Page 23

“HEY, YOU OLD hag!” a boy yelled. A moment later he stepped into the room.

About fifteen or sixteen, he had tan skin and long brown hair cut ragged at the shoulders.

His clothes were roughly patched but fairly clean, so he was a wealthy enough street urchin.

Or, he had learned the lesson that bad smells attracted attention, a death sentence for thieves mid-job.

Three more kids followed him, two guys and a girl, all about the same age and the same level of cleanliness.

All four were scowling and were doing their best to look tough and intimidating.

Maybe in this neighborhood they were successful, but Karl had seen far worse during his time on the streets, and even more terrible acts of intimidation and force during his various stints with the army or when doing jobs for Braxton.

Besides, from the way they walked with their balance on their heels, it was clear none of them were actual fighters.

Again, maybe they had success in this hoity-toity neighborhood, but something felt off.

No Yarokian would be so weak. Perhaps they had been hired to flush Karl out so the Yarokians could find him? Why else would they be here? Karl stepped into open space so he could have room to pull his knives and fight.

“Didn’t you hear what we said last time?” the boy continued, striding through the shop toward the kitchen. “Your baking days are over. Sell this place while you still can. We won’t stop with breaking windows next time, and when there’s nothing left, you won’t earn a single copper penny.”

Breaking windows? Mama Poma had mentioned something about that, hadn’t she?

Karl wracked his brain, trying to remember what she had said before he got distracted with baking.

There had definitely been something about breaking windows and refusing to sell.

Which meant these wannabe ruffians were here for her, not for Karl.

Karl still didn’t let his guard down. They might be wannabes, but he knew better than to be careless. Even the worst fighter got lucky at some point.

“It’s my house and my business,” Mama Poma snapped in reply. “Go bother someone else.”

Blood near the food was unacceptable. Karl couldn’t remember how many times Char had repeated that, particularly when soldiers, bloodied from battle, returned to camp. If Karl didn’t want blood spilled in this kitchen, the situation needed to be deescalated fast.

He held up his hand perpendicular to his face, palm and fingers flat. When he was sure the boy was looking in his direction, Karl slowly bent his ring finger down in the thief’s sign for just passing through. A street kid would know the sign and honor it.

But the kid just rolled his eyes and refocused on Mama Poma.

“All you need to do is sign this one piece of paper. You get the money, he gets his property, and everyone’s happy.”

Mama Poma snorted. “My answer hasn’t changed. Go run back to your mommies.”

“Then you leave us no choice,” the boy declared.

He reached behind him and pulled out a knife, but his movements were slow with inexperience and his grip on his knife wrong.

This wasn’t a street kid used to fighting for the merest scraps.

He was probably a merchant or shopkeeper’s son turned bully for hire.

He could still do damage with that knife, though, so Karl let out a slow breath and let his hands drift down to where his own knives were hidden underneath his clothes.

“You picked the wrong day to attack this baker, kid,” Karl said. “This is your last warning.”

The kid let out a shout and charged, swinging his arm forward in a slash that probably would have bounced off Karl’s collarbone, leaving only a bare nick in his skin …

had Karl allowed the knife to land, of course.

Karl yanked one of his own knives free and parried, hitting the kid’s knife just right so it popped out of his hand and flew across the room.

Karl shifted his weight and kicked, the sole of his right foot landing high on the kid’s stomach.

The kid dropped to the ground, both hands pressed to his solar plexus as he gasped and gurgled, trying to get air.

A quick pivot and Karl dipped to the side to avoid the girl’s slash, then dodged around the other two boys until he was behind them.

Two kicks to the back of their knees and the boys were down.

The girl shrieked and ran at him, knife raised high as if she planned to stab it downward into Karl’s skull.

The knife wouldn’t go through bone, of course.

Maybe if she got lucky she’d hit Karl’s eye or something else soft, but from the way her hand wavered in the air from the weight of the knife, she clearly didn’t have the ability to aim that closely.

Besides, if she actually hit anything, the knife was going to slide through her grip and slice her hand to ribbons, doing more damage to herself than her opponent.

Karl mentally shook his head and then delivered another kick to the solar plexus.

She dropped the knife as she hit the ground, joining her friend in gasping desperately for breath.

“If you’re going to continue in this business, you need to learn more about your opponent before you blindly attack,” Karl said.

“Outside of the army, the two places where people know their way around knives are kitchens and bakeries. If Mama Poma were ten years younger, she would be the one standing here instead of me dressing you down. Now, pick yourself up and go back to whoever hired you and tell them to give up. Mama Poma isn’t going to sell to them. ”

The kids scrambled to their feet and dashed off. The leader looked like he wanted to yell a parting insult, but it was taking all his breath just to run. They slammed the front door behind them.

Karl let out a breath and slid his knife back into the hidden sheath. Ama was leaning nonchalantly against the counter where Karl had sent him to get a spoon.

“Thanks for the help,” Karl snarked.

Ama smirked and winked. “You didn’t need my kind of help.”

