she crumble to the floor. A few quick steps retrace her way back to the door, but she stops in front of her brother. Would she strike him again? Would she hit him right in front of me, in public, in broad daylight? No. She simply looks up at him, the tension still under control, damn near vibrating the very air around her.

The only sign of it releasing is through her lips as she mouths a single word. Why? And to that, as if we couldn't see him, or not caring that we do,

Peter answers with a calm, sincere, and deliberate smile. Like a bad smell, Agnes's departure lingers behind. It's an unease that fills the room. I can see it in Gulliver's disapproving look and my customer's groggy, confused expressions. Teddy is sitting at the counter looking like he got caught in an argument between his parents. Then there's Peter.

I should go after her, he says in a low voice, looking out the front window. His smile remains and the fingers on his right hand gently caress the swelling on his face. Despite the wound, I could still see the beauty in Peter. No amount of bruising and damage could have sullied his flawless features. It's the damage from beneath that bubbles through his skin and expression that gets to me.

That smile. Why would you do that? I ask, sounding concerned, but I'm not sure that's how I really feel anymore. Let Peter leave, I think. Deal with Gulliver's unavoidable accusations and blame, then move on with the rest of my day. It's going to be a long one, and I'm already spent from burning the candle at both ends for so long.

With so much drama in my coffee shop, I should be glad to have both siblings out of my hair for a little while. I have bigger concerns. She's family, he says. She's going through some things. She needs me. The way he says she needs me sends a chill up my spine. There's a hunger in those words that I haven't heard in Peter since the night we went to Lady Godiva. She gave you a black eye. She hit you. That's abuse, Peter. You can't help her. Not if you don't help yourself first.

He listens to my regurgitated advice, nodding with every point, but he's not going to take it. I wouldn't. Do you have a sister, Miriam? I know where this is going. I have a brother. His name is Eric. And has your brother ever gone through something life-changing? You could say that. And were there ups and downs in that period of Eric's life? Of course there were.

Eric spent years knowing that he liked boys more than girls. It took him even longer to understand what that meant, and longer still to confide in me. Coming out to our parents was by far one of the most difficult experiences of his life. and mine by extension. It's not like our father is an easy man to decipher. With the stress and tension in Eric's life, especially during early adolescence when we didn't get along in the first place.

He and I lived through a laundry list of disagreements. Threats and terrible insults were exchanged. And yeah, we've come to blows. Despite all that... Never in all his days of fear and frustration would I not have stood by his side. Yeah, I say defeated. I get what you're saying, but she's my sister. I'm all she's got.

There's no one else in the world who understands her like I do. The implication is clear. She's the only one who understands him, too. I look at sweet, pretty Peter, and I want to be that person, too.

In a way, it makes me resent Agnes all the more, but also, if she brings him comfort, I suppose she's important to me by association. Miriam has a point, though. Gulliver interrupts. Enormous and usually noisy, it's surprising that he managed to make it all the way to the door without my noticing. By the time I do see him, his hand is already on the handle, ready to push his way out.

It's not the Gulliver I'm used to seeing leave the cafe. This one isn't mad like I've witnessed before, nor is he pleasant and eager to return. This Gulliver is disappointed and sad. Like someone told him he was no longer welcome at his favorite place. In a way, I think that might be exactly how he's feeling. Maybe now's not the best time for you to talk her down.

Maybe she needs someone who's not that close to her. Gulliver means himself, of course. Although I've had my doubts about his motives, and in a way I still do, I have to admit he has a point. Agnes blames Peter for her situation. He's not the one to bring her comfort at this time. That, too, is something I learned growing up with Eric. Fine. Peter surrenders.

She goes to the ice cream shop at the corner of Main Street and 3rd Avenue when she's upset. Instead of thanks, Gulliver gives Peter a slight nod of understanding. I think he gets it. Peter isn't just acknowledging that Gulliver is right.

He's trusting him with his little sister, trusting him to provide her a safe place despite what she did to him. I'm sorry, I say, the sound of door chimes still ringing after Gulliver's departure. Peter smiles an apology of his own before making his way to the counter next to Teddy. No sooner is he seated than he sinks his head into his hands, grasping his dark hair between his fingers. I think of what might soothe his anguish.

