Page 10 of The Baker and the Wolf

“He is.”

“I expect he likes you better than you know. He doesn’t talk much since my papa died.” I turn away to count the coins in my pouch, and after what feels like a long silence, I blurt, “You may call me Cerise.”

“Thank you.” He tests my name: “Cerise.”

When he says it, my name sounds like music.

How many other girls does he charm with those eyes and that voice? Plenty, I suspect.

I carry two trays of excess pastries into the back room, trying not to make mistakes in my hurry. Will he still be in the shop when I return?

He is. Holding my gaze, he leans slightly toward me, his hands splayed on the tabletop. “Before I go, may I—”

“How long have you been a farrier?” I ask abruptly.

He raises one brow. “I learned the skills a few years ago but took this position only last month.”

“I’ve always loved horses, but Mama is afraid of them. I sometimes wander past the blacksmith shop just to hear the sounds and smell the smells again.”

His eyes hold both amusement and understanding.

“Sorry for rambling on,” I mutter and turn to list the day’s pastries on the wall board.

My mind blanks. Oh, yes. Éclairs . . .

“Cerise.”

Almost against my will I face him, pressing my back to the wall. Why do I suddenly feel as if I would do anything he asks? He isn’t fae. Or is he? Oh, I was foolish to give him my name!

“Cerise, will you meet me again tomorrow morning at the statue in the park?”

I feel my pulse throbbing in my throat. “Tomorrow is Sunday.”

“Yes. Your grandmére, Severina DuBois, wishes to meet you.”

A rock seems to drop in my stomach. “My grandmére?” My mouth opens and closes a few times before I manage to ask, “You know her? She is . . . well?”

“Quite well.”

Of course she is. Evil enchantresses must always be well. “But . . . why does she wish to meet me?”

“I assume because you’re her granddaughter.”

“What about my sisters?”

“She believes your situation to be urgent while theirs is not.”

I shake my head in irritation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only she can explain her meaning.” His tone is impersonal.

“She will meet me at the statue and explain all this?”

“No. I shall escort you to her. But this meeting is a profound secret. You must not speak of it to anyone. Particularly family members.”

I give him a look. “I’m supposed to go off somewhere with a strange man and tell no one? Do I look like an idiot?”

He doesn’t so much as blink. “She sent you this token.” In his outstretched palm I see a gold-framed miniature portrait of a boy with red-brown hair and smiling blue eyes.

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