Page 19 of The Baker and the Wolf

I would have liked a moment to ponder the strangeness of the situation, but there isn’t time. I break into a trot to keep up. The wolf’s body and tail are thickly furred, but its legs are long and skinny. After that glimpse of its sharp teeth, I’m grateful it’s no longer behind me, although it does seem . . . friendly. At least, not intending to eat me in the immediate future.

When the door appears ahead as a dark rectangle against the snow, I breathe easier. But then the wolf stops between me and the door. “Um, thank you for the escort,” I say.

It doesn’t meet my gaze, but I think I see its tail wave slightly before it leaps off the trail and bounds away through the snow. A sudden sense of urgency compels me to open the door . . . and there before me lies the smithy’s familiar courtyard.

Suddenly panicked, I almost fall through the door. It swings shut with a click behind me. I inhale a deep breath and blow it out in one long sigh.

“You did well.” The gruff voice gives my heart a jolt. I slowly turn, and there he stands within arm’s reach. My grandmére’s revelations rush through my head even as my heart pumps in relief and excitement. His black-lashed amber eyes express emotions I can’t decipher.

“How do you know?” I ask, my voice breathless.

“I listened to everything.” One corner of his mouth turns up, but still his eyes look . . . resigned? Sad? “Severina knew I would. Her words of warning were intended for my ears as well as yours: You must guard your heart.”

I don’t have a clue how he listened from out here, and I doubt I would understand if he explained. “Is it true? All that she told me about you?”

“It is true, although it’s not the complete tale. Every story has at least two sides.”

“Then you must tell me your side.” The words sound like an order, but he doesn’t seem offended.

“I’ll tell you while we walk.”

I glance around the courtyard. Judging by the sun’s angle, it’s late afternoon. A customer talks with Monsieur LeRoy at his forge, but they take no notice of us.

“We’re hidden,” Barbaro assures me. “I will screen us from view until you’re safe.”

“And you’ll tell me?” I ask urgently.

“I keep my word.” His expression tentative, he offers his arm again. Feeling defiant, I take it and set off with a long stride. It’s a good thing he doesn’t question my behavior, because I couldn’t explain a thing just now.

The city streets are quieter than on a weekday afternoon, but a fair number of people stroll along the walkways, taking advantage of the fleeting sunshine. I recognize customers from my shop, which doesn’t matter, because no one can see us walking arm in arm.

“In short, I was an angry boy who made very bad choices,” he begins, guiding me into a cross street. With a sidelong glance, he adds, “But I know you want the long version, so here it is. I grew up on the streets of a city on the south coast of this continent. People said my father was a notorious sorcerer from a land across the southern sea, a barbarian. I don’t remember him, but I do remember my mother. She died when I was very young of some wasting disease, or maybe starvation. To survive after her death, I preyed on rats and other small animals and birds in the city at night, and I hid by day.”

I listen, gripped with horror and pity, unable to speak. But he doesn’t seem to expect a response.

“When I discovered the use of my magic, I began to barter my abilities to criminals—thieves, slavers, pimps—in exchange for food. One or two attempted to capture and enslave me but failed. I robbed, maimed, cursed, and killed without a qualm. I lived in this way, with the ignorance of a child, the morals of a predatory animal, and the blind rage of the desperate, for maybe ten summers. I had a high opinion of myself and no sense at all. When a nefarious criminal hired me to use my magic, I did his bidding without a qualm . . . and many people died. Important people. And their families.”

His tone is heavy, and although I hold his arm, he feels distant. “I cannot say that I felt regret or horror. I was satisfied with my pay, able to purchase new clothes and to eat well for a week. In my ignorance, I neither knew nor cared that my last transgression drew the attention of the International Council of Magic. I now realize what a monstrous deed I committed. But at the time I thought and behaved like a beast, with no conception of good and evil. Only dominance and survival. I believed myself to be the greatest mage of all time.”

He glances my way. “And then I met five members of the magic council and learned better.”

“Including my grandparents.”

“Yes. I fought wildly, but they worked as a team and overcame me. I now wear many unbreakable bonds, and I will spend the rest of my life hunting down other evil mages as penance for my crimes, which, I cannot deny, were heinous. At times, my memories haunt me.” He avoids my gaze, distancing himself further, and we walk in silence for a time.

I can’t begin to imagine what evil he’s committed, but I clearly hear the resignation and sorrow in his voice. Rina would tell me it’s an act, but I can’t help remembering his kindness, gentle manner, and subtle humor while he helped me bake the other day. If that was playacting, he is a consummate actor.

Deep in thought, I scarcely notice our surroundings until I hear a metallic sound that reminds me of the nerve-torturing racket my cast-iron oven makes when I close its door. “What was that?” I stop short, trying to figure out where it came from. So does Barbaro.

We stand across the street from the city square, having approached it from a different angle. The sun hovers above the horizon to the west, peeking beneath a high cloud layer to make the autumn leaves on every tree within sight glow like fire. Barbaro’s narrowed gaze scans the square with its monuments and fountain, studies the half-timbered buildings along the intersecting streets, then skims across to study the park, where a few people stroll the paths, enjoying the fall color.

Me? I take advantage of his distraction, sneaking looks his way. Each time I see the man, he’s better looking. As in, so attractive I can hardly breathe. I know I shouldn’t think about him this way, but . . . Really, is his shocking past entirely his fault? He can’t help being illegitimate and orphaned. He had no say about inheriting his father’s magic, and no one in his life bothered to instruct him in morality.

Until my grandparents came along, that is. Did they teach him good manners and respect for others? Someone obviously did, because he is more well-spoken and gentlemanly than any man I’ve met since my father died. Rina doesn’t believe he could possibly be a reformed character, but why not? Is he so powerful that the council mages are afraid to give him a chance?

It’s a fact that I don’t know much about men. But I believe this one finds me appealing. Not just my appearance but themeI am inside. I think he cares about me. But I’m young and inexperienced—maybe he told me that story to soften my resistance to his charms. How can I consider myself a better judge of character than five mages who’ve lived longer and experienced far more than I have?

“Cerise?”

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