What I want to do is stroke his head or take his hand in mine. But now's not the time. These are solutions to ease my pain, not his. Instead, I do what I do best. I collect some coffee grounds and put them into the evil brass and copper contraption on the counter. I steam some milk and put a tablespoon of maple syrup and some cocoa into a mug.

I carefully pour and stir the ingredients in with the coffee, mouthing words of safety and hope as I do. I do this in silence, only stopping to smile at Teddy to reassure him that I have things well in hand. I don't, but the kid doesn't need to know that. The mug makes a grinding noise as I slide it across the counter, noticing how it glides over the marks left from one of Agnes' previous outbursts. Thank you.

Peter says, taking the mug between his fingers and smelling the warm steam rising from it. He seems pleased, maybe even a little comforted. I wouldn't call what I served him a spell. There's no sigil or ritual to it, but there is intent, and I chose my ingredients with care. Either way, coffee has its own magic to offer. You know you can talk to me about whatever, right?

I don't know Peter enough to make that offer, and he doesn't know me enough to accept it. Of course, I'd listen to him talk about anything, and any glimpse into his life would be welcome. But considering how much I hide from him, I realize that we're a mystery to each other. It's not the same, though. He's just a pretty boy.

I don't want to call his life boring, but he's not secretly a witch trying to keep a small business afloat. I know, he says, still breathing in the smell of my offering. It's just hard to talk about something. I'm... Still not sure how to process. You don't have to tell me everything. Just whatever you think might lessen the weight on your heart. Shoulders. I should have said shoulders. Heart.

is too personal. I appreciate the offer, but I wouldn't even know where to start. How about why the two of you are in Aquilo? You said it yourself. We're both from out of town. We understand what it's like being new here. Well, as one expatriate to another, I offer my ear to you. Peter puts the mug down, pushing it gently a few inches ahead of him. The gesture says to me that he's not so much finished with it as he's putting it aside for when he's done his tale.

Without going into any detail, let me just say that where we're from is hell. I try not to be that guy who resents people with comfortable upbringings, but where Agnes and I grew up… If you can even call it that. Couldn't have possibly been worse. This? Peter points to his black eye. It looks a little worse now that I can take a good look at the damage. Even his gold-colored eye is bloodshot.

I wince just looking at it. This is nothing compared to what she and I suffered every single day. Sharing that kind of pain together? Well, it forges a bond, you know. A couple of insults and a punch to the face? How much does that weigh in the balance against years of pure, distilled torment? All of this is a lot to absorb.

There's a curious part of me who hungers for morbid details about the siblings' past. Were they orphaned and caught in the foster care system, passed from one abusive family to the next? Did they suffer at the hands of their own parents, tortured by the very people meant to protect them? The disturbing list of abuse and exploitation that Peter and Agnes might have suffered together, with only each other for support, goes on and on.

I want details to lay my speculations to rest but with Teddy within earshot, I'm not sure that this is the time. Besides, how much does Peter feel comfortable even sharing? I'm guessing Agnes just isn't adjusting as well as you are. He laughs. It's mirthless and meant only to lighten a mood too dark for humor. Agnes. He says her name with a mix of regret and longing. I can hear his wish that she be something she's not. Agnes refuses to do what needs to be done to exist in this new world.

She's clinging to things so far outside her nature, and it's destroying her. I don't know what that means, and there are no questions I could ask with enough tact to find out. The best I can do is reach out my hands and take one of his. I wish there was something I could do to help. For a moment, I consider telling him about Doris and the history of the Aquilo.

How there might be an answer to his prayers upstairs in my great-grandaunt's grimoire of recipes. The Dufour women are witches. It's no secret around these parts, either. Anyone who doesn't know that my predecessor's baked and cooked magical meals simply doesn't care, or is willfully ignorant. However, I'm not sure I want to volunteer something I may very well be unable to deliver. Instead, I squeeze his hand hoping that this sort of very simple magic can be enough.

