Page 50 of House of Royals

I show up the next morning at five minutes to four, bleary eyed, but ready to bake. Fred doesn’t waste one second putting me to work.

And I’m happy to find that I’ve lost no skills in the last month that I haven’t been working. When Fred sees that I can handle myself, he assigns me the scones, the cookies for the afternoon, and of course, the dishes.

At six-thirty, when the shop opens, a few people start trickling in. Getting their breakfast on their way to work. Grabbing coffee, brewed by the self-proclaimed master, Tina. Fred helps the customers while I work in the back.

At ten, I’m just bringing out the sheet of snickerdoodle cookies when I hear my name called from the door. I look up to see Sheriff McCoy walking in.

“Are you workin’ here?” he asks with a look between a scowl and confusion.

“Yeah,” I say as I slide the cookies onto the display rack.

“Why?” he asks in bewilderment.

“Because why not?” I resist spitting the words out. Barely.

More customers wander into the shop. I’m surprised at how busy it is in here, considering how small the town is. I haven’t been up front until now, but I’ve been hearing the foot traffic all day.

“Fred, who’s this lovely young woman helping you out today?” a man in construction garb asks with a flirtatious smile as he walks up to the counter. He’s followed by a whole crew who starts ordering coffee.

“This is, uh…” Fred says as he takes money from a customer and checks them out. “Alivia Ryan. She’s new in town. And one hell of a baker.”

“New in town,” the man says with an approving smile. “Don’t get too many of them types here.”

Luke gives the guy a disapproving look. “Leave her alone, Dallas.”

“What?” Dallas says, with an innocent expression. “I was just bein’ friendly.”

“You look familiar,” one of Dallas’ buddies says as he squints in my direction, coffee cup in hand. “You related to someone here in town?”

My eyes dart uncomfortably from the guy to Luke. Who just gives me a littleI told you solook back.

“Wait a second,” the guy says, still studying my face. “You’re that girl who moved into the Conrath Estate, huh? You’re that freak’s daughter.”

“Now, Corbin,” Fred says, fixing the guy with a cold stare, even as my stomach settles somewhere in the vicinity of my feet. “You’s a grown man now and should know words like that isn’t nice. I think you ought to apologize to this nice young woman.”

But I’ve been outed. And there are two other people in the shop looking at me now like I’m about to tear into their necks at any second.

“I’m sorry,” I respond snarkily. “Did you think you know who I am?”

Dallas gives an “oh!”—fist to the mouth and everything. I offer Corbin a peeved off smile as I walk back into the kitchen.

And it’s like that for the next week. People talk about me in low voice like I can’t hear them. They speculate. There’s constant talk about the House. About the year 1875. About blood and missing or dead loved ones.

But never once do I hear the actual word vampire.

My shift is from four to eleven. It’s not many hours or days, but I don’t need the money. Not at all. I need the normalcy. But this is hardly normal. When everyone looks at you with disdain or fear. When you’re constantly judged for the sins of your father.

I’ve just finished putting the cinnamon rolls in the display case at six-fifteen when the little bell above the door rings. I look up, dusting my hands off on my apron. In walks a woman, maybe in her upper forties. She’s rail thin, almost skeletal. Her cheekbones are sharp and prominent, her lips too full for her face. But it’s instantly her eyes that draw me.

She wears sunglasses, but behind them, I can see hollow eye sockets. Her blindness explains the walking stick.

“Good morning,” I say to her politely. “You’re up and about early.”

“I’m afraid I don’t get much sleep these days,” she says with a pleasant smile. “I’ve been up too long already this morning.”

She bumps into a table, nearly knocking a chair over. I duck around the counter and help guide her to the display case. “Sorry about that,” she laughs at herself. “I’m a lot clumsier than I used to be.”

“It’s okay,” I reassure her. “We’re not quite open yet, but we’ve got some stuff out. What can I get you? I just brought out the cinnamon rolls. We’ve got raspberry scones, bran muffins, fritters. Just about any breakfast pastry, we’ve got it.”

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