Page 22

KARL KNEW PIE crusts. Char had ensured Karl understood the ratios of flour to water and how essential it was to ensure he used cold butter.

The feel of a crust coming together under Karl’s hands, going from separate ingredients to the perfect flaky, doughy consistency as he mixed and kneaded was instinctive.

In class he had instead focused on learning how to make the perfect filling for his already amazing crust, but one glance at Mama Poma as she worked dough underneath stiff fingers, and Karl immediately realized his folly. A true master was at work.

The berries and carefully sliced rhubarb were comfortably simmering in sugar, water, lemon juice, and a touch of corn starch.

The heat would break down the fruit and the pectin would work with the corn starch to thicken the mixture into syrup.

Karl abandoned the pot on the stove to hover next to Mama Poma.

He memorized every twitch of her fingers as she incorporated the flour, every press of her palm to cut the butter into the dough, and even the moments she added more water, icy cold from the tap.

The ratios Karl was used to might be the same, and the basic technique was normal, too, yet even an untrained eye would be able to see how high quality her crust was in comparison to every other crust they had ever eaten.

Mama Poma set her crust aside to rest and turned to look at him, frowning. “Well? Show me what you can do.”

Karl nodded. He had already washed his hands before starting on the filling, so he jumped right in.

He measured out the flour, sprinkled in a little salt, and, since this was for a sweet pie, added a dash of sugar.

He gently used his fingers to combine the flour mixture, checked the temperature of the water and the butter, which was already cut into perfectly sized chunks, and got to work.

Using the techniques Karl had learned from Char, and incorporating the gentle movements of Mama Poma, Karl let the dough speak to him.

“Slowly, boy. This isn’t a race. You can’t force cold butter to behave, or it will melt and ruin the consistency.”

Karl obeyed, slowing his movements and almost immediately feeling the difference as his warm hands worked the cold ingredients into a dough. Mama Poma snorted and went to stir the simmering fruit.

The bakery was fairly spacious. The front room was dark behind the closed shutters but had a large display counter with enough space in front for customers to browse their options without stepping on one another.

The doorway behind the counter led to the room Karl was working in.

The entire left wall held ovens and stoves of many different sizes and various distances from the central heat of the fire to ensure perfect temperatures.

The strawberry-rhubarb filling continued to simmer on a midrange stove.

The wall adjacent to the shop had floor-to-ceiling open shelving, except for right next to the door where there was a cold box.

Every other space around the room, save for the opening for a back door and the wide sink on the righthand wall, was filled with spacious counters perfect for baking.

Underneath the counters were deep cabinets containing all the mixing bowls and baking tools Karl needed.

Spoons and spatulas hung from hooks in the walls.

Basically, if Karl had to design his own bakery, it would look very similar to this.

He finished his dough and stepped back for Mama Poma to take a look. She stepped forward and gave the dough one knead, her palms firm as she pressed into the dough, before stepping back.

“Acceptable. I suppose you trained at that fancy school way up north?” she asked.

Karl nodded. “But my adoptive father taught me pie dough first,” he added.

She studied him for a long moment, almost staring him down, arms crossed over her chest.

“Fine,” she snapped out, shaking her head and sighing.

“You’re hired. I want two dozen chocolate chip cookies.

You get started on that while I start up a custard.

We’ll use my dough for the pie and yours for custard tartlets.

Well?” she added when Karl simply started at her, unsure how to answer that.

Before yesterday and signing all those papers, he would have been absolutely thrilled.

Now, he still wanted this. He so very badly wanted this.

To hell with what all those hoity toity nobles thought.

He would make cookies, and maybe some crusty rolls that could be split and filled with jam or cheese, and he would damned well enjoy it!

“Yes, Chef!” he replied, echoing the first lesson he remembered learning in the kitchen at Char’s elbow. He was smiling ear to ear as he went to go find more sugar and butter to start creaming together to make his perfect chocolate chip cookies.

*

“I KNEW YOU’D be in a bakery!”

Karl jumped, jolted out of the meditative trance baking always induced, and some of the bread flour he had been carefully measuring out spilled onto the counter.

He spun and saw Casmir leaning indolently against the jamb in the doorway to the kitchen, grinning.

Except, the princely air he had adopted ever since he started living at the palace was gone.

His clothes were ordinary homespun in simple brown pants and tan shirt.

His hair was pulled back with a ribbon going tatty at the ends.

Yet, it wasn’t merely the clothes. Something about the tilt of his grin and the way he leaned said this wasn’t Casmir, this was Ama.

“How’d you find me?” Karl asked. Mama Poma was over by the ovens, checking on the pie and tartlets. Ama had left the front door open on the far side of the shop, which revealed the street lights were still on even though light was starting to shine as the sun began to rise.

“Luckily the guards recorded your exit and one of them was paying enough attention to remember which direction you went in. From there it wasn’t hard for me to figure out why you’d be walking toward the noble section of the city.

And then I smelled delicious goodies wafting from this bakery, and I took a wild guess you’d be here. ”

Karl’s cheeks heated, but he also couldn’t help the rush that went through him at knowing Ama knew him well enough to have found him inside a random bakery out in the city. Except…

“Why were you looking for me? I don’t have any appointments this early, do I?” The only reason anyone would be hunting him down so early in the morning was if something bad had happened.

