Page 24 of The Baker and the Wolf

Charlotte rolls her eyes while our mother can’t see and says, “Mama, you’ve got to change up your offerings if you really want to marry off Cerise. Monsieur Moustache must be the fifth baker you’ve brought home this year! And next time maybe look for someone under forty.”

The bakery feels . . . misty . . . as I struggle to pipe filling into chouquettes that keep dodging every squirt I attempt. Am I dreaming? Chouquettes never behave this way, and . . .

Ouch!

Sharp pain, like needles in my back, drags me back into reality. Momentarily, I glimpse a hideous blue light. My soul freezes . . .

Then, a shrill scream shocks me fully awake. My eyes pop open and blink in near darkness. I hear a moan, whimpering, some hissed swearing . . . and something thuds against my chamber door.

Someone is inside my room.

“Who’s there?” I roll over, sit bolt upright, and see a candle flame wave wildly as a figure with long pale hair over her shoulders gropes for the doorlatch. “Mama? What are you doing here?”

She instantly goes still, straightens to her full height, then turns to face me. Her eyes are like dark holes in her livid face. “Cerise, there’s a monster in your room! I came in to check on you, and it . . . it attacked me!”

A monster?

Memories flash through my head. After that deadly dull dinner party, I remember drinking the hot milk Mama sends up every night to help me sleep. Then Miette hopped through the window and curled up at the small of my back, purring and kneading, sometimes making me wince.

Miette. She dug in her claws to wake me up . . .

I glance around the room. “Are you sure you weren’t walking in your sleep? There’s no monster in here.”

She points at my open window. “It escaped. How many times have I told you not to sleep with your windows open? Bats can fly in! Now I might catch some terrible disease . . .” Reaching one hand over her shoulder, she pulls her hair aside and briefly turns her back to me. “Is there blood?”

I see several dark spots on her dressing gown. Miette is a force to be reckoned with.

And my mother?

Ignoring the sick feeling in my gut, I feign a yawn. “A little. But whatever it was, it’s gone now. Mama, I wish you wouldn’t enter my room while I’m sleeping. It’s rude! I’m not a child anymore.”

“You will always be my child,” she says in the fawning tone I’ve always despised. In some ways she’s a kind mother, but even as a child I sensed somethingoffin her attitude toward me.

Nevertheless, lifelong doubt grips me. Maybe I have middle-child issues: neither the oldest nor the youngest—always stuck in between. I’m not fearless and funny like Suzette or clever and stunning like Charlotte. My sisters are the only people who see me as anything more than mediocre, garden-variety, boring Cerise.

Except . . . I’m not ordinary. I have magic. A lot of magic.

Thatmy mothersteals.

I fake a yawn, flop back down onto my pillow, and mumble, “Yep. Always. It’s the middle of the night. I should be sleeping.”

“Yes, you should, darling.” She sounds doting, tender. “I could sit here with you until you fall asleep.”

“Mama, I’m twenty, not two.” I carefully keep my tone kind. “Please, go to bed. You can sleep in if you like, but I must be at work in just a few hours, and I can’t sleep with you hovering.”

Without another word, she steps into the hall and shuts the door hard—not quite a slam, but close enough to make her point: I stepped out of line.

She won’t forget. I will hear about my disrespect sooner rather than later.

Now I know why she never allowed us girls to have locks on our doors.

With a trill, Miette appears on my windowsill. I puff a relieved sigh, grateful for her company. “You were wise to vanish,” I whisper. “Thank you for waking me.”

A moment later, she settles down with her nose beside my chin. Her soft purr is soothing, but I can’t go back to sleep. I don’t dare.

Eyes closed, I check my magic. The part I hid away is untouched. The part I left unprotected? I can’t measure exactly, but I know it’s depleted. If Miette hadn’t attacked when she did, it would likely be gone.

To my mother—no, toGisella—I am a commodity to be exploited. No loving mother would steal her daughter’s memories, drain her magic, and lie to cover her treachery.

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