Page 12 of The Baker and the Wolf
“Darling, you must sit down here and let me brush your hair to relax you.”
Before I quite know what happened, I’m sitting on the stool at my dressing table, and she vigorously wields my brush. I regard my wide-eyed face in the cloudy mirror, then meet my mother’s reflected gaze.
“How did sales go today?” Gisella keeps running her hand over my hair between sweeps of the brush. “Anything interesting happen?”
“Sales were excellent all week.” I point to the cashbox on my dressing table. “By the end of the day the pastries were gone and most of the bread. Bernard says they struggled to keep up with demand. We must be making a tidy profit. I think we should replace that old table with a real service counter soon. It would give the shop a more professional look.”
We discuss a few other possibilities for the bakery’s future before Gisella hands me my brush and picks up the cashbox. “I’ll have the totals for your books ready by Monday morning, darling. And remember: It’s your shop. If you believe a new counter would be the wisest way to spend potential extra income, then you should follow through. But you also might consider hiring more bread bakers.”
After a long day at work, her chatter makes my head throb. “Yes, Ma—”
“Ah ah!” She points a finger at me, one brow lifted, her full lips bowed in a teasing smile.
“Yes, Gisella.”
My mother rolls her eyes, laughing. “Seriously, Cerise, do I look old enough to have three grown daughters?”
“No.” I know better than to mention her grandchildren.
“Think of me as the fourth sister.” Her eyes twinkle. “Speaking of grown daughters, how is that baker lad doing these days? Bernard’s grandson. The tall one with soulful brown eyes. Didn’t he want to marry you?”
“He’s doing well, Mama. Happily married, with a baby on the way. And he wanted to marry Suzette, but she turned him down.”
“Hmph.” Studying my face and figure with a critical eye, Mama gives her head a little shake. More jewels twinkle at her ears; my stepfather does seem to enjoy spoiling her. “Twenty? I was married and a mother of three by that age. Time is rushing past. You must make a point of smiling more! Learn to flirt. Look interested!”
I can’t even pretend her remarks don’t hurt. “The men I find interesting never notice me.”
Even as I speak, a part of me insists this isn’t true anymore. Strange. I haven’t met any men recently . . . have I?
“You need to broaden the field. After all, responsibility and skill matter far more than charm or a handsome face.” She holds my chin and looks into my eyes. “You’ll be happiest married to a baker, of course. You’re right: we do need to bring in a new baker. Experienced. Hard-working. A man who can fill Bernard’s place someday. I know just the man.”
I’m on the verge of submitting when a rebellious memory pops out of my brain fog. What comes out of my mouth next surprises even me: “I don’t want to marry someone as boring as I am. Since opposites attract, I should fall in love with a dangerous man, perhaps a powerful mage or wicked barbarian.”
A man with warm golden eyes, glossy black hair, and a perfect smile.
Gisella’s eyes pop wide, and she turns to set the cashbox back down. “You don’t mean that, Cerise.”
Maybe not the “wicked” part, but it felt good to say it. Rather . . . empowering.
Before I can speak, she smiles her brightest and tries to take my face between her hands. “Silly girl. You know I’m right.”
But I step out of reach and hold up one hand when she attempts to follow me. “Please, listen to me, Mama. I want a husband who will love and cherish me, not use me or try to control me. Someone like my papa. If I can’t find such a man, I’ll remain an old maid.”
For an instant, Mama’s green eyes look almost fierce. Then she laughs, grasps my hand, and waves dismissively in my direction, her rings glittering in the firelight. “Child, you say such silly things to get a rise out of me. Please say you don’t mean it.”
Sudden heat rushes into my hand and my face, and I open my mouth to recant. But a tiny distant voice in my head shouts at me to resist, and at the last moment I substitute, “I don’t know why I said all that, Mama.” Which is true enough.
“I knew you didn’t mean it.” Gisella sounds cheery. “You’re my good girl. Louis-Baptiste and I will find a practical and dependable baker for you to marry, and you will be blissfully happy.” After planting a kiss on my forehead, she hefts the cashbox again and pauses to add, “I’ll have a plate and wash water sent up for you. Don’t forget, your sisters are coming for dinner tomorrow. Drink your warm milk and sleep well! And don’t forget to attend church in the morning.”
“Yes, Gisella.”
After she leaves, I stand still, trying to understand what just happened. I remember details clearly, but my brain can’t put them together into a whole. My pounding heart tells me I had a near escape, but from what?
I do know one thing clearly: Iwillgo to the statue in the morning to meet Barbaro. I will meet my grandmére and learn everything she can tell me about my father and my magic.
I step outside into a morning bright with dew and sunshine. Sleeping in until nearly sunrise on Sundays is a treat. Mama and Louis-Baptiste are presumably still asleep. Their parties and outings tend to run very late and involve a fair amount of expensive wine and cognac.
Oddly enough, I always feel the most energized on the mornings my mother is hungover and exhausted. Sometimes I almost feel guilty about this, though there’s obviously no connection.
