Page 20 of The Baker and the Wolf

I snap back to reality and meet his quizzical gaze. Have I been staring at him all this time? “Sorry. I was thinking.”

“Troubling thoughts, from your expression.”

“Not all bad. I learned so much today. It’s a lot to process.”

A shadow crosses his face, and he nods. “I understand.” One of his dark brows rises. “Do you wish to stand here longer, or shall we move on?”

I can’t help smiling as I tug on his arm. “Let’s go. Did you figure out what made that noise?”

“Not yet, but I will.” His voice has an edge. “Would you like to walk home through the park? I know it’s your usual path.”

“Yes, please, but first, the square. I love this time of day but seldom have opportunity to enjoy it.” Before we cross the street, I slip my hand from his forearm into the crook of his elbow. It feels more companionable.

“I am honored to walk with you, Cerise.” His low voice makes me shiver.

“I’m grateful for your protection and friendship.” My voice trembles. Does he notice? Of course, he does. But he can’t know what I’m thinking. Or can he? I’ve never sensed him in my head—surely I would have noticed.

We approach my statue, and the sight of its weathered bronze face brings a soft ache to my heart. I tighten my grip on Barbaro’s arm. “I’m remembering things now.”

“Good things?”

“Oh, yes!” Sudden happiness nearly chokes me up, but I can’t wait to share this memory. “Whenever we girls walked in the park with Papa, he would stop and pretend to carry on a conversation with Grandpère Christophe.” I grin. “But he called him ‘Great-great-great-great-great . . .’ until we started giggling and ordered him to stop. And then he would tell the statue about each of us. One time he told it how Suzette hosted pretend dinner parties for our dolls, and Charlotte sewed clothes for hers—to wear to the parties, of course.”

“And you?” Barbaro asks with a quiet smile.

The wonder of remembering—and so clearly!—makes my voice tremble. “I contributed ‘pastries’ made of mud and grass, using my magic to make them pretty. Charlotte tried to eat one once. We all laughed so hard when Papa told the statue that part. None of us realized he’d been watching our play.”

Barbaro listens attentively, studying my face.

When I meet his warm gaze, I smile, then abruptly remember his horrific childhood. “Oh! I’m sorry for rattling on like that. I mean . . . You don’t . . .” I babble.

“Please, don’t apologize.” His elbow presses my hand against his side. “Your story illustrates what family and childhood should be.” Looking up at the statue, he touches his hat brim. “You, Christophe DuBois, would be proud of your descendants—one lovely young maiden in particular. I am honored to know her.”

Again I fall silent, my heart too full and chaotic for words as we walk to the park and enter its forested paths. This scene is so different from the snowy track in my grandmére’s pocket world—golden and glowing rather than crisp and white. And here I have a handsome escort, not a wolf.

Feeling his gaze on my profile, I swallow hard. What would it be like to kiss him? My face heats as I dwell on the thought. My grandmére would adamantly disapprove. So would my mother. And probably everyone else in my life. But just now, I don’t care.

I know I’m a fool to fall in love, or whatever this is, with a magical convict. I almost hated him at first. But why? If I’m honest with myself, it was fear. Fear of how attracted I felt to him. Fear of . . . oh, everything!

I’m twenty years old, and I’ve never been kissed by a man. I mean, well, my father kissed me plenty of times, but that’s totally different. Honestly, I’ve never wanted a man to kiss me until now. Not really. Always before, the concept was more of a procedural curiosity. Now, it feels like a need. I can only hope he might feel the same way.

But I have no idea whatsoever how to encourage him. Is it even a possibility? With all the magical restrictions and bindings on him, something terrible might happen to him if he tries to kiss me. Some kind of torture—or he might simply vanish, and I’ll never see him again.

“How do you feel about your magic lesson today?”

I snap back to reality and force my overwrought emotions to simmer down. “It was incredible,” I admit. “It was as if Rina opened a part of my mind that’s been locked for years and years. I could communicate with her in my mind, and she taught me how to protect my magic.”

We take a roundabout route, walking paths I haven’t seen in years. I chatter on for a while, caught up in my own narrative. However, I know exactly when he lowers his forearm and my hand slides slowly down until our hands clasp. We can’t link fingers very well while wearing gloves, but my heart races anyway. Even when a cold wind buffets my face and falling leaves spiral around us, I feel warm and excited and hopeful. I don’t even know this man’s real name—does he?—but I don’t care. Just now, I think I could spend the rest of my life with him. He treats me like someone who matters, whose opinions and thoughts matter. Like his equal, or even better.

Our steps slow, and I realize that no one else is in sight. Perhaps the drop in temperature chased people away. I sense that he is gathering his thoughts to speak to me—also, that I might not want to hear what he intends to say. I drop my basket, turn to face him, and see his beautiful eyes widen just as I wrap my arms around his neck. My lips more or less crash into his, landing off-center.

He freezes for a worrisome instant, but then his mouth shifts and softens over mine until the kiss is perfect. I press closer, hoping he will hold me. The scent of him, the blend of urgency and tenderness in his kiss—I want more! Although his arms remain at his sides, for a few blessed moments I feel our souls entwine.

But then he gently grasps my forearms to ease me away, and our lips part. Disappointment rushes through me.

“Cerise.” His voice is a mere rumble. In the deepening shadows of dusk I see his golden gaze and wonder if his eyes might be lit from within.

We face each other in silence, attempting to control our breathing. Then he picks up my empty basket, beckons me toward a leaf-strewn bench, and brushes it clean. After I sit, he sits facing me. I reach for his hands, relieved when he returns my grasp. “Please don’t tell me I shouldn’t have kissed you,” I beg.

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