I thought I uploaded this last week? Apparently not... Anyway... My personal favorite part of this chapter is the first half, with Veda and Gerda's conversation. Otherwise, this chapter marks a change in the dynamic of the story, and I have a feeling you'll see how. Tell me what you think! And sorry about the hiatus (to the people who review, hint, hint at least). Can't say I have much good reason for it, especially since I'd already written Chapter Ten, but alas and oh well.

I went home that day more excited than I had been in a long, long time. It wasn't even necessarily the thought that I was finally going to learn how to bake for myself, but also the sweet taste of revenge – or at least even independence from the domineering, hyper-controlled force that was Veda. I was so tired of being a pawn in her game. Now things were going to be different. Now, I was going to be the baker.

Back at the apartment, Veda unsurprisingly failed to recall that there had been any prior tension between us. Now it was just sunshine and complacency – or so she thought.

I couldn't help giggling to myself. I had a secret; I was not just an extension of Veda's body. I was going to do something outside of her control. And there was nothing she could do about it.

I almost felt drunk with the sense of control, no matter how delusional it actually was. The point was that I was finally making some sort of steps towards freedom. I was just a little bit less cowardly and a little bit braver.

I still didn't know what to make of my dressmaking. I obviously had a talent – or at least that was what Grandmother had led me to believe. And people had bought my dresses. It wasn't that I was going to give up on it, but rather I felt the time had come to put it aside momentarily. I needed to be a person; I needed to be Gerda who did not just fill in the cracks between tiles like grout. I wanted to bake. I was born to experience life through different venues and different expressions. I had spent so much time trying to shove my mother's sneers down her throat and prove my importance that I had forgotten to be important. I had forgotten how to be an actual person.

Still, I knew I could not give up my dressmaking – if anything to placate Veda while I sharpened the dagger of my soon-to-be-acquired skills. I wasn't entirely sure where I was going to go with my next one after all. It was the beginning of winter now, and I doubted I could get another one done by Christmas. I had almost considered doing one in light blue and white, another take on the snowflake theme – just to irritate Veda, but I knew that'd be a mistake. But what was one supposed to come up with for winter? Darker colors so as not to stand out?

I decide on a rich red design, one I was sure I'd like very much. It would be made out of velvet and perhaps even white fur if I could afford it. The bodice would be designed like a waistcoat with little silver buttons going up it on the side, and there would be a thin layer of fur all around the bottom of it. The sleeves would be sewn onto it, but would look as though they were a posterior layer. They would be balloon shaped, again, though a little more distinctly with fur cuffs. The high collar would be lined with fur, too, and that section would also be connected to the bodice so as to look posterior. The skirts would be detached from the bodice, with little stars and snowflake designs embroidered here and there to give it a glimmering sort of look.

Veda might still not like the white, but it would certainly be enough to get away with.

It seemed so odd that she had entered my consciousness at all. She had always been so stiff and unemotionally charged that she merely faded into the background like a schedule. It was almost as though she didn't exist, like she was some giant manual. I couldn't help wondering who – or what – she had been as a child. I could have imagined her memorizing textbooks and reciting all the answers back to her teacher, while the other students looked at her with loathing and disgust.

Yet, the woman was so elegant and sophisticated. She wore gowns as if she created them – as if they were created for her. She talked to people with impeccable poise and regality. Had she been royal? Perhaps even an aristocrat?

I decided to ask her about it the next time we were alone together after the store closed. We were both busy working – I on the dress, she on the finances – when I decided to take the chance. "Um… Stepmother?"

"Yes, Gerda," she replied almost as if to affirm the fact that I spoke and not to ask a question.

"W-what were you like when you were y-younger?" I said, feeling a rush of embarrassment as though I were trying to get away with completing a dare.

"Excuse me?" Veda said, looking up at me as though she had not heard.

"Um… that is to say… I was, um, wondering what you were like… when you were younger?" Now I felt as though I had been caught stealing something or doing something else explicitly against the law.

She looked at me a moment, her features almost frowning, but not quite, and continued back to her work. "I was married. Very, very married."

"I meant when you were my age," I said, just to make sure she understood.

"So did I," Veda replied.

I found myself startled. Veda was very, very married at my age? That seemed… so unlike her.

"What was you husband like, Stepmother?" I ventured again, obviously too idiotic to be warded off by Veda's earlier signs of dissatisfaction.

"Tall," she replied. "And very rich."

That was it? That was all she had to say? "Is that all?" I blurted out.