“Hah. I guess not.” Karl grinned at him, sharing in the joke and enjoying the light flirting. “Let me wash my hands again, and we can get started on those cookies.”

“You’re no baker. You’re military,” Mama Poma said, stepping into the middle of the room.

“I’m not military,” Karl replied, shaking his head. “But I started learning to bake in one of the kitchens in the military complex. Even bakers get dragged into military exercises, but I never enlisted. I went to Timmonsville, instead, for their two-year baking school.”

“Right.” Mama Poma eyed him, but she walked over to where his dough was proofing instead of asking any more questions.

She poked a finger into the dough down to the first knuckle and pulled it free, then watched as the dough bounced back.

“Well, you have some talent with baking at least, so not all of your story is a lie. At least tell me why you’re really here. ”

“I have nothing to hide about that. I was just passing through and saw an old woman looking sad. It’s only a lucky coincidence you run a bakery. I promise.”

She harrumphed and went back over to the oven. “If that’s the case, get those snickerdoodles made and those rolls done. Shop’s opening in a little over an hour.”

Karl obeyed. When he turned around, Ama was holding a spoon and looking hopeful. Karl laughed and waved him over.

“It’s basic sugar cookie dough but with a ton of cinnamon. You’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I will,” Ama replied.

They got to work, but this time Karl didn’t fall into any sort of meditative trance while focused exclusively on the ingredients and the movements of his hands.

Instead, he fell into joking with Ama until they both had flour on the ends of their noses.

The cookies and the rolls took longer than they normally would have, but between Karl and Ama they managed to get it all done within Mama Poma’s time limit.

About forty-five minutes after the bullies had left, a young woman came into the shop and started opening the shutters. She helped move the completed goods from the kitchen into the display cases out front.

“Should I make more?” Karl asked, surveying the mostly empty case.

The pie, tartlets, bread, rolls, and cookies were a good start, but this bakery had space for double that, easily.

Cakes and muffins, more types of pies, and even some of those hand pies Mama Poma had mentioned should fill the entire span of the case.

Only having a couple shelves filled made it look somewhat sad.

Mama Poma frowned at him. “I have two cakes in the oven. You must have missed me making those.” Her frown dipped into a scowl.

“Lettia here is excellent with frosting and decorations, so she’ll finish those up.

This is more than I’ve been selling in years, so don’t you worry your head about it.

You were headed somewhere when you got waylaid by my moping. Go on, then.”

“Thank you for the opportunity to bake here,” Karl replied. He took off his apron and gave it to her, before following Ama outside into the morning sunlight. “You want to come with to check out my new house?”

“You know I do. Lead the way.” Ama waved him on and Karl, feeling brave—or sugar high—took hold of Ama’s hand. A moment later, Ama grinned and shifted so their fingers could tangle together. “Or we can walk together,” Ama finished, squeezing his hand.

They didn’t have far to go. The Whistfield city manor was only another block down the street. Karl had been closer than he thought before getting waylaid by the bakery.

Karl couldn’t decide if he wanted the walk to be longer or shorter.

Walking hand in hand with Ama, even if it was the sugar rushing to his head that made him take such a brazen leap, was a pleasure.

The heat of Ama’s hand, the strength in his grip, and the way he smiled whenever Karl glanced at him was warmer than the taste of cinnamon still on Karl’s tongue.

Plus, the gentle squeeze of Ama’s fingers intertwined with Karl’s said quite clearly that Ama had no qualms about acting so intimately.

Karl had spent far too much time suppressing his feelings for Ama, but the way Ama curled his fingers around Karl’s said Karl might not have to suppress them any longer.

Ama appeared to return Karl’s affections and knowing that was sweeter than all the sugar Karl had baked with this morning combined.

Karl wanted to keep walking with Ama just like this.

He wanted to put off the moment they reached the manor, and he had to let go of Ama’s hand.

If he were being honest, he also wanted to postpone the moment when he had to acknowledge being the lord of a manor.

He had made a decision to do it, while staring at the back garden gate only a few hours ago, but the reality was still spine-shudderingly scary.

He could walk into any kitchen anywhere in the world and be at home, but that was his past. His future, according to the still-wet ink on the papers he had signed, was the manor and everything it represented.

The stabilizing comfort of holding Ama’s hand helped Karl walk the last few feet down the street until they stopped at the front gate, which was pushed open wide enough for someone to squeeze through.

Karl had never seen the house from the front before, but it didn’t look too bad.

A bit of ivy crept up the walls and the gravel driveway was green with moss.

Someone had been keeping up with basic maintenance outside, at least, or there would be baby trees and other weeds growing everywhere.

Perhaps someone had cleaned up the inside too? Karl could only hope.

Karl let out a slow breath, grabbing for his courage.

It was time to fully take on his new life as baron and embrace the manor and everything else too.

He had decided, and he was resolved, and if his knees shook as he reached out with his free hand to push the gate wider, at least he was still moving forward.

“Okay—” Karl said, swallowing hard and gripping onto Ama’s hand like the lifeline it was as he stepped through the gate and onto the gravel drive. “—let’s go see what I’m in for.”