Page 15 of The Baker and the Wolf

At this, she falls back in her chair, cackling like a hen. “The better to hear your insults, child. Next you’ll be commenting on the size of my feet and teeth, no doubt.” She lifts a pair of bare feet straight out in front of her. They don’t look a bit gnarled or withered. When I see a flash of white teeth under the shadow of her shawl, suspicion overcomes my caution.

“Who are you?” I stalk toward the chair and tug the shawl off her head, then stagger back in surprise.

A handsome woman of indeterminate age gazes up at me, her expression impish and pleased. “I really am your grandmére. Hello, Cerise.” Her rich, mellow voice sounds more cultured than any I’ve heard in Chartreuse, even among the mayor’s crowd. “Barbaro warned me about your fiery spirit. He didn’t exaggerate, I see. Is your hair red?”

Without thinking first, I pull off my cap, allowing my braid to unroll over my shoulder. My grandmére sighs, smiles, and pats her own thick braid. “My hair used to be that vivid, but it faded, so now I color it according to my mood.”

A moment ago, I would have described her hair as gray. Now, it appears to be . . .pink. I can only assume this indicates a good mood as she hops out of her chair and gives me a quick hug. She is tall like my sister Charlotte, has a youthful figure, and looks nothing like any grandmére I’ve ever seen. Maybe she wears an age spell?

“I see baguettes poking out of your basket. Lovely! What I really want to taste is one of your pastries. Barbaro describes them to me but never thinks to bring me a sample, selfish beast that he is.” She pauses. “Now that I think of it, there would be difficulties with that, but never mind.”

Before I can offer her the basket, she bends over it, lifting the cloth. “Ooh! Éclairs! Chouquettes!” She pauses to take my face between her hands and kiss my forehead. “A granddaughter who bakes magical pastries? How did I get so blessed? The macarons and madeleines look lovely too, of course, but your creations interest me more than brownie work.”

She steps back, gives me a once-over, and nods. “You’re quite a pretty thing. I suppose you resemble your mother, but you’ve got my hair and Gerard’s eyes, so I can still love you.”

I could tell her that I look nothing like Gisella, but why bother? With an oozing éclair in one hand, she leads me to a little table set with tea things. Speaking with a bite of pastry in one cheek, she points. “Look in that cupboard—no, the next one. Yes! That’s it. Bring that big plate, and we’ll set out all the sweets. I can’t tell you when I last tasted something this nice— No, actually I can: it would benever!”

While I shift the pastries onto the large platter, my grandmére pours fragrant tea into dainty porcelain cups. “We’ll save the bread for later,” she says while we sit down for tea. Nothing about this visit is anything like what I might have imagined if I’d dared to try. After her playacting when I first arrived, part of me wants to believe that her charm hides a wicked reality, but I just can’t. She’s too comfortable with herself to bother with façades.

“What shall I call you?” I ask, feeling shy.

Severina tilts her head like a puzzled dog. “Grand-mémé?”

“Do you like that name?”

Her lips twitch, and her eyes seem to laugh. “Not particularly. When I was little, my parents called me ‘Rina.’ What do you think?”

I try it out. “Rina.” I nod. “I like it.”

While we enjoy the tea and sweets, she tells me stories about my father as a boy. “He was our only child, you know, and we utterly doted on him. Gauthier, your grandpère, intended to train Gerard to follow in his footsteps, ultimately to serve on the Magic Council.”

“But . . . I thought Papa only had horse magic.”

“Oh no, he was a higher-levelburvisand might have worked up tocarovenlevel had he developed his skills. But Gerard had other ideas. He wanted to travel, and his passion was horses. When he grew up, he set out to seek his fortune without our blessing. He never came home.”

When I glimpse deep sorrow in her eyes, I instantly remember the letter he wrote to tell her we would soon visit. Recalling that horrible day for even an instant makes me want to shrink into nothingness. I manage to mumble, “I’m so sorry . . .”

Her sadness vanishes into concern. “Child, it was hardly your fault.” I glimpse another flicker of sadness before she gives me another smile and sets down her cup. “And darling, I have much to teach you while you’re here. No more reminiscing today!”

“Barbaro said you would explain everything,” I reply, feeling tentative.

“Hardly everything, but enough for the present.” Rising, she shoves a macaron into her mouth, then steps away from the table and flicks one hand. In an instant, our tea is cleared away, and I glimpse the cloth in my basket folding itself neatly.

“I’m saving the rest of the pastries for later,” Rina admits, still chewing. “We might work up an appetite before you need to head back.” She brushes her hands together, makes another gesture, and the furniture slides to the periphery of the room . . . which seems larger and much brighter than it did when I entered. “Now, first on the agenda, you must learn how to sense magic.”

I can only nod.

Rina’s expression is kindly yet serious. “You don’t believe you have magic, do you?”

“You and Barbaro both say I do, so maybe it’s true.”

Rina raises one brow. “I wouldn’t encourage you to value Barbaro’s opinion in general, but in this case he is correct. I need to study your condition more closely, but I believe your magic is being stolen.”

I frown. “Stolen? How can magic be stolen?”

My grandmére purses her lips. “This is what we must discover, child. Also, your access to your own magic is almost entirely blocked. Tricky, that. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen it done before.”

Trying to wrap my mind around these concepts, I feel slightly dizzy. “But why would anyone do that to me? And how?”

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