Page 4 of The Baker and the Wolf

Including me.

My eyes focus on the trays on the counter, each neatly lined with pristine éclairs. By some miracle, there they sit.

However, the rest of me is far too focused on my own position to heed theirs. The strong arm around my waist and the solid chest against my back command my entire attention.

“I apologize if I offended you earlier, Mademoiselle DuBois.” Warm breath against my ear makes me shiver even as heat flows up my neck into my face. “I have never tasted better coffee or pastries. The apple éclair was my favorite today.”

I haven’t been this close to a man since Papa died, and this is no fatherly hug. I recover my wits enough to push his arm from my waist and turn to face him. “What . . .? How . . . how did . . .?”

Gold flecks glitter in his eyes. “But on another day I might prefer the lemon’s tang,” he continues as if I hadn’t spoken, his breath scented with cinnamon. “And the chouquette. . .” He kisses the tips of his gathered fingers while holding my fascinated gaze.

I can only gape from him to the rescued pastries to the utter stillness surrounding us. My customers stand frozen in time. Some mouths are open. One man resembles an angry bulldog, and a woman is scratching her ear. I slowly pivot to see Lizzy halfway through the connecting door, her arms full of baguettes.

The sight shocks me awake. I whirl around to confront him. “What have you done to my shop?” My heart feels tight enough to choke me, but I refuse to back down. “Stop mesmerizing me and put it back! All of it.” I swing an arm toward my customers and Lizzy. “Put everything back like it was. Now!”

A crease appears between his brows.“Not the pastries, I hope.”

I reconsider. “They can stay.”

He indicates the petrified queue of customers with a tilt of his head. “I might supply them with kinder attitudes.”

I scowl. “Don’t you dare interfere with them. No magic use is permitted in my store! Didn’t you see the notice as you entered?”

His eyelids flicker. “Nonsense. Every loaf you sell”—he indicates the cubbies—“contains magic. Then there are the brownies’ pastries, and what of your own magic?” He leans closer, studying my eyes until my knees go weak again. “Your magic is stifled, or maybe drained? I can scarcely—”

Shaking my head, I interrupt: “I don’t have . . . magic . . .” Even as I speak, I feel something flutter within my blood and bones, as fragile as butterfly wings.

“You know that isn’t true.”

“But how? HowcanI have magic?” More questions flood my mind.

“The same as anyone does: you were born with it.” Amusement and startlingly deep sympathy blend in his gaze. “Early tomorrow morning, meet me at the statue of your ancestor in the square out there”—he nods toward the door—“and you’ll receive an explanation.”

“An explanation of what? And how do you know—? ”

“If ever you’re frightened, chérie, call for Barbaro.”

“Who is—”

My voice cuts off. He’s gone. Vanished, as if he’d never existed.

Except I still feel the warmth of his touch.

Dazed, I realize that two customers are helping the older lady upright. I turn to see Lizzy shoving baguettes into their nook. How much did she see or hear?

“What just happened?” I inquire.

Lizzy glances at me over her shoulder. “I brought the bread, like you asked. This has got to be our busiest day ever. Can you believe it?” She motions toward the queue. “I’ll take over at the counter while you fill the— Oh! You already did. You’re quick, girl.”

I follow Lizzy’s gaze. The glazed éclairs make an eye-catching array in the display case, arranged to elegant effect.

He must have done it. My golden-eyed stranger.

Lizzy scans the room. Customers sit chatting at tables. Those waiting to be served visit among themselves or read the menu board. “Sure you need help? Looks to me like you’ve got everything under control.” She stacks the empty trays.

“I guess I do. Thank you anyway.”

Hours later, alone in the shop, I snuggle and feed Miette, write out the next day’s menu, and lay out ingredients for madeleines, macarons, and custard pies, just to be helpful. I then lock up the shop and head home in a light rain, taking my usual route through the city square across the street. As always, I pause at a marble plinth to pat the booted foot of a bronze depiction of my ancestor Christophe DuBois, a woodcutter who became a founding father of Chartreuse. He carries a large bronze axe on one shoulder. I can’t recall how many generations back in the family tree Papa told us he is, but it must be a good many— the city is more than two hundred years old.

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