Trumpets of Grace

The blush peonies were arranged in such a way, as to watch over the baked loaves of bread. Their petals splayed out and their pollinated scent caused sneezing havoc in the bakery. But Wendy adorned the view and it made the mundane task of bread-making a pleasure. Locks of blonde hair hung by her shoulders and freckles dotted her nose. At only twenty-seven, she was Sicily’s most well-known baker.

By her side was her twin Dalia, who also shared the same passion for baking. The sisters worked beneath the Sicilian heat, trying to ignore the pestering flies and steam from their works. They churned an array of breads, pastries and rhubarb pies, mustering hundreds of baked items. The chatter of townsfolk grew louder around lunchtime, as the crowd flocked to collect the freshly baked goods. The pair welcomed their regulars and introduced themselves to new customers, it was the highlight of their work. 

By the afternoon hours the commotion of the crowd died down and a small array of baked foods lay astray. The twins tucked into the bread and cookies, consuming the leftovers as a sweet dinner. Dalia hung up her apron, still covered in flour and dough. 

“You need to wash that, it’s not a clean image for the bakery,” Wendy sighed. 

“Of course it is, it shows authenticity,” Dalia announced. She loosened her bun and allowed the blonde hair to unravel. “Finish your dinner Wen, I’ll pack up.”

Wendy gnawed on the rest of the cookie, as crumbs trickled into her pockets. She rested against a wooden pillar and watched her sister clean up. When a customer arrived by the window, Dalia made herself known. 

“I’ll take the loaf from the bottom off your hands,” he requested.

Dalia turned around and when she did, the man lunged through the window and snuck inside the bakery. In an instant, he took Dalia in his grasp, her scream split the air.

“What are you doing?” Wendy gasped, as she ran over. 

“Give me everything you have, no questions asked,” he demanded, as he slung an empty bag onto the floor. 

As Wendy reached over, she caught a glimpse of his eyes - hollow and empty. Though he shunned away and the rest of his face remained hidden. With the bag in hand, Wendy ventured into the cook room. On the bench lay the register and her fingers fumbled through handfuls of notes. A pit inside her stomach grew as their earnings for the day slipped into the bag. Commotion sounded as the intruder struggled against Dalia’s attest but it left Wendy unsupervised. She tucked an elongated knife into the waistband of her apron. All the while, wondering if he noticed. She looked over to see the pair struggling in each other’s grasp. Dalia struck the captor with her elbow and he faltered. It was enough to spare time. Wendy moved around the cook room, at what once was used to produce income, would now become her weaponry. She placed a generous amount of wooden chopboards and pans inside the bag and tied the end into a knot. 

“Hurry up and get back over here,” the captor yelled. 

The bag swung over Wendy’s shoulder and she tried to stifle the heaviness. Each footstep was a chore but she managed to conceal the struggle. She moved at a pace slower than he would like. But soon his impatience grew too much and the intruder raised a knife above Dalia. Just when he was about to swing down, Wendy threw the bag onto him. He was stunned but still standing. Wendy extracted the knife from her waistband and ran forward. Catastrophe unfolded as the knives were braced. Wendy and the intruder became united, when the knives dug into their opponents. Excruciating pain stung her chest and coated her mind with agony. Equally weak and wounded, the pair dropped to their knees, the knives still embedded in each other's chest. Kneeling in a bed of crimson blood, they both fought hard to stay awake. 

“Wendy, please let go. He’s already injured, we can escape now,” Dalia pleaded. 

“If I let him live, he will come for you,” Wendy spat through the pain.

“Wendy, we all know what happens if you kill him.”

The intruder leaned in and said, “You and I shall be transported to the afterlife realm of Acadia, for the purpose of committing murder. We can walk away from this unscathed. Retract your knife.”

Wendy shook her head. “I would rather die trying to save my sister than let you walk as a free man.”

“If you kill me, then you will change the course of your future and condemn yourself to an eternal afterlife in Acadia,” he said, almost sleepily.

Legend was that Acadia was an undisclosed island in the afterlife. Home to criminals of all sorts, who shall spend eternity together. Though, one is only sentenced to Acadia upon their death. Ironically, if Wendy and the intruder equally murder and die trying, they should both enter Acadia. Any knowledge beyond that is absent, for nobody has ever returned. But one thing is for sure, it is an eternal sentence.

The intruder forced his eyes open and stared at Wendy. His lip quivered as he tried to talk and eventually did. “I will spare you, for I am not willing to serve eternity in Acadia. I never wanted this.”

Wendy leaned forward and plunged her knife deeper into his chest. “You should have thought of that before coming here.”

The intruder's eyes slipped shut and cold breath escaped his lips. Wendy fell with him, the pair still remained united as one. The pain within her chest was relentless and it grew deeper. Almost as if breathing on-top of a breath, Wendy gasped for air. 

Dalia rushed over and whispered words of gratitude. She felt the claminess of her sister’s skin and used the table cloth as a blanket. “Wen, what have you done?”

Wendy was pinned to the ground but raised her head enough to look at Dalia. Whose eyes glimmered with fear, as she re-arranged the blanket over her sister. 

“Do you hear that?” Wendy coughed. 

Distant trumpets blared down the streets of Sicily. The music was adorned by string harps and marching feet. The melody echoed throughout the bakery and despite the eloquence of the tune, everyone knew what it meant. The song music grew louder, as the golden instruments marched through the front door. Their beholders were Nymphs, dressed in elegant satin and wreaths crowning their heads. Their ears were pinned and vines were braided into their hair, which reached as far as their knees. In a composed manner, the Nymphs entered the bakery, whilst orchestrating the trumpets and harps.

A male nymph crouched beside the intruder and crowned him with a wreath of lilies. The pure white was gracious against his face, frozen with a petrified glaze. A second nymph walked over to Wendy, with eyes of brighter days, and knelt down. She stroked Wendy’s hair and placed a wreath of woven roses atop her head. “You are coming with us,” she smiled.

“Will it hurt?” Wendy stifled. 

“No, I am here now,” the nymph explained. “Do not be afraid. Where we are going, is a place that will nurture our wicked acts. To reshape us into the good that the world deserves to see.”

Wendy grinned at the beautiful imagery, as a tear dripped down her chin. The song resounded and the nymphs hummed an enchanted melody. Their voices lifted on high and cast an embrace of purity. Suddenly, the pain diminished and a white haze clouded Wendy’s view. The nymph whispered into her ear - “Welcome to Acadia.”

The music of Acadia played into the song finale and then, the bakery was silent.