Waiting in the line that was in front of the bakers booth, Phorcys couldn't help but glance over the shoulder of the woman before him, trying to find the tarts, but he couldn't see them (he tried standing on his tiptoes but people looked at him weirdly, so he decided to just wait until it was his turn). After the woman in front of him
finally decided what was the perfect bread for her and her six children (one of them didn't like seeds, one disliked white bread and all of them wanted a flat bread; Phorcys'd suggested
rye bread, but she hadn't been amused), Phorcys stood in front of the line. He could oversee the entire stall, but still, he couldn't find the plum tarts. Even worse:
he didn't see any tarts at all.
Looking up at the baker -a broad old man who looked like he could easily snap Phorcys in half with his pinky finger- he asked him where the plum tarts were. After all, he's had them before at the exact same stall. Eyes narrowing, the baker answered: 'Ye know damn well why there's no plum tarts, brat. There ain't any plum tarts- here, or in any other part of this area. Now, are ye gonna buy a bread or not? 'Cause then let the lady behind you take yer place and take yer leave.' 'Wait- there aren't any plum tarts at a-'
'Next person!' The baker rudely interrupted Phorcys.
Taken aback, Phorcys walked away from the stall and headed towards the fountain in the center of the square. Although the bluntness of the baker'd startled him, he was puzzled by what he'd said. There weren't any plum pies? Every time Phorcys'd been in the village, they'd always had plum pies at the stall- what'd happened?