Page 5 of The Baker and the Wolf

Shadows from streetlamps obscure the statue’s features, but I know them well. Actually, I tend to imagine Papa’s face in their place. My father was a ruggedly handsome man with a boisterous laugh and a tender, nurturing heart. He had magic. I remember the way he communicated with horses and other beasts. They loved and trusted him. He was a successful farrier and blacksmith, and wealthy people often sought him out to train their horses.

Somehow, even though it is cold bronze, touching the statue always makes Papa feel closer.

Beyond the square and across the orbital road lies the city park, a lightly wooded oasis with benches and occasional lamps to light the walkways. Cutting across it takes nearly twenty minutes off my walk, and I can avoid passing my old family home. Usually, other people are around at this early hour, but tonight I seem to be alone. Except . . . I glance over my shoulder. No people, but . . . Did the shadow under that tree move? The drip of rainwater from overhanging leaves would cover any footsteps. My spine prickles, and I walk faster.

The sense of being followed doesn’t go away. I whirl around, and this time I see it clearly—a huge black animal right there on the path, its fur silvery with mist. A dog? It has long legs, a pointed muzzle and ears, and its eyes glow yellow in the dim lamplight. Surely a wolf wouldn’t stray this far into a city, but . . .

I turn and walk faster.

The beast follows, silently flowing through the shadows. What can I do?

Words pop into my head:If ever you’re frightened . . .Just above a whisper, I gasp, “Barbaro.” A strange sort of name. I suck in a breath and shout, “Barbaro!”

Silence. And the wolf is gaining on me.

“Thanks for nothing,” I mutter.

Seeing lights to my right, I take an intersecting path and run toward the bustle of civilization. Between trees, I see a carriage splash past on Grande Rue.

With my goal in sight I run faster, clopping along in my pattens. Around me, the trees give way to manicured lawn; only after I reach and cross the lighted street do I stop to pant. Most of the shops are closed, but I see lights in the windows of living quarters above them, and the tavern bustles with business. A few doors down, beneath the awning of Madame Lafleur’s millinery shop, a shabby-looking man slumps with his back against the wall. I suddenly wish I hadn’t rejected my man-warding cloak this morning. With any luck, he’s asleep or too drunk to move.

When I peer across the street at my back trail, I see only darkness punctuated by circles of shimmering raindrops around the lamps. No sign of the wolf. Or dog. I begin to wonder if I imagined it. Whatever it was, it’s gone.

Having no choice, I clop along the uneven walkway, calculating how many cross streets before I reach Place de la Maire. I hate passing the alleys between buildings; stray dogs and drifters are known to lurk in them. My shawl, cap, and skirts are soaked, and water drips down my face into my eyes. I’m panting, shivering, and miserable—

Something grips my arm and spins me around. “Well now, aren’t you the pretty piece!” a slurred voice says. A slouch hat and darkness obscure his features, but I glimpse a stubbled chin and broken teeth. “Came running straight to me, you did.”

I open my mouth, but an iron hand claps over it before I can draw breath enough to scream. “None of that now,” he warns. He spins me around, pins my arms to my sides, and backs into an alley, dragging me along. When I kick at his ankles, his grip tightens until I can scarcely breathe. “You want to stay alive, I think.”

My mind goes dark with horror and dread and lack of oxygen. I hear roaring in my ears.

Abruptly, the man drops me. Still lost in darkness, I collapse to my hands and knees on filthy bricks, suck in a breath, and nearly choke on the stench of refuse. I scramble upright to sway on my feet while my vision clears. When the roaring sound behind me clarifies into a cacophony of snarls and a man’s terrified screams, I stagger toward the alley’s entrance and around the corner. Without looking back, I lurch into a run—unevenly since I lost a patten. My feet are soaked, and my lungs are on fire, but my pace doesn’t slow until I climb the hill to the iron gates surrounding the mayoral mansion and slip inside.

Gasping and heaving for breath, shaking in every limb, I lean against the gate’s bars and dare to look back. Misty rain creates a halo around the lamp across the street. At its base I see a black form, a flash of white teeth in a panting mouth, and glowing yellow eyes.

“Thank you,” I gasp. I don’t know whether the beast is good or evil, but I do know it saved me tonight.

It is Friday night, so vehicles wait in the circle before the brownstone mansion’s front steps, their horses and drivers blanketed against the rain. My mother loves to host dinner parties. Hoping to remain unnoticed, I slip around the house, down stone steps, and into the dimly lighted hall beside the basement kitchen.

But Lille the kitchen maid has sharp ears. “Ouf,you’re here at last. Poor little chicken, out in such weather, and your cloak hanging useless in the hall!” Clutching a turnip in one hand and a knife in the other, she shakes her head at me from the doorway. “No more sense than abambin. You should be at the party upstairs, not sneaking in through the—” She takes a second look and frowns. “What happened to you?”

“I encountered a drunk on the way home, but I’m fine.”

Lille exclaims in her dramatic way for several minutes before urging me along. “Hurry up to your chambers and get out of those filthy clothes. I’ll bring you something hot and filling.” She flags down a young housemaid with orders to tend to the young mistress. For once I don’t mind the attention.

Édith, who can’t yet be thirteen, exclaims over my condition all the way upstairs and while stoking the fire in my bedchamber. I don’t mind her chatter; she’s a good-hearted little thing. And Lille, as good as her word, brings up a tray of covered dishes. Taking comfort from their kindness, I even let Édith help me change.

Soon, clad in a bedgown and wrapper, my damp hair hanging loose over my shoulders, I huddle in a blanket beside the fire. Hot soup and bread soothe my body, and soon Lille will bring up my nightly cup of hot milk. I’m home. I’m safe.

But I stare into the shimmering coals on my hearth and remember, not my horrible attacker or those moments of terror, but gorgeous golden eyes. Sometimes they gleam from the face of a handsome man. Sometimes they belong to a black wolf.

Am I going crazy, or did today really happen?

Warmly wrapped in my scarlet cloak thanks to Mama’s solicitous care, I hurry through the park in pre-dawn mist. My head feels oddly heavy; I didn’t sleep well. Jittery, I keep checking my back trail, yet the park still feels like my safer option. That dog (it had to be a dog) fought off therealwolf, so if I see it again, I’ll try to have a treat handy. Maybe it followed me because it was lonely or hungry, poor thing.

Nothing jumps out at me, and soon I cross the orbital street and safely enter the city square with its fountain, benches, lamps, and statues. When my statue looms into view, I see the silhouette of a man beside it. The sight of him is enough to double my heart rate. Sometime during the night I convinced myself that he wouldn’t show up or maybe I’d even dreamed him. But here he is.

“You seem surprised to see me,” he observes as I approach. Even by the dim light of streetlamps, his eyes gleam impossibly gold.

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