Page 21 of Baking and Angels

Rafferty looked inquisitively. “I’m sorry. I do not know whothat is.”

Eleanor narrowed her eyes as if trying to decide if Rafferty was making fun of her or beingan idiot.

“Oliver Twist, you know. Dickens. Great novel, several okay movies, and one musical,” Éliott offered, nudging him with his elbow like it was a private joke.

“Sorry, I… I don’t really read much. Except cookbooks,” he said, and it was true. His ability to read English or read at all came along with the ability to speak it and then all he had ever been able to find when summoned had beencookbooks.

“He’s a chef,” Éliott piped in, the words escaping him before another mouthful cutthem off.

“Oh, I see. A purist then.” Eleanor practically sneered, crossingher arms.

Rafferty had no idea what this woman’s problem could be, though he wasn’t really that bothered by it. Just wary. It wasn’t uncommon for humans to have blatant hostility toward him, especially if he had invaded theirkitchens.

She didn’t let up, though, as she planted her fists onto her hips. “So, you think, just because you’re a ‘real purist’ chef, you can just waltz into any kitchen you want and just start cooking whateveryou want.”

“I’m sorry,” Rafferty said evenly, the safest answer he had ever been able to give any of his masters. The only one they really wanted to hear, and only sometimesit worked.

This time it did, and she backed off, her guarded eyes trying to figure him out. Then she slipped a spoon out of her pocket, presumably a clean one, and dipped it into the pot. Blowing on it once, she stuck her sample of his gruau into her mouth. Rolling it around. He could tell she was truly tasting it, and he waited with bated breath for her thoughts. Then her eyes closed as her mouth stilled, no longer actively tasting it. A shiver ran through her body, and she swallowed, bringing her fingers up to her lips as if she could touchthe taste.

Then her eyes opened, and the guard came back up.

“That’sgruel?”

“It gets a bad reputation,” Rafferty said, grabbing up his bourbon to down a swallow, reigniting the brandy flavor lingering inhis mouth.

“Is this your thing?” she asked, nodding toward it, her arms crossed still, but less actively aggressive. “You specialize in gross-sounding foods and make them taste delicious?”

“I don’t specialize in anything. I just make what I’m told,” he said, taking another bite, affecting like he wasn’t both pleased by her reaction to his food and delighted with it himself. Maybe it hadn’t just been the demon magic he had put in it all these centuries to make itturn out.

“Hell, I hear that,” Eleanor said, recrossing her arms the otherdirection.

“Eleanor is the pâtissier at this hotel,” Éliott said, then gestured over at her station, where a gorgeous statue of a unicorn with a flowing rainbow mane and tail sat on a long, silver slab.

“What is that?” Rafferty asked, getting up from his little corner to go look at it. It was only as he got closer that he realized the unicorn was in fact… “A cake?”he asked.

“Yeah. There’s some rich hedge fund manager’s daughter’s birthday party. The inside is entirely chocolate cake, though I was tempted to make it red velvet.” She chuckled at her joke, but when Rafferty didn’t join her, she let it go. “I have a bit of a dark humor.”

“It’s beautiful,” Rafferty said instead, leaning in to examine it.“But how?”

“It’s all edible. I used either cake or chocolate to build it up. The skin is fondant. Just takes time. I make cakes like these all the time. And chocolate sculptures. I make videos of them and post them online. You should check them out.” Eleanor leaned against her counter, her arms still crossed, but her face seemed more relaxed now.

“She needs to run her own studio,” Éliott said, sticking his finger in one of her frosting bowls to steal a bit. It earned him a slap from her, but he only grinned undeterred as he stuck it intohis mouth.

“A studio? Not a shop?” Rafferty asked.

“It would be a studio and a shop,” she conceded. “The idea being I would make my creations, make video content of them, then put the creations up for sale, that sort of thing. I’ve almost got it together. It would just go faster if I had an investor. I want to buy a space, but not many banks are so keen on my business plan.” She looked Rafferty over again. “Have you ever heard ofBaking Underground?”

Rafferty could only blink at her.

“It’s sort of like those cooking show competition things like on the Food Network channels, but this one is more homegrown and lower tech,” Éliottexplained.

“It was a fun thing a group of us did. Started out as just a way to learn tricks from each other, but then we started recording them and putting them on the internet. It’s real rough, but now it’s sort of taken on a life of its own. We have live audiences now and everything. And it’s still a good networking opportunity.”

“I think it could be a big thing,” Éliott said.

Rafferty wrinkled his nose, trying to understand what they were telling him. “How doesit work?”

Éliott spread his hands out before him, mischief in his smirk. “Twelve enter, only onesurvives!”

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