Page 14 of The Baker and the Wolf

“I cannot say.” His voice sounds repressed. “But you will be safe.”

Does he mean my enchantress grandmére will protect me? I want to press for answers, but the longer I stand here, the more likely I’ll be seen by some acquaintance. My cloak might ward off men, but it is easily recognized. So I nod and lift my chin, trying to boost my courage. “Again, thank you for your help.”

He nods without looking at me. Facing the door, I suck in and blow out a breath, take a firmer hold on my basket’s handle, step forward, and reach for the latch.

The door opens inward, revealing a snowy woodland scene with a path of packed snow before my feet. Instantly, I realize I will be stepping into another world, this “pocket” world, with only Barbaro’s word that I can return. I glance over my shoulder for reassurance.

He is gone, as if he never existed.

Fear paralyzes me, and my thoughts race in circles. I should turn back . . . Only a fool would enter faeryland at the behest of a mysterious stranger . . .

But I step through and hear the door shut behind me, which makes my heart give a lurch.

Snow crunches under my feet as I walk. I’m not sure whether the cold or the magic steals my breath. Probably both.

I was wearing shoes and pattens when I stepped through the door. Now, I’m wearing sturdy boots and fur-lined gloves. And I am toasty warm in my cloak. Barbaro’s magic?

I look over my shoulder. The door and its frame stand alone in the falling snow. As far as I can tell, the path begins—or ends—there. So very strange!

I have no choice but to trust Barbaro’s word that the door will lead me home when I return. Hefting my basket higher, I continue at a quick pace. A light snow is falling. My footprints won’t last long. But the path is magical, so I ignore any worries about losing my way.

But I do have a feeling, a familiar one, of being followed. Losing patience, I whip around to look and see a long-legged black beast in the path behind me. It doesn’t slink off into the falling snow. It doesn’t flatten its ears or snarl. It simply returns my regard with round yellow eyes.

But it is definitely a wolf.

I turn and hurry onward. This beast rescued me from that drunken man the other night. And it shadowed me through the park, possibly even before I knew it existed.

Ironic, really. This wild animal is my only protector, yet it might decide to kill me at any time. I don’t care. Right now, its presence is oddly reassuring.

I can’t quite decide whether this forest exists somewhere in the real world or not. The abundant trees, the snow, and the crisp air remind me of a hike my sisters and I once took in the local mountains with Papa. However, the path appears level, and no mountains are visible against what little of the sky I can glimpse. Nevertheless, I feel breathless by the time the thatched cottage comes in sight.

I pause on the path to collect myself and catch my breath. And to study the rustic little house situated in a bright clearing. Smoke trickles from its stone chimney but scarcely rises higher than the roof. Should I call out or walk up and knock?

Am I stalling?

Absolutely.

Papa often talked about his mother with fondness, smiles, and a hint of awe. Gisella speaks of her in tones of disgust and horror. I have no idea what to expect.

Setting my chin and squaring my shoulders, I approach the door, hesitate, then knock twice.

“Come in.”

My hand trembles as I lift the latch and push the door open.

The cottage’s interior is shadowy, and at first I see only a small fire burning on the hearth against the far wall. But then I notice a shawl-wrapped figure hunched in a rocking chair. Stepping inside, I close the door behind myself, then wish I hadn’t. The room is nearly dark. I’m so jittery, my teeth would chatter if I didn’t clamp them together.

“Come closer, child. I wish to see you.” The voice is hoarse and quavering. “Lower your hood.”

I obey, but something about the situation strikes me wrong. “Are you Severina DuBois?”

“Yes, I’m your grandmére. What a lovely cloak, child! And yet . . . Tut, tut! I didn’t expect a granddaughter of mine to be a man-hater.” Now the voice sounds insincere.

I retort, “If you’re half the enchantress my father described to me, you should know that I didn’t place the wards on my cloak.”

Her raucous chuckle sends chills down my spine. “My,” she croaks, “what a quick temper you have, my dear.”

“The better to face a mean old witch,” I mutter. When she laughs even harder, I snap, “And what big ears you have, Grandmére.”

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