Okay folks… seventeen reviews for seven chapters, that's like barely over two reviews per chapter – not exactly encouraging. If you don't like this story could you please explain why and if you do like this story – and are not the marvelously faithful JanEyrEvanescence - could you also explain why? Cause I'm not going to update again until I at least have three reviews per chapter – so, like, twenty-one reviews. Cause otherwise it's not really worth it. And that's not asking for a ton: three reviews is kinda stingy as it is. But yeah, I'm not getting the seven reviews for the first chapter and one review for the fourth through sixth chapter deal. Obviously there must be something people don't like… and aren't expressing…

The store eventually became profitable enough to allow us to continue renting the upper apartment, but it didn't allow much for any other extravagances besides lodging and some basic food needs. Veda, Penta, and Laurel continued running the shop smoothly the shop, and I continued stepping in when Penta and Laurel went of to their lessons. I didn't quite understand what they needed the lessons for, given they were so talented, and also the fact that the two seemed to be content with running the shop, but I didn't complain. By the time I had gotten the hang of where everything was in the bakery and was more adept at fetching things, the whole idea had somehow lost the magical appeal it had before. Somehow, everything felt so much more expected and routine. We still sold ale, though, and curiously enough, men did begin coming for a quick glass of it, while their wives got what they needed; and as such Laurel was pleasantly affirmed that her idea became a success. Veda eventually wised up to the fact that she needed more ambience and seating areas, so she and Penta added some simple wooden tables and chairs along with a bar for men, complete with homely barstools, and some high tables with high chairs. The walls still remained fairly simple, though there were now a few cheap paintings from a local artist depicting rustic scenes. And I suppose that was really the look they ended up accomplishing – rustic. It was faintly quaint, I supposed, and tasteful in its understatement, but ultimately it was exactly what I had come to expect: simple, understated, practical, necessary. It didn't burst and pop and beam and express – it was only what was needed to exist.

I never was a part of the baking process, no matter how I suggested and hinted. That was everyone else's job – mine was to sew dresses. I wondered what they did in the kitchens at night and the early morning, but I didn't dare sneak a peak. Such a thing would only demonstrate a violation of duty – and duty and business were the sacred deities of the family. So I continued to sew and continued to seek pleasure in what I was making. Surly there was also value in such an expression of creativity – the ability to make a girl feel physically beautiful and desirable, just as I had wanted to feel.

The fourth dress had been finished to acclaim, and now it was time for my fifth dress. We were already into fall, and I knew that at this rate, I would finish by winter. I felt the need the do something a little bit daring, even poetic. I wanted to make a gown entirely of white, something to evoke the snow. It would be unusual, even unfashionable, given that white was considered almost entirely a summer color. But I was tired of making things merely for the sake of being fashionable – I wanted to make something to gleam with its own intrinsic beauty. Perhaps someone would wear it sometime for a wedding dress.

I told Grandmother about it when I came over to her house next: "I'm going to create something different for the winter season. I have a feeling Veda is not going to like it, but I want to do something… something for me, I suppose. Something more lovely than fashionable, more poetic than social."

She gave me a funny look, and continued stirring the chocolate mixture in the saucepan over the stovetop.

"Do you think that sounds foolish? Do you think I ought to just make something typical? Am I being insensible" I felt as though I had suggested something that made me seem off in the head.

She laughed. "No, no, it isn't that, it's just…" She gave me another of her funny looks. "I don't know; I suppose I never really thought of you as someone who was going to stand up to Veda like that. Or, perhaps not stand up against, but at least…"

I frowned at this. "Do you mean to say that I'm weak?" It sounded so much harsher when I said it and rather defensive. But I suppose I knew as soon as I said it that it was true. In front of Grandmother I could be vocal and inquisitive and could disagree – because I knew that she accepted me. But in front of my family, I was just a pathetic little mouse, whimpering in the corner for a piece of cheese.

Weak – it was a word I had heard and never quite understood, but now all at once I felt I did.

"I… I don't think I quite meant that, but rather… it seems that you do like to please others and that you're not inclined to go against them." Her voice quivered with a slight stammer as though her words were paper catching fire.

I sat down on the chair and unwrapped my red scarf, laying it down on my lap. It was something I had sewed for myself recently in my favorite color – the color of strawberries and blushing faces. It was strong and independent and eager and focused and… and brave, I felt. Brave enough to take a stand, to be bold and fierce.

And I wasn't brave. I was weak.

"I think if you cannot stand for what you believe in, if you live your life always trying to please other people… I feel like that is cowardly and weak. And I say this, and I know it, but still I yearn to be liked, Grandmother. I want people to like me and to notice me. I want to have friends my own age. But I don't seem to know what to say in front of them. I don't even know what to say to my own family. I don't know how to talk about the things we talk about together with other people. I'm just so afraid… and weak, I suppose."