She looked up to me, clearly frowning this time. "He was in the military. He was passably handsome. There was a scar on his back. What is it that you're looking for? Bertram is dead, Gerda, totally and completely dead. That's it; that's all there is to it. The past is over. Why are you bringing this up at this hour?"

I looked down at my sewing. "I… I was just wondering about you, Stepmother. I feel as though I know so little about you."

"You don't need to know anything about me. All you need to know is that I am your guardian, and I am to rear you as I see fit until you are self-sufficient to make it out into the world on your own."

I nodded, still not looking at her.

"Is that quite all, Gerda?" The voice was sharp and brittle, and I was not accustomed to the edge in her otherwise unruffled and perfunctory demeanor.

"Yes, Stepmother," was all I said in reply.

So, that was it. She was my guardian until I could sustain myself, and then she was nothing, nobody. Our relationship was just going to end. It seemed so obvious, so expected, that it almost didn't hurt. But it did, and I wasn't sure why.

By the time I went to visit Grandmother for my first cooking lesson, I was no longer all that interested in making Veda eat her prior words to me. She was, indeed, just my guardian, as she had so aptly stated. I was more eager to continue pursuing cooking for my own personal gain – to do something totally and completely for me to grow as a person and not with anyone in mind. Veda might never even acknowledge the fact that I was baking, but I would do it anyway: I didn't need anyone else in the equation.

When I came in, I was greeted to a surprising feeling of vacancy. For the first time ever, there was absolutely nothing in the oven – nothing until I myself baked it. Instead of food, there were three bowls, a whisk, the beater, and three cookie sheets. Various ingredients and measuring cups were also out on the table as well. Grandmother was very excited for the lesson when I came in and eagerly helped me out of my coat. Before long, we were both standing in front of the table.

"What are we making today?" I asked.

"I'm going to teach you something really simple. It's recipe I found for a cookie I like to call Snicker Cookies."

I nodded at her as she beamed.

"Oh!" She exclaimed suddenly. "I almost forgot! We always must wash our hands before cooking."

I followed her to the basin of water where we washed our hands in soap and dried them.

"There, much better. Now, let me see, what to do first? Ah, first let's begin heating the oven."

She opened the oven and crouch by it to make sure the fire was going then quickly stood up. "Now take one of those bowls."

I took one in my hands.

"And let's see… put about two cups of flour in, two teaspoons of cream of tartar, one teaspoon of baking soda, and a fourth of a cup of salt."

I found a bag of the flour and the measuring cup for one cup and scooped twice into the bowl. I found the teaspoon on a chain and measured the cream of tartar and baking soda before putting it in, before finding a fourth of a teaspoon cup on the ringlet and dumping in the salt.

"Very good," Grandmother said. "I noticed that you were extra careful about trying to measure the ingredients just so. That's very good, but the next time, perhaps try using a knife to shave off the excess ingredients. I find that works especially well with the flour.

I nodded.

"Now take the whisk and sift the ingredients together." She picked out the whisk and handed it to me. "Sifting means that you just stir the ingredients around a bit softly. Don't stir too hard or everything will fly out of the bowl. Just stir softly, smoothly, blending it together… there, that's good. Try to move just your wrist and keep your arm stiff… there, that's it, good."

I scraped the ingredients around the edge of the bowl that I had accidentally flung out a bit into the center.

"Now," Grandmother began again, "you're going to need two sticks of the butter and one and a half cups of the sugar in the other mixing bowl."

I picked up the mixing bowl and added two of the softened butter sticks on the counter with a scoop and half of the sugar, which I scraped with the knife this time.

"The next thing you're going to do is you're going to beat them very fast. This part is a little tricky." She picked up the beater and showed it to me. "What you're going to do with this is twirl this handle around." She did so. "You, see? It makes the beaters move into each other when you do. But you're going to have to do it really fast and keep it suspended in the mixture. Watch." She positioned her hand on the beater and then began furiously spinning the handle around, causing the beaters to twirl and twirl with maddening speed, blending the sugar and butter into a much smoother mixture. She stopped after a bit and handed it to me: "Your turn."

I positioned my hands on the beater and began twirling the handle. When I realized it was hardly making a dent, I twirled harder and fast, trying to keep it up. The beater slipped on me, and I hit the bowl, making an awful grating sound. I stopped immediately.

"It's okay, it's okay," Grandmother said comfortingly. "The bowl's fine; keep doing it. You were getting the hang of it."

I twirled the beater again harder and harder until at last the mixture looked smooth.

"Very good, Gerda! Now, you're going to need to crack two eggs and put them in the mixture."

I found the eggs and stared at them bewildered. How did you not make a mess doing this?

