Page 36 of The Baker and the Wolf

I hurry along the packed-snow path as quickly as I can move while lugging this increasingly heavy basket. I’ll feel better about everything once I’m with Rina. There’s no way Gisella can stealhermagic!

My arms feel numb by the time the cabin comes in sight, and when Rina opens the door I’m more than ready to hand over the basket of bricks. “Everything going as planned?” she asks, relieving me of my burden with no visible effort.

“As far as I know,” I reply and flop down in my favorite chair.

“Barbaro is watching the door?” She sits too, sets the basket on the floor between us, and lifts off the elegant tea towel.

Something in her manner restrains my tongue. “Yes. At first he thought we were followed, but I never saw anyone.”

“Perhaps they were wise enough to avoid showing themselves.”

I shrug, focused on the basket. “Barbaro can handle anything.”

“Hmm.” Seeing motion from the corner of my eye, I look up to see Rina point at the basket while staring at me with her eyebrows raised, then lay her finger over her lips.

Something is up. I nod, pretending I have a clue.

Rina carefully digs into the basket. Pulling out the wine bottle, she exclaims, “Oh my, look at this!” with exactly the right intonation. “Your mother sent all this bounty? How thoughtful of her! This wine is an excellent vintage.” While chatting in the same vein and commenting on my lame little answers, she removes the cheeses and the apples, followed by the leftover pastries. This done, she gives me a penetrating glance, one brow slightly arched, and glances down into the basket before asking, “Have you breakfasted yet?”

Sjnce she obviously expects an answer, I say, “No.”

Lifting the cloth liner, she points down at a blob of red-check cloth squashed into the basket’s weave. A toy? It appears to be stuffed.

“Neither have I,” she says. “We can enjoy a pastry or two, and maybe some cheese. Would you please set a few on that platter?”

“Sure.”

“I think I’ll slice up this lovely white cheese too,” she says. “I know it would go best with the wine, but I’m hungry right now.” She points again at the gingham toy—on closer inspection I can see it’s a dog—then cups one hand around her ear as if listening. “If I were to drink wine at this hour, your grandfather would never let me forget it.”

What is she trying to communicate? I don’t dare make a mistake. “May I have another piece of cheese?” I ask, though I haven’t so much as tasted anything.

“Certainly. Help yourself.” Her tone is astoundingly casual. With equal aplomb she conjures a charcoal pencil from nowhere and writes on the sealed invitation:Magic in the toy dog. G is listening to us.When I meet her gaze, she points urgently at the toy, a somewhat frayed and faded bundle with floppy ears and embroidered features. In a flare of magic, I remember. It’s Chienne! I used to sleep with her. Really? Gisella is using my childhood snuggle toy to spy on us? How low is that?

Fine. I may be slow on the uptake, but I can pretend with the pros. “Now I need something sweet. Mama’s always telling me I need more meat on my bones, but I just can’t eat enough to get plump.”

Nodding her approval, Rina chuckles. “Be grateful. That will change as you get older.” She moans in pretend delight. “Your pastries are the best, but you already know that.”

While she has my attention, she holds up the sealed invitation.

I nod. “Oh, I nearly forgot: Did you find the invitation in the basket? Oh no, I hope I didn’t drop it on the way . . .”

“Do you mean this?” She rustles it against the basket.

“Yes! Please open it. I think you’ll be pleased.”

Rina calmly opens the invitation, reads the lying drivel aloud, and even tears up a little while talking about Gerard’s last letter and how long she has dreamed of meeting her grandchildren. And now she has great-grandchildren! I’m in awe of her acting ability.

All the while, I can’t help wondering if we’re wasting our time. Gisella might not even show up today. She might have figured out our trap, or she has plans of her own for capturing greater sources of human magic.

I’m in the middle of answering a question about my nephew, Jean-Henri, when we hear a metallic squeal, then a thud overhead. Dust trickles from the thatching, and the room seems lighter. With a sense of unreality, I twist around in my seat and see daylight pouring through a section of thatch.

Another squeal and crash, and this time I glimpse the bronze head of an axe. Dust and bits of thatching trickle down over the furniture and food. Rina drags me from my chair, pushes me toward a back door, then lets out a very convincing scream. I’ve barely started moving when she’s back with our cloaks. I finally snap out of my stupor and run for it. While we fling on our wraps, she pins me with a look. “You know what to do, right? Let the statue come to us. Don’t react until I give the signal.”

Another crash, and the front section of the cottage collapses in a cloud of dust. Rina shoves me outside, and we slog through the snow in our house slippers. Where are the magical boots and gloves now? I silently grouse.

My complaints vanish when, with earth-shaking footsteps, the statue rounds the cottage and descends on us. Seeing its bronze form loom so large and blank-eyed, I let out a shriek. Rina raises her hands as if to defend herself with a blast of magic, but nothing happens. The statue scoops her up, tucking her under one bronze arm. Rina shouts commands and screams in frustration, and I can’t tell whether she’s still acting or something went wrong. When the statue turns to me, its blank bronze eyes briefly meet my gaze before it collects me with its other arm.

As soon as my hands grip the bronze arm, I feel Gisella’s presence. Her body isn’t here, but her mind and her fae magic are. Papa’s magic is here, and Barbaro’s is also in the mix—I sense more of his magic in the statue than mine . . . Fear for him clutches my mind, but I have no time to imagine any horrors.

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