Grandmother poured the mixture into cups and sat down across from me. She reached out and held my hand lovingly as she had done so many times in the past. "Well, Gerda, if that is what being weak means, then I am weak, too."

I looked up at her in surprise. "Really?"

She nodded. "I've always been afraid to confront the people I loved. And there'd be sometimes, wonderful times, when I'd muster the strength to take a stand, but mostly… Mostly I'd just let people tell me what to do, who to be. Even my husband…" Her eyes quivered with grief. I gripped her hands in turn. "Even my husband, I can't confront. I just smile and nod and…" she let go of my hands and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

I got up from the chair and went to her, putting my arm around her shoulder and nestling my head in the hollow of her neck.

She laughed. "I'm sorry, Gerda. I don't mean for you to have to deal with a silly, crying old lady."

I didn't respond at first and just stayed with her as she began to settle down. When at last her breathing became shallower, she turned to me, the tears now replaced with starlight as though reflected from a lake, and we hugged each other. "I love you, Gerda," she said. "Thank you for taking care of this silly, emotional woman."

I smiled. "I love you, too, Grandmother. Thank you for putting up with this silly, weak girl's probing and questioning. And thank you for all the wonderful meals."

We both laughed and broke apart.

"Here, I made something for us since the weather's getting cold," Grandmother said. We both got up and went to where she had laid the cups.

I stared at it, realizing I had thought she was making it for a cake or something and not to be served by itself. "What is it, Grandmother?"

"Try it and see," she said, urging me on.

I took the cup and carefully sipped it so as not to be scalded by the heat. The drink was fairly simple – I could tell that. Primarily it was chocolate and milk, but in an incredibly soothing, placating way. Apart from that were hints of cinnamon and even coffee beans. I felt my face beaming with ecstasy.

"You like it?" Her face was playing at another smile.

I nodded enthusiastically.

"It's called Hot Chocolate – or at least a spiced variety of it. It's a popular drink down south."

"It's delicious!" I replied.

"I like it, too. Especially when it's cold or when I'm sad." She poured some more in our cups when we had finished most of it. "Did you bring your sewing materials with you today?"

I nodded. "Are you in the mood for another story?"

She chuckled. "I am always in the mood for another story."

We headed upstairs with our mugs, and Grandmother brought out a small wooden folding table to sit the mugs on when we weren't drinking.

"Ah, we've read so many already; I hardly know which one to read next!" Grandmother exclaimed, flipping through the pages.

"Perhaps there is a story about baking in there?" I teased. "Perhaps magical men made out of gingerbread or flying carriages made out of peppermint sticks."

"Well…" the old woman said slowly. "Well, there is one story in here…"

My facetious grin was immediately replaced with curiosity. "Oh, what's it about?"

"Well, it's… it's very sad." She looked uncomfortable.

"What… what happens in it?" I felt unexpectedly tense. Only moments ago, we had been so gay and bright, and now this story…

She flipped through the pages and stopped, staring intently. "Well, it's about an old woman with a house made out of candy…"

"Oh," I said. What could be so bad about that? "Well, you don't have to read it if you don't want to, Grandmother."

She nodded and looked at me. "Well, if I don't, I'm sure you'll wonder about it. I warn you, it's very sad, though."

I paused and thought it over. Sadness didn't have to be a bad thing; sometimes it could be poignant and meaningful. And curiosity was beginning to get the better of me. A woman in a house made of candy? What could be sad about that? "Well, I mean, that is to say, if you don't mind, Grandmother. I mean, it does sound interesting.

"No. No, I don't mind." Her voice seemed faint and far away, as though she were just waking up from a dream. She looked for glasses and put them on.

I pulled out my attempt at a balloon sleeve to work on while she spoke. I had managed to find a design that did not look childish and was making some progress on it. It wasn't good enough for my white dress, but I knew I wanted to practice it beforehand, so that I felt more confident for I made the sleeves for real.

"I forgot to ask you about your next dress, Gerda. What will this one look like? Are you making that sleeve for it?"

I looked up at her with a mischievous grin. "No, this sleeve won't be for the dress, and I shan't tell you what it's going to look like. It's a surprise."

Grandmother's eyes sparkled back at me, accepting the challenge with a smile of her own. "Well then, if you must be that way, I won't press you anymore about it." I giggled, and she propped the book open. "Are you ready, Gerda?"

"Yes, Grandmother."

