Page 27

“IS THAT ALL mixed?” Mama Poma asked, glancing over Karl’s shoulder at the bowl where he had just finished incorporating the dry ingredients into the wet.

She took the spatula out of Karl’s hand and gave the bowl a stir, nodding when she didn’t see any clumps of flour.

“Good. I’ll go oil the loaf pan. You mix those apple chunks in.

We’ll get this in the oven, and then you can start on the bread while it bakes.

Eating it will be a good reward for all our efforts this last week.

” She smirked at him, then turned away to dig through the cabinet with all the bakeware.

Karl left her to it, bringing the bowl over to the cutting board where she had left the apples in even-sized, small chunks. Her knife skills were remarkable. Karl picked up a handful of apples and moved to toss them into the bowl, when his magic suddenly pinged.

Karl didn’t need to focus on his magic while working.

It was always there, passively in the background where he could forget about it, though he did use it to be a better baker on occasion.

Red magic might be death magic, but that didn’t mean he only had to use it to hurt or kill.

He was particularly good at using it to keep yeast healthy and ready to bloom.

However, having red magic wasn’t something he was ready to advertise.

Outside of missions for Braxton, Karl generally pretended he didn’t have magic at all.

That didn’t mean the magic forgot about him though.

Karl let his magic play out as it wanted, turning his body so he was between the red glow and where Mama Poma stood digging through the cabinet, muttering angrily to herself.

His magic settled onto the apples, digging through their components.

Apple, some of the magic used in the drying process, cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger.

For a moment, his magic fluttered around the hint of the wine used to rehydrate the apples, wanting to decay the alