Page 22 of The Spy

Baron.From a homeless thief to one of the richest and most powerful men in the kingdom, and all it took was some ink on a piece of paper to make that a reality.He was a baker who sometimes did little extra jobs for Braxton on the side.The idea of court was terrifying.Karl had no idea how Casmir had acclimated so well, even if his acclimatization was part of whatever game he was currently playing as prince on Braxton’s behalf.

Karl rolled over again, smushing his face into his pillow.He closed his eyes, willing, begging, for sleep to come.Time passed—he didn’t know how much, only that he lay there unmoving and completely awake.

Finally, Karl rolled over yet again and let out a sigh as he gave up.He clearly wasn’t going to sleep tonight, and he didn’t see any point in torturing himself by trying.

Karl pushed the bed curtains out of the way as he sat up and moved to the edge of the bed.There wasn’t really any point in getting up either.If he went out into the castle, he would be the center of everyone’s immediate attention.Their stares would be even worse than normal, too, because despite the fact it that had only been a few hours and completed quietly, the entire castle would know he was officially the baron anyway.He would be judged for everything from his clothing choices to the way he walked, and that would affect his future life here far more than being judged as Fen’s sort of adoptive son had ever been.

Which meant he needed to leave the castle and go into the city if he wanted any peace.

Sneaking out wasn’t ideal, but this wouldn’t be the first time Karl had spent the night wandering.His thieving days might be over, but the Royal Forces had trained him to expand those skills.Sometimes his going out to the city at night was for fun; sometimes the Royal Forces or Braxton had a mission for him.Tonight, he would be running from them all, and it would be worth it.

Karl hopped down from the bed and went to the wardrobe to dig out some going-out clothes.Nondescript pants and a shirt that wouldn’t stand out as too fancy were part of his standard city clothes and were easy to pull on, so it wasn’t long before Karl crept out into the hallway.He zipped along the lush carpet, not meeting anyone until he reached the guards stationed at the servant’s entrance in the royal wing.On the other side of the door the stairs and dumbwaiter were tucked away, allowing for a direct line to the kitchens a few stories below.A couple other doors along the stairs also led to the laundry and other useful locations.

Karl waved to the guards as he went past and hopped down the stairs two at a time until he slipped into one of the sewing rooms a few flights down.The laundry was busy day and night, which actually made it easier to become part of the bustle and sneak into the raised courtyard where all the drying lines were filled with clean laundry.Down two more flights of stairs and he was in the rear garden.From there, he wended his way out to the wall and a back gate.One of the four guards manning the gate grinned at him, but they let him out without a fight or any questions.Braxton’s standing orders to let him run around as he wanted must still be in effect even though Karl had been away for two years at school.

The gate was primarily used by servants who lived in the city but worked in the castle, so it led directly into the servant’s warren of narrow paths that wound through most of the wealthier portions of the city.Even after two years away, Karl knew the paths like the back of his hand.As he set out, he didn’t have a destination in mind and thought that he would wander aimlessly to see if anything had changed, but his feet apparently had other ideas.

The previous Baron Whistfield had revealed his part in the coup scheme when he had ordered Char be kidnapped and was arrogant enough to bring Char to the dungeon beneath his own house.Karl had helped Char escape and had been able to point his finger right at the house when the Royal Forces wanted to have words with the owner.The gate into the neglected garden behind the house where Karl’s feet eventually stopped was therefore familiar.He stared at the gate for a long moment before finally forcing himself to look past it to the house beyond.He owned a house.Karl, the street urchin turned kitchen junkie, was rich enough to own his own house—and this was just the smallest bit of everything he now had—thanks to a little ink on paper.His life had clearly gone completely topsy-turvy, but he didn’t have to completely abandon who he was.Like his neglected house, Karl simply had to find a way to rebuild and incorporate his old self with the new in a way that didn’t force him to lose what was important to him in the process.

The manor’s back garden was entirely overgrown, the scraggly lawn now a burgeoning forest choked with weeds and creeper vine.The building itself didn’t look too bad after four years of abandonment, but there was no telling what the inside looked like.The Royal Forces had likely ransacked the place during their search for evidence or for any clues about the coup, and that mess was very likely still untouched.The first thing Karl needed to do with his newfound wealth was to hire people to fix the house here, as well as secretaries and accountants to figure out what was going on with his actual estate on the coast.The task was daunting, but he couldn’t back away from any of it.Braxton had been very clear about his responsibilities.However, Karl could also imagine a few ways he could continue his clandestine work for Braxton by hiding behind the title and money, similar to what he was pretty certain Casmir was doing.Being the Baron therefore wouldn’t be all bad.He hoped.