"Once upon a time there was an old woman who lived in the forest all by herself. She was very clever and liked to bake sweets so much that she decided she would bake an entire house made out of sweets which, even if no one else could enjoy, she could at least be soothed by the fond memories of what the candies meant to her. At the same time, there were two children named Hansel and Gretl who lived with their father and stepmother in another cottage in the wood. Gretl was a very serious, but sweet and hardworking young girl who wanted to become an actress when she grew up, and her younger brother, Hansel, was very spritely and loved to watch his father carve wood into little toy statues."

Grandmother went on to tell about the children's evil stepmother who, tired of her husband constantly lavishing attention on them and rationing her food so that they could eat, took the children so deep into the forest so that they no longer knew where they were. There she abandoned them and fled back to her husband saying that they had run off and that she didn't know where they had gone. The children were very afraid and tried to make it back home, but the more they tried, the more lost they became. Eventually they came to the home of the old witch.

"When they saw the house made of gingerbread, they were instantly overcome with hunger. Never, never before had Gretl and Hansel seen such a beautiful house with peppermint sticks surrounding the windows, gumdrops for shingles, windows made of spun sugar, and gutters made of icing."

I licked my lips and finished off the rest of my hot chocolate as the story continued to unfold. The woman opened her front door and found the children eating her house and was overcome with concern for the children. She brought them inside and fed them a better dinner than her house. After they had eaten and were feeling better, they told the woman that they were lost. The woman, pitying the children, helped them each day search for their house, but to no avail. It wasn't until after the woman learned about the abuse the children had suffered at their stepmother's hands and how they had had very little food for their whole family did she piece together what had happened. The children, who came to love the old woman like kin, stayed with the woman a year, growing strong and healthy and better adept at cutting logs and making their own food. One day, however, the children's father managed to find the house from the smoke coming through the chimney. He thanked the old woman profusely, and took his children home. When the children told their father about how their stepmother led them into the woods, the stepmother convinced him that they had been bewitched by the woman who was in fact a witch who was plumping the children up to eat them, adding that her house had been an example of her powerful witchcraft. The husband was angry at her assumptions, but his wife managed to gather some of the nearby neighbors to convince them of her story.

"The stepmother was very cunning, you see, and she managed to persuade many of their neighbors and some of the people in town that the old woman was a threat and might soon target their children and eat them. So many of the people formed into a mob intent on killing the woman. The stepmother was very pleased, for soon she would be able to silence the old crone so the she could not tell anyone that the woman had tried to kill her stepchildren."

I gasped, stealing myself for the horror of what was to follow. "No, she didn't!"

The mob eventually found the woman in the forest, who was very shocked to see them. They read the accusations against her, and she tried to defend herself, but they locked her in her house and lit it on fire. The mob waited until the house had completely melted to the ground and then looked for her remains.

"But no matter how hard they looked or where, no one could find the remains of the old woman." Grandmother closed her book.

I stared feeling overwhelmed by how open-ended it all was. "I don't understand. Was the old woman a witch? What happened to her?"

Grandmother smiled mischievously at me. "I don't know; was she or wasn't she?"

I followed her downstairs. "But what happened to the children? Did they continue to be abused? Did Gretl grow up to be an actress?"

She laughed. "I don't know, dear; the book doesn't say!"

"Did that story even have a moral?" I was getting increasingly more exasperated by the minute.

"Perhaps that evil is evil, and it will hurt others to disguise its true nature."

I felt absolutely vehement at the book, goading me in with such sympathetic characters and then absolutely destroying the end. "That was a terrible story, Grandmother! That ought to be ripped right out of the book! What a waste for an ending like that!"

As we got downstairs, Grandmother reheated the hot chocolate and poured the rest of it into both cups. "You know, Gerda, good doesn't always win. Sometimes it's the people with best intentions who are crucified in the end – even when they haven't done anything to deserve it."

I frowned at this and stared into the dark brown pool of chocolate in my cup, the color of mahogany wood. "How do people live in a world like that then? How do people live being punished for doing something good?"

"Courage, Gerda. If you had the chance to do something truly good for someone, even though you knew you would be hurt in the end… If you could save two children from starving, even if you knew people would come after you… would you still do it? Would you break the law in order to help someone?"

I couldn't speak, afraid that my own words would betray my selfish and fearful heart.

"Courage," Grandmother repeated, her face glowing, "is the magic which continues to bring hope back into the world. We exist on people's courage to stand up against evil, people who stood up against evil no mater how devastating the consequences were. What a world we live in, Gerda. So full of hatred and judgment. If only we all could be courageous… to love others, to stand up for virtue, no matter what people say or do."

I finished my hot chocolate. "That woman must have been very brave."

"Perhaps," Grandmother murmured. "Perhaps she was brave or… perhaps she really had no idea that people would come after her. Perhaps she was just foolish."