Page 13 of The Baker and the Wolf

Wearing my best dress covered by my red cloak, as I do every Sunday, I hike my loaded basket a little higher. No one will suspect me of anything but the strictest propriety; many people bring baskets of food to church for distribution among the poor.

The breeze chills my cheeks and nose. Soon it will be winter here, and the streets will fill with dirty snow slush. But for today, I enjoy the park’s golden trees, not to mention the planters in the city square nearly overflowing with vibrant autumn-hued flowers.

As I approach my ancestor’s statue, I glance around, feeling conspicuous even though few people are about at this hour: a few delivery carts rattle past, and servants rush out on the street to purchase milk, fruit, and eggs from hawkers. The shops are all closed.

“Bonjour, Cerise DuBois.”

I spin about in surprise. Barbaro half reclines on one corner of the statue’s plinth, arms folded across his chest. The rough leather boots, vest, and hat seem familiar, but his long black coat, clean woolen trousers, and linsey-woolsey shirt are new to me. Ordinary attire, yet the man wears it with asavoir fairethat nearly stops my heart.

“Bonjour,”I mumble.

He pushes himself upright and prowls over to inspect my basket. “Something smells amazing. Don’t suppose you have one to spare?” He glances up at me, his bright eyes hopeful.

“They’re for my grandmére.”

He heaves a mock sigh. “I thought it couldn’t hurt to ask, but alas! rejection is painful after all.”

His deadpan humor takes me by surprise. I release a quick breath in reaction, my eyes squinting.

Wait. What happened? Did I just—?

“Thank you,” he says. “I can live on that brief but lovely smile for days. And I do believe you laughed.”

“What? No!” I blurt and press my fingers to my lips. Then I realize he gave me a compliment and I refused it. Now what do I say? I can’t thank him for thanking me . . . Embarrassed, I stand there like an idiot with my hand over my mouth and no idea what to do while heat rushes through my body and into my face. I’m blushing again!

This makes no sense. The man is beautiful and scary beyond anything I ever imagined. A compliment from him should send me running in alarm. But . . . he seems to be genuinely pleased that his silly comment made me laugh.

He breaks the silence with a quiet sigh. “Come. The morning is wasting. I’ll escort you to the smithy.”

“The smithy?” I echo in confusion. “Is my grandmére there?” What a strange place for a first meeting!

“The path begins there. You will see.” He indicates the direction, so I start walking.

“You could at least offer your arm,” I grumble as I pass him.

He appears at my side in an instant, lifting his elbow. “Mademoiselle DuBois?” I meet his gaze and see something that might be gratitude in his eyes, along with an emotion I can’t identify.

“Thank you.” I lay my gloved hand on his forearm. He stands taller and guides me along the rough walkway, avoiding mud puddles and placing himself between me and any passing vehicle. There aren’t many at this hour.

At first, I feel happy. Then, when my occasional comments receive no reply, I feel confused. Finally, I’m worried. Why is he silent and grave? Did I do something wrong? If so, I have no idea what it was, and I can’t think of anything to say to ease the awkward silence.

Did he find my backhanded request for his arm insulting? I’m tone deaf when it comes to wordplay and jokes. I should know by now to keep my mouth shut!

The city’s largest livery stable is located several streets northeast of the town center, and my father’s old smithy stands just beyond it, comprising a few small paddocks, a line of hitching rails, a large water pump, and covered work areas on either side of a small smoke-blackened office. The place is redolent with the scents of horses, sweat, iron, and ashes, and the very sight of it feels like home to me. Thin streams of smoke rise from the two forges on a Sunday morning; their fires are banked. Monsieur LeRoy works only for emergencies on the Lord’s Day.

Barbaro escorts me directly to the office. “I can accompany you no farther, but you will be safe.” He indicates the door with his free hand. “Your grandmére is waiting for you.”

My stomach pitches. “Wait. You mean, she’s in there?” I point at the small building.

A flicker of amusement brightens his eyes. “No, the doorway is a portal into a pocket world. Follow the path, and you will find your grandmére in a thatched cottage. She will explain everything. When you return, follow the path, and you will find the door. It will open to you.”

His eyes hold my gaze until I acknowledge these instructions. “I will follow the path.” But a weight settles on my heart. “I must go alone?”

I cannot read his expression as he inclines his head, and my heart hurts a little. I lift my basket, fold back the cloth, and select a slightly squashed éclair. “For you, to express my gratitude for your help and your good company these past few days. And today.”

He studies the sticky treat, then removes one glove and accepts it. “Thank you.” His eyes briefly meet mine again. “You will be protected. Do not fear.”

“Will you be here when I return?”

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