Karl let out a heavy breath, snorting air through his nose as he took one last look at the back of the house.Since he was here, he ought to at least peek in some windows to see how bad the damage was.He couldn’t get inside through the overgrown garden though.Instead, Karl returned to the servant’s paths, heading for the junction with a path leading to the main road.

This early in the morning, the paved main road was even more deserted than the servant’s paths.Karl didn’t see a single person as he walked back toward the house.Except, as he turned a corner, an older woman sat on the front step of the building there.Her hair was completely gray and her face deeply creased with wrinkles.Karl estimated she was in her mid-to-late-seventies.What slowed his steps was the way she sat, her back braced against the closed door behind her and her head tipped back to look up into the eaves as if the answer to all her problems might be hidden underneath the tiled roof.

“Is everything okay?”Karl whispered, aware of the houses nearby where people were actually asleep.

She slowly lowered her head to look at him.Her eyes narrowed into a glare and her lips thinned into a scowl.

“I’m not selling, and that’s final!You can dig the deed out from my decaying bones after I’m dead!”

Karl gaped for a moment, completely at a loss.“Umm,” he stuttered out, unable to come up with something more intelligent.

“Only person who’s going to get their hands on this property is someone who knows what they’re doing in a damned bakery.Not someone who only wants the property because of the location!”she continued her rant, finally providing a bit of context to help ground Karl.

“This is a bakery?”he asked, glancing around.There was no sign over the door and the windows were firmly shuttered, but the chimney visible through the roof was larger than needed for just a house.

“Best dammed bakery in the entire city,” she said, preening a bit as some of the suspicion faded from her glare.“At least, it was.”She held out her hands, showing him the thickened knuckles that said arthritis had ended her days of kneading dough and beating egg whites.

Karl closed his mouth and smiled at her.“I don’t get to this part of town all that often.I had no idea there was a bakery here.What sort of baked goods do you specialize in?”

Her glare faded a bit more.“Over there’s the hoity-toity part of town,” she said, pointing a thickened finger in the direction Karl had been heading where his new house was located.“And over there’s a mix of shops catering to those hoity-toities and on the upper floors are the shopkeepers’ apartments.I made anything from fancy bits of this and that for the noble dinner parties—tiny tartlets and bread in ridiculous shapes—to filled pastries for people who need to eat lunch on the go.But my specialty was anything with apples.They used to call me Mama Poma, back when the kids around here knew how to spell the word respect.These days they just break my windows and threaten to kill me if I don’t hand them the rights to what is apparently prime real estate.”

“Not the right time of year for apples,” Karl replied, feeling a touch of déjà vu.“You make anything good with spring strawberries?”

Mama Poma snorted.“Hard to make somethingbadwith strawberries.What’s important is what you pair the berries with.A good pie crust is essential for strawberry-rhubarb pie.”

“And a grasp of poisons,” Karl added, but under his breath.Rhubarb could kill if prepared incorrectly.

She shot him a look that said she heard him and didn’t appreciate the snark.Still, she stood and took a moment to dust her butt clean before turning the knob on the door behind her and heading inside.

“Well?You coming?”

Chapter Fourteen

KARLKNEWPIEcrusts.Char had ensured Karl understood the ratios of flour to water and how essential it was to ensure he used cold butter.The feel of a crust coming together under Karl’s hands, going from separate ingredients to the perfect flaky, doughy consistency as he mixed and kneaded was instinctive.In class he had instead focused on learning how to make the perfect filling for his already amazing crust, but one glance at Mama Poma as she worked dough underneath stiff fingers, and Karl immediately realized his folly.A true master was at work.

The berries and carefully sliced rhubarb were comfortably simmering in sugar, water, lemon juice, and a touch of corn starch.The heat would break down the fruit and the pectin would work with the corn starch to thicken the mixture into syrup.Karl abandoned the pot on the stove to hover next to Mama Poma.He memorized every twitch of her fingers as she incorporated the flour, every press of her palm to cut the butter into the dough, and even the moments she added more water, icy cold from the tap.

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