Page 6 of The Baker and the Wolf

“Who or what is Barbaro?” I hadn’t intended to confront him, but last night’s terror still chills my blood. “I was attacked while walking home yesterday.”

“When you called the name, did help come to you?”

His question snatches the wind from my sails. “Well, this dog . . . But I don’t understand! Is Barbaro your name? The dog’s?”

“What matters is your well-being.” I see him pull something from the pocket of his shabby greatcoat. “I found this. Yours, I assume?”

I stare at my patten, then snatch it from him. “Thank you.” Lille told Mama about my misadventure—I should have known better than to confide in one of the servants—and Mama insisted I borrow a pair from Lille, so I shove mine into one of my cloak’s roomy pockets.

He preempts further inquiry by asking: “Did you intend to meet me here as I requested, or am I simply in your way?”

“It’s on my way. But I did say I’d come.”

He indicates the brass nameplate on the plinth. “DuBois. I’ve seen you pause to speak to it.”

“Oh.” So that’s how he made the connection. How else would he know? Just now, I’m too rattled by pretty much everything to worry about being seen chatting with a statue. “He was many generations back, but my father looked a lot like him. He was proud of our connection with the town’s founding father.”

“Interesting family history.” The kindness in that gruff voice disarms me. “May I escort you to work? I wish to speak with you about your family.”

My mind goes blank. “I-I have to bake pastries,” I managed to stammer.

“May I help?”

I stare into his eyes and feel my resistance melt like hot butter. I want to believe he’s using magic to influence me, but then again, I don’t. And how would I even know? When I nod, he offers his arm, and I lay my hand on it, feeling the rough weave of his coat. He is obviously poor, yet he carries himself with confidence and grace.

As soon as I unlock the shop door and the bell jingles, Miette’s happy trill greets us, and I smell cinnamon and sugary goodness. I lock the door behind us and leave the windows shuttered. Neat rows of madeleines, hand pies, and croissants line the countertop, and colorful macarons adorn the display-bin shelves, leaving plenty of room for my own creations. As always, the old-fashioned bake ovens in the shop’s back wall are stoked and lighted, and eggs, cream, and butter for my pastries wait on a window ledge to keep cool. The iron cookstove’s surface is hot, ready for use. As helpful as I try to be to the brownies, they outdo me every time.

I hang up my cloak, and he hangs his coat on the next hook over. Then Miette leaps into his arms. Little flirt. Frowning, I wait for him to talk. He merely meets my gaze over my cat’s head and arches a brow.

“Aren’t you going to ask questions?” I ask. “Or explain things, like you promised yesterday?”

“I’m not here to pry into your business,” he replies mildly, cradling Miette in the crook of his arm and rubbing her belly while her paws open and close in rhythm with her purr. “And the explanations . . . they will happen in good time.”

His hands are large and callused from hard work, yet so gentle with my cat. Maybe this handsome appearance is an illusion. He might be a hideous goblin or troll for all I know.

But wouldn’t Miette see through a magical disguise? She is obviously smitten with him: eighteen dagger claws and four sharp fangs would shred anyone else who tried to rub her spotted belly. And that purr . . . well, it’s almost embarrassing.

Still, I ask, “If you’re not here to pry or explain, why are you here?” Another question pops to mind: “And if my cloak wards off men,howare you here?”

“The ward merely deflects interest. Anyone able to identify a ward can resist its influence,” he answers calmly. “I have no evil intentions toward you, Cerise DuBois.” His smile reveals teeth only slightly crooked. “Except, perhaps, to learn the secret of your pastry-baking magic.”

Is he . . . teasing me? My inward response to that smile is terrifying. I produce a creditable huff and state, “My pastries are good without magic.” I deliberately walk away, light every lamp, then briefly step through the back door into the main bakery. There, I don a fresh cap, tie on an enveloping apron, and return the baking crew’s greetings. I don’t mention my guest. Heat shimmers as one of Bernard’s grandsons slides crusty brown loaves from a brick oven. More of the brownies’ pastries wait on trays in case we sell out up front, which we’ve done every day this week.

Returning to the shop, I begin packaging madeleines—the exact number required, as always. Each one is perfectly formed and smells delicious. Matthias will arrive at opening time to deliver these and other orders.

“Your nighttime crew is productive,” he comments. “I imagine they clean for you as well.”

“Yes.” When I was little, I used to imagine the little people. I have a picture in my head of a tiny brown woman waving at me.

“Do they ever help your human crew bake bread?”

“No, only pastries.”

Miette heads for her morning perch on the windowsill. While I pour ingredients into a pan and stir them on top of the big wood-burning stove, my visitor wanders about like a self-appointed inspector. I’m aware of his every move.

“How can I help?” he asks.

“By not distracting me or getting in my way,” I respond.

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