Ama frowned and shook his head. “No one got hurt,” he started, and the rushing feeling in Karl’s gut turned into alarmed boiling.

“Probably right around the time you were sneaking out, someone went to the palace kitchens and attacked Shan. Of course, Shan being Shan, he took care of the problem even before that dragon that’s been trailing around the castle after him like a lost puppy came running. ”

Karl didn’t even know where to start to begin unpacking everything Ama had just said. Since he knew Shan was okay—he was more skilled with knives than Karl, so the attacker hadn’t stood a chance—Karl focused on the rest.

“A dragon has been harassing Shan?”

“I wouldn’t call it harassing, per se,” Ama replied, grinning, the twinkle in his eyes bright with mischief.

“I heard this story secondhand, since I was still recuperating at the time the events actually occurred, but I heard Lyric and his sister Melody attended an informal dinner with the royal family. Lyric took one look at Shan and fell head over heels in love. Word is, Shan’s not feeling harassed at all by the attention. ” He winked.

That was good to know, and Karl was happy for Shan, but the real reason he asked was because of Lyric. No matter how attuned he might be to Shan, Lyric had known about the attack early enough to get there before the guards could respond.

“Could they find any connection to Yaroi from what Shan left of the attacker?” Karl whispered so Mama Poma wouldn’t overhear.

Ama shook his head. “Not a shred of evidence, but who else could it be? They probably learned one of Fen’s sons was working in the kitchen and attacked.

I assume they were targeting you, since you were on the mission in Yari, but got Shan instead.

When you weren’t in bed like you were supposed to be, some people got in a bit of a tizzy.

I said I’d go find you, so here I am!” Ama bowed slightly at the waist, still grinning cheekily.

“Your hands can keep working even when your mouth is gabbing,” Mama Poma called, scowling at them and glancing pointedly at Karl’s dropped flour.

A laugh escaped Karl before he could suppress it, her words breaking through the seriousness of their conversation like a hot knife through butter. Karl obeyed, sweeping up the flour mess and starting to measure again.

“So attackers we believe were Yarokians were able to get into the castle and mount an attack, and Lyric the Yarokian prince knew about it ahead of time?” Karl asked, summing up everything Ama told him to ensure he had all the facts correct.

This certainly wasn’t the first time assassins had gotten into the castle. Poor Uncle Caro had been attacked multiple times before he and Uncle Braxton were able to help Namin crown a new ruler. Every time a hole in the castle’s security was discovered and plugged, somehow another one opened.

Karl added sugar and salt to the flour, mixing all the dry ingredients together even as his thoughts swirled.

Next was oil and yeast from Mama Poma’s starter.

Karl let his hands do the work—the movements of mixing and adding more flour until a dough started to form automatic and not needing much thought—while his brain tried to work through the problem.

Ama, now known as Prince Casmir, was practically untouchable.

Attacking him meant war. Yaroi and Toval both had highly capable armies; war would ensure a bloodbath that would destabilize the rule of the current kings of each country.

Regicide in a violence-prone society like Yaroi wasn’t out of the question.

Yaroi might be a power-based ruling system, but poison would kill dragon shifters just as easily as a rabbit shifter.

The current king might have a lot of leeway, but he still needed to be careful.

Yaroi would also want to keep in mind the consequences of getting Namin involved in the war.

Killing or even just attacking Casmir would ensure the kingdom of prophesy would join on Toval’s side.

No, Prince Casmir was safe. Karl pressed down on the dough, beginning to knead now that it had reached the right consistency.

Yaroi would see it as a waste of time to go after the soldiers involved in getting Melody out of Yari.

They were simply following orders from those at the top.

They might take a shot at Ralph because he commanded the mission, but at the moment the Royal Forces were in some unknown location training.

If Karl didn’t know where they were, Yaroi certainly didn’t.

Which left Karl, who had been the one to rescue Ama, and was Fen’s son.

They could punish Fen for ordering his troops to go into Yari and punish Karl for his role simply by killing Karl.

And, since Karl wasn’t actually a proper prince of Toval, killing him would send the message Yaroi wanted without inciting war.

He pushed, turned, and pushed again, the dough gaining more elasticity with every knead.

“I’m the prime target, aren’t I?” Karl asked Ama, who nodded and then shrugged.

“I’m sure they’d be happy to kill any of us, me in particular. You’re just the easiest target, or so they think, at least. I know what you’re capable of, and so does Prince Braxton or those guards wouldn’t have let you out of the castle last night.”

Karl sighed and patted the dough into a ball, dropping it into the bowl which he set aside on a different counter to proof for a while.

“So what next?”

Ama smirked. “They only said I should find you. They didn’t say anything about bringing you back.

I say you enjoy your baking for the morning, and when you’re done we can go check out your new house.

And if any of those damned Yarokians try anything against the two of us, they’ll instantly regret it. ”

Karl snickered. “Don’t think you get to just watch and relax all morning. Go wash your hands and find a big spoon. You get to mix the snickerdoodles I’m making next.”

Ama opened his mouth to reply, already starting to roll up his right sleeve, but he suddenly snapped his mouth shut and spun to face the door, his hands raised in a defensive position in front of his face.

A second later Karl heard what Ama must have: the scrape of footsteps on the stone stairs out front.