The weight of the emotional conversation must have taken its toll as I instantly feel exhausted by this tiny effort. Eyelids heavy and neck stiff. It feels like I've been awake for a hundred years. I have been running myself ragged. This may be just the straw that breaks the camel's back, and with the better part of a whole shift to go, too. There might be something else, too. Peter says, visions of closing the cafe and being taken upstairs flood my sleepy mind.

The temptation to offer him comfort in exchange for an excuse to borrow some rest is strong and tempting, but I'm disappointed to hear he has something completely different in mind. What else can you tell me about the fruit of the aquilow tree? We're back on this subject and the cobwebs over my mind are too thick to allow any protest on my part. I don't have much to offer.

And Teddy beats me to the punch by speaking out the well-used line everyone in Aquilo recites. There's no such thing as an Aquilo tree. I run my fingers over the green thread of embroidery on my apron. I can feel the texture of the stitched branches and leaves under my index. To the eye, there is such a thing as an Aquilo tree. With enough imagination, one could say that they're everywhere in town.

They're on the signs greeting visitors to the village, on the paperwork you fill out at City Hall. Businesses borrow some interpretation or other of the Aquilo tree for their logos. It's on my menus and in my window. It's on everybody's lips if only to tell others that there's no such thing as an aequilo tree. Why wouldn't there be a plant like that in a place like this?

Of all the cities and towns across the world, if I had to name one where miraculous fruits could be harvested, it would have to be Aquilo, wouldn't it? I spent the balance of my shift in a haze, half listening to Peter go on about what he could do with an Aquilo fruit. It wasn't long before he and Teddy started fantasizing, trading their grand dreams. I bet you could wish for wings and fly, Teddy exclaimed. Or maybe make you immortal, or immune to pain, Peter responded.

They went back and forth like that for a while, and I think Peter made an attempt to include me in their game, but my mind was elsewhere. Or maybe nowhere. It's hard to remember.

Back in Doris' apartment, I wait for the oven to warm up. It's late. It's so goddamn late. I manage to do the register before closing time since the dining room was empty. But that still pushed me past midnight. If I cared at all for my health and well-being, I'd be in bed right now. Instead, I'm cooking. But if I have to be honest, my heart isn't in it.

I feel like I should put this in perspective. The last time I didn't have it in me to cook, I had a one-inch-wide hole in the side of my lower abdomen that ended with an exit wound just above my kidney. While I lost my taste for baking and cooking for a few days, it took longer before I could get my hands on some ingredients and utensils. Turns out they won't let you have so much as an easy-bake oven when you're in the hospital.

Before that, you can trace my previous loss of culinary inspiration all the way back to my breakup with Trevor and that lasted a whole evening. I indulged in some fancy, expensive ice cream, but by the time I could see the bottom of the pint, I was telling myself how much better my ice cream would be. The next morning, I was buying heavy cream and fresh fruits to give it a shot. I was right. Mine was leagues ahead of even the best store-bought ice cream made in Vermont. Tonight is different.

Aside from being more tired than I think I have ever been, my brain feels submerged in brine and it takes every ounce of concentration to focus on the simplest of tasks. As an example. I usually never forget to warm up the oven. Yet here I stand, a bowl of cake batter on the counter with Doris's wooden spoon sticking out, waiting so I can give these magical petit four another go. Because that's why I'm doing this.

I don't have a choice. I'm running out of time. All my sigils have been drawn and placed at the bottom of the cake mold with reverence and intent. I even caught myself whispering a little prayer while scribbling them out on rice paper. If this recipe doesn't work, I'm not sure what other avenues are open to me. In fact, if these cakes aren't enough to satisfy the hunger demon,

I don't know that I'll be able to survive. I pour the batter into molds, running through my mind the recipe for the pistachio marzipan I still have to make. My hands tremble with the effort of holding the metal bowl as I work the spoon, and I spill batter on the counter. This won't do. How tolerant of clumsiness is magic anyways? What dangers am I imbuing into my spell with every drop of batter that misses its mark? Frustrated, I sigh and toss the bowl into the sink. No, this won't do it all.

These aren't petit four I'm cooking. It's a recipe for my own demise. I might as well be nodding a noose. By the time the oven bell chimes, letting me know that the interior has reached the desired temperature of 350 degrees, I'm sitting in the living room. My fingers still shake as I hold a small rectangular piece of cardboard between them. It's a business card. On it, the name Orléans is spelled out in gold letters.

