Page 30 of The Baker and the Wolf

I stare at him, struggling to readjust my grip on reality. I am currentlythe guest of a great enchantress (who happens to be my grandmére) in a pocket world (whatever that is), and today I have watched a man (the handsomest I’ve ever seen) transform into a wolf and then reverse the process. How is a person supposed to react when the unlikely is commonplace and the impossible becomes everyday life?

I figure I might as well just go with it. “Let me take your coat. You can put your boots there on the mat beside mine.” He shrugs out of the coat, and I hang it on a hook beside my cloak.

Soon he stands in his damp woolen socks before the low-burning fire and raises one visibly trembling hand to rub his forehead. “Cerise, I should have told you.” He resolutely lifts his golden gaze to my face. “I am unworthy of your trust in every possible way. I should never have allowed you to think . . .” He swallows hard. “I must apologize for deceiving you.”

Events of the past twenty-four hours have shoved my emotional state from “moderately stable” into the “decidedly iffy” category, and if this man says one word about regretting what happened between us yesterday, I might just fall to pieces.

I did all the pursuing.Ihugged and kissedhimwithout invitation, without even asking. And now he apologizes for letting it happen? My hot blush only deepens my humiliation. What good is my magic, anyway? Well, if I focus hard, maybe I could shrink into a flea and torment his wolf form for years to come . . .

“No, Cerise, listen!”

Can he read my thoughts? When I dare to look up, his fervent gaze instantly eradicates my shame and floods my heart with hope. “Yesterday was . . . a taste of heaven.” I sense magic in his voice. “I will treasure the memory of your embrace, your kiss, until I die. My only regret is for you. Never for me.” His dark lashes sweep down to hide those burning eyes.

As if on cue, Rina returns to the room, carrying a silver tray complete with teapot, cups, and a plate of pastries that look fresh out of the oven. “No more privacy spells, Barbaro. For my granddaughter’s sake, I will let that one pass, but don’t try it again. I need you to complete this mission, but I won’t hesitate to send you back to Gauthier if you exceed your boundaries again.”

While Rina pours tea and distributes pastries, it hits me: Barbaro’s little speech was a letting-me-go spiel, not a declaration of love. I’m slow on the uptake, but I have no prior experience with gorgeous men, shifty or otherwise.

My hand trembles when I pick up my teacup, spilling a dribble into the saucer. I set it back down and shove a chouquette into my mouth. It tastes like dust and ashes. I was a fool to fall so fast and hard for a man I scarcely know. He quite possibly says these romantic things to girls at every assignment. Maybe he used a luring magic to get me to kiss him—hismodus operandi. How would I know?

While I mope, Rina gets down to business. “Cerise told me about the unusual magic her mother uses. What do you make of it?”

He takes a sip of tea, clears his throat, gives me a sidelong glance, and replies, “I believe it is fae magic. Both what Cerise described to me and what I’ve seen for myself indicate magic of a nonhuman origin that links itself with human magic. I believe the parasitic fae magic is anchored in an artifact, and the human magic, in this case, is stolen. The woman possesses no innate magic.”

My eyes go wide, but at least I keep my jaw from dropping.

Rina sits back in her chair, nodding in grim satisfaction. “I would like to know how the woman acquired the artifact, but our immediate concern is her current intentions. You’ve been observing her for some time. What is her motive? What are her goals?”

They’re talking about my mother, I have to remind myself. My mother, who is a stranger to me—no real mother at all. I feel . . . cheated. At least I’ve always had my sisters. And, for a time, we had our papa.

“My guess regarding the suspect’s motivation is a personal crusade for power and prestige.” Barbaro leans forward in his chair, his expression intent, focused. “I believe a study of her past provides our best clues to potential future actions. Since our first day in Chartreuse, I’ve tracked down and evaluated the historic usage of this then-unidentified magic.” His tone is formal, professional. “I began my investigation where I found the greatest concentration of evidence, in the city center, and gradually expanded its parameters. Most vestiges of the foreign magic are subtle, having faded over time, but a few are overt. The earliest evidence I discovered was a major event that occurred roughly twenty years ago.”

“You sound more like Gauthier every day,” Rina comments, leaning slightly forward in her chair. “What kind of event?”

“I believe it was the first of two powerful mass-memory blocks with effects covering an area nearly a mile in diameter. Its epicenter was located a few blocks west of the city square.”

“Mass-memory blocks? Two? How do you know that?”

“Based on interviews with three sets of people: those living only within the first blast’s range or the second, and those living in the overlap area. People who lived within the first blast’s range have no memory of Gisella Boulanger as a child or young adult. Older adults remember her parents, her grandparents, her brother and cousins, but they could tell me nothing about her life before she was a widow with three daughters.”

My jaw drops. “Really?”

Rina nods. “Good work. And the second memory block?”

“Occurred several years later. Its epicenter was the city square—to be precise, the bronze sculpture of Cerise’s ancestor. And its effect? No one within that circle remembers much of anything about Gerard DuBois.”

Even as he speaks, my magic surges and a memory explodes through my brain. “I remember,” I gasp, my eyes squeezed shut. “I know what happened at the statue.”

After a pause, Rina asks, “Can you tell us?”

I nod, eyes squeezed shut. “Papa often took us girls for walks in the park. Well, he mostly carried Charlotte on his shoulders—she was only five. He would tell us stories about his childhood and his family history, and we always greeted the statue of Grandpère Christophe. On that day”—I look up at Rina—“the day after Papa wrote his letter, Mama joined us. I wished she hadn’t come; she always spoiled things. They argued most of the way about Papa taking us to visit his parents. Mama refused to consider it, saying terrible things about you and Grandpère. When we reached the statue, Papa handed Charlotte to Suzette and asked us girls to go walk on the brick flowerbed borders like we always did. I still listened while he told Mama that he would take us and go visit you without her. That’s the last thing I remember before the . . . the magic blast. Horrible blue magic.”

I swallow hard. “I heard Papa cry out . . .” I rub my face and find it wet with tears. “And then he was gone.”

My voice is calm. I act calm. I even feel calm. But beneath the calm, a storm rages. I want revenge. “She told us he was killed on a hunting trip in the mountains, and I believed her.”

My grandmère sits very still, her expression distant.

Barbaro speaks into the silence. “Monsieur LeRoy’s smithy stands at the outer edge of the second blast’s range. His memories are fuzzy, but they persist. He doesn’t believe Gerard is dead. No matter what other people say, he knows there was no funeral or service of any kind. Only a sudden gravesite and a story that doesn’t match surrounding facts.”

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