Grandmother went to her kitchen cabinets and pulled out another small bowl. "I forgot that you've not had much experience cracking eggs. I think it's always good to crack eggs into a separate bowl, in case the shell breaks off. I'm experienced enough myself not to need it, but it's necessary for most beginners and people who can be clumsy." She took one of the eggs from me. "Now, what you're going to do is to hit the egg shell on the rim of this bowl. Do it only hard enough so that the shell only just cracks or else it will splinter and fall apart everywhere and then bye, bye yolk." She demonstrated cracking the eggshell on the rim, then carefully splitting the shell with her fingers and letting the yolk fall into the bowl.

I took the end and tried to imitate her, but a piece of the shell fell in when I tried to dump the yolk in the bowl. Grandmother found a spoon and fished it out, then discarded it with the rest of the shell. "See, that's why I got you that bowl. Much easier to deal with then trying to fish the shell out of the mixture. Here, let's wash our hands again to clean off the raw egg." We washed our hands again, then returned to the table where I dumped the mixture into the larger bowl and beat it again.

"Now, let's put the dry ingredients in with the wet ingredients. You're going to stir them around until they're well blended." She handed me a wooden spoon to scoop out the dry mixture and stir it. I did so, trying carefully to get everything blended together.

"The next thing you do after that is to measure out four teaspoons of the ground cinnamon and a fourth of a cup more of the sugar and put it into the small bowl there… the cinnamon's in that small little jar, there. Good."

I measured these and dumped them in.

"Now you need to whisk the ingredients together."

I did so.

Grandmother clapped her hands and rubbed them together eagerly. "Now, last step before putting them into the oven. We're going to pull off pieces of the dough and roll them in our hands into one inch balls, roll them in the mixture, and then just sit them on the wax paper on the cookie sheet." She pulled some dough off, rolled it into a ball and showed it to me, then rolled it in the mixture before putting it on a paper. I imitated her, and she nodded her head in acceptance.

"Yes, that's it. Now just roll it in the mixture and stick it on the paper, and then start a new one."

We both continued rolling the balls of dough in our hands and in the mixture until an entire cookie sheet was filled. "Gerda, I'm going to let you put the cookie sheet in the oven. Here, put on these mittens and then open the oven door and carefully slip the cookie sheet in."

I nervously obeyed and, after I opened the oven door, quickly slipped the cookie sheet into the oven and closed the door with a bit of a jolt.

Grandmother laughed. "I've always hated dealing with those ovens. Such a hassle. Now, let's continue rolling the balls. The cookies take about ten minutes to bake, so by the time we've put the second batch in and have finished the third, the first should be ready to cool." We continued the process, and after two more rounds, took the first batch carefully out of the oven and replaced it with the third.

I breathed in the smell. It was wonderfully sweet, light, and cinnamon-y, nothing shockingly uncommon, but still appealing in its simplicity.

"Gerda, would you like some tea with the cookies?"

"Yes, please, Grandmother!" Grandmother Fælyn boiled some water in a pot then brewed it with the teabags in the teapot. She pulled out two cups and a glass container of milk from the icebox to add to the tea. By the time this was done, the second batch was ready for me to pull out of the oven. We put away the ingredients and cleaned up the utensils as we waited for the first batch to harder, and when it did, we pulled the last batch out of the oven, put some of the first batch's cookies on our plates, and sat together at the table.

"So, you have officially baked cookies, Gerda," the old woman said smiling. We both bit into them at the same time and let out a murmur of assent. Yummy. They tasted especially good when moistened by the tea. "I'd call this a success," she said. "How about you?"

"Yes, I agree," I grinned. "Thank you for teaching me."

"It was my pleasure. Was it pretty easy?"

I thought for a minute. "It was, but I think it was a bit unnerving still as well, because I really didn't know what I was doing at first, and I didn't know where the process was leading. But the individual steps weren't very complicated or hard to do."

She nodded. "Yes, there are a lot more recipes that have a lot more complexity. For instance, the chocolate bread roll I like to make requires you to bake a thin loaf of bread, roll it up in a towel, let it cool, unroll it, smear the cream layer on it, and then roll it all up again – making sure that you don't break the bread."

I grimaced. "I'm not sure I would like that at all."

She shrugged. "Well, they're not so bad. It's always fun to do something a bit unique and challenging. Just not at first."

I nodded, wondering what sorts of things we would accomplish next.

"I think for next time we should make another fairly simple cookie, but perhaps with slightly more exotic flavors. Oo, oh, I have a good recipe for orange-ginger wafers; would you be up for those?"

I nodded enthusiastically.

"Oh, good, I can't wait!" Grandmother beamed.