Page 11 of The Baker and the Wolf

“It’s my papa, isn’t it?” I have my father’s eyes. Although mine don’t twinkle like his did.

“Madame DuBois says if I lose this, I die.”

Hearing wry amusement in his voice, I again feel a flutter in my chest.

This situation might be easier to evaluate properly if he were an ugly brute.

Now I know why he asked so many questions about my family. Whether I agree to go or not, he will report back to my grandmére, so she will know everything I just told him.

Well, I want to know what is “urgent” about my situation. I want to know about her, too. I want to meet my grandmére, not just hear dreadful tales about her. Mama would disapprove. But I have a right to know. I could do it and tell her later. I’m not a child, after all.

“I can keep a secret. I will tell no one.”

He holds my gaze. “Madame wishes to train you, to teach you how to use your magic.”

“I’ve already told you I have none.”

“You have powerful magic.”

I nearly snort. “Believe that if you like. I believed I could do magic when I was little.” A vivid memory of animating the wooden horses my father carved for me pops into my head. “Papa must have done it.” Doubt laces my voice.

“He didn’t. Your customers enjoy all the baked goods sold here, but your éclairs and chouquettes are the greatest draw. Most humans wouldn’t understand why they taste so good; they simply know they want to repeat the magical experience.”

I shake my head. “You must be thinking of—”

“No,” he interrupts. “I can tell the difference between human magic and brownie magic. And your magic is distinctlyyours. I would know it anywhere.” Without pause, he states, “You need instruction in its use and protection.”

Avoiding his gaze, I study the determined set of his jaw. He makes me nervous in a number of ways, but right now I struggle most with the I-desperately-want-this-to-be-true way.

I nod. “I’ll think about it.”

Although sales are as brisk as ever, that day drags incessantly. When I finally lock the shop door behind myself, I carry on one arm a basket filled with pastries I set aside earlier and a few leftover loaves of bread. They’ll be stale by morning, but I have nothing else to offer my grandmére. I hope she’ll enjoy them.

If my mother questions me about the basket, I’ll tell her they’re a gift for an old woman. Which is true.

The week’s cashbox weighs down my other arm. I don’t recall its ever being this heavy before. One bright spot: knowing that my cloak wards off men is a comfort while I’m carrying all this money. And maybe that dog-wolf is behind me somewhere, ready to attack a mugger.

Or ready to wolf down my pastries.

Once inside the mansion, I lug my load up two flights to my room, stash the basket behind a screen, plonk the cashbox on my bedside table, then drop onto a stool and pull off my shoes while catching my breath.

I’m brushing out my hair when my mother taps at the door and inserts her head.

“Bonsoir, ma petite. How was your day?” Giving me a dimpled smile, she slips inside and roams about my room, touching and rearranging things along the way. Jeweled rings glitter with every movement of her hands. “This week has been so busy, we’ve hardly had time to speak. My dearest Louis-Baptiste and I are entertaining guests and will attend the theater later this evening, but I have time for a chat just now. Would you like me to ring for coffee?”

“No, thank you, Mama.”

She sighs, pulling a martyr face. “This morning I find a gray hair, and now you call me Mama.”

“Gray hair, indeed.” As usual, my attempt at a smile fails. “You could easily pass for my younger sister.” Really, no one with a heart could resent Gisella Boulanger DuBois Garnier for being distractingly pretty and youthful. She is just so . . . herself. Vain, insecure, and bossy, yet charming.

Gisella beams at me. “If you say so, darling.” A crease appears between her brows. She reaches out to feel my forehead, then lets her hand slide down to cup my cheek. “You look so weary.”

I suddenly realize what a long day it was. “I do feel fatigued.” I don’t even attempt a smile this time. There’s just no point. “Being on my feet all day is draining.”

“Poor dear. It’s a mercy you love your work.” Gisella’s brows arch. “How horrid it would be if you didn’t!” Her thumb smooths my cheek.

Finding her caress annoying, I turn away and begin brushing again. “Baking is my life. How could I not love it? But dealing with customers is—”

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