Do I dare ask the Inquisition for help again? Last time, the results were less than ideal, but they did buy me another day to find a solution to the hunger demon problem. Maybe they can do the same once more? No. The hunger demon has been the responsibility of the Dufour women since before my arrival in Aquilo. It might even be something that Doris inherited from Philemon.

Who knows how far up the chain of my predecessors the care for that unholy monster runs. This is my duty. It's a job that requires a kitchen witch's touch and deft enough cooking to satisfy the insatiable. I was born for this. I've done it for 10 months. I can do it for another 100 months if I have to. Until I find a way to make the magic stick. Until I find a miracle.

I sigh again, no longer in frustration but in resignation. I know that this is not the right energy to bring to the spell either. I should be calm and satisfied, able to project those attributes into the cake.

Bake in not only the flavor and moistness, but also the intent. How is it? The pistachio marzipan petit four are done, and with them the last few ounces of my will and energy. Beady black eyes look up at me from the bottom of the metal staircase behind the aquilo. The sky should be dark. A black expanse blanketing the heavens would mean I still had a sparkle of time to catch some sleep before the day's obligations began. As it stands, however, when this little experiment is over...

It'll be time for me to take a shower, maybe nod off for a few minutes under the hot water, before taking on the morning shift. The raccoon looks at me, turning the petite four in between her paws. She chews with an open mouth. Fangs glistening in the porch light as crumbs rain down her chin. I marvel at how the little scarf I tied around her neck remains undamaged.

I've had to change it a few times since first putting it on her, but she's never made any effort to tear at it or rip it off. It's only when the fabric gets too dirty or worn that I issue little brioche a fresh one. She takes another bite. twisting her neck, never allowing me to leave her sight. After yet another bite, she scampers up to the bowl I keep out for the raccoons and other wildlife, submerging the petit four in water. That bad, is it? It's just what raccoons do.

I shouldn't take offense. After a moment, Brioche is taking ravenous bites of the sodden cake again. It looks gross to me, but she seems to enjoy it. Maybe if an immortal critter finds it to her liking, the hunger demon will enjoy it too. I lean over to scratch brioche between the ears. It's a privilege to be able to have safe contact with an animal like this, and it's a closeness we afford each other, despite being the prickly ones in our respective social circles.

But something's wrong. My little brioche recoils at my touch. At first, I worry that it's something I'm doing, or that my petite four could have somehow altered her. She's been changed by magic once, so I suppose it could happen again. And I did mess up in the kitchen. But it's not that. Brioche isn't even looking at me. Or her cake. Ears flat on the back of her head, she stares at the woods where the hunger demon manifests. No, not at the woods. Her little eyes are focused closer.

Whatever she sees that my eyes can't pick up, it's wandering along the alley between the buildings. Hello? I call out like a proper horror movie victim before being cut in half by a machete or having an axe embedded in my skull. The only reply I get is a familiar moan. familiar for two very different, incompatible reasons. I know that moan because it's the sound every college and university student makes while leaving a bar after too much to drink.

or at the tail end of a marathon study that stretches through the night and into morning. I've made that sound a few times myself during the night. I also know the voice that's producing that moan. Bubbly and high-pitched, it couldn't possibly belong to whoever is crawling in the dark of my alley. There's no answer to my call, except if the sound of a body collapsing on the cracked and dirty pavement counts as a reply.

This is Aquilo at night. My mind tries to pull out images of hellhounds and hunger demons it has stored for just such an occasion. I should be terrified of leaving the light of the Aquilo cafe, but if my suspicions are correct... And they are. The small, passed-out body rests in an uncomfortable position, splayed on the pavement. Teddy? Theodore?

AQUILO is written by J.F. Dubot and narrated and produced by me, Amy Frost. If you enjoy the show, please leave us a review on Apple Podcasts. You have no idea how much it helps. Want to support the show? Buy us a coffee. Visit ko-fi.com slash Akewillow to donate a cup. Questions, comments? Email us at Akewillow at gmail.com. Follow us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram under the username Akewillow.