Page 8 of The Baker and the Wolf

“Yes, Monsieur LeRoy speaks highly of his old partner.”

I accidentally drizzle ganache across a pan. “You’ve met Monsieur LeRoy?”

He meets my gaze. “He recently hired me.”

“To do what?”

“I’m a farrier. LeRoy also recommended this boulangerie as the best in the city. He told me it belonged to your mother’s family.”

This almost sounds as if he were looking for me. I resume my work, struggling to focus my thoughts on what I need to do next. Oh. Mix more pastry . . . “Yes, her maiden name was Boulanger. Her family owned this business for generations.” I do my best to speak impassively: “When my grandparents passed away, only Mama remained to inherit. She married the mayor a few years later.”

“There were other relatives?”

I nod. “An uncle and some cousins left the city long ago. I barely remember them.”

“I am sorry for your losses,” he says quietly.

The sympathy in his voice soothes like a balm. I turn from the stovetop to nod my thanks. “Grandmère taught me the art of pâtisserie, and Grandpère was . . .” I blink hard against the burning behind my eyes. “They always seemed . . . sad. I only ever saw them at the bakery. Grandpère often said I was their joy.”

“I’m sure you were a great comfort to them.” His gentle tone draws my gaze to meet his, and my breath grows short . . . but then his brows draw together and his lips purse. “I do wonder why you labor long hours in your mother’s bakery while she moves in elevated circles of society and your sisters have their own homes and families. I assume they possess magic ability too, your sisters.”

Hearing him describe the situation so succinctly hurts. I resume my stirring. “Suzette and I have no magic at all.”

“Why do you believe you have no magic?”

With my back to him, I roll my eyes. “I should think I would know if I did! My mother reminds me frequently of my deficiency. Charlotte is the only one of us who inherited the gift: she can create fashions that flatter their wearer. Unfortunately, using her magic gives her a dreadful headache, so she avoids it. She married Albert very young, but then she only ever wanted to be a wife and mother, so she’s happy.”

I’m talking too much. Pinching my lips together, I feel as though I watch someone else’s hands crack eggs and blend each one into the pastry dough.

“Is the use of magic in preparing food frowned upon in this city?”

I give him a sharp look. “Of course not. Bernard, our head boulanger, and his sons and grandsons use their magic every day. Their loaves always bake perfectly.”

He looks thoughtful. “And you have the brownies to help you with the pastries. I assume you know them.”

My world closes in even further. “I cannot see or hear them.”

After a pause, he says, “I see. What do you know about your father’s family?”

Grateful for the change of subject, I answer readily, “Papa once spoke of taking me and my sisters to meet his parents, but he died before that could happen. Mama says they now want nothing to do with their granddaughters.”

“And you believe her?”

I shrug. “Why should I doubt my own mother?” Truth be told, Mama cuts off any discussion connected with Papa. Maybe speaking of him hurts her too much? I try to believe this, but doubt does sneak in . . .

“When did your mother give you the scarlet cloak?”

I flick a startled glance his way. “When I turned fifteen.” I intend to stop there, but follow-on thoughts pop out of my mouth. “Mama threw me a party in the park. I looked forward to it for days.”

“Your expression tells me this is not a happy memory.”

I give him a look. “After that day, my childhood friends all moved out of the area, and the boy I liked began following my younger sister around.”

“And married her, I’m guessing.”

Charlotte doesn’t know I liked Albert back then, and I intend to keep it that way. I focus on piping éclairs, but when he says nothing more, I can’t help sneaking another glance. Arms folded over his chest, he frowns, deep in thought, then muses aloud. “Could it be that your mother wants you to stay single?”

I stiffen. “Nonsense. She frequently tries to set me up with men.” Usually bakers at least twice my age or seriously unappealing. “You tell me the cloak repels men because of magic, but maybe it’s just too . . . red. I mean, my hair is red. It clashes.” This was intended as a jest, but my tone is too serious. I don’t dare look at him. “And when I’m cold, my nose turns red, too. Like my name, a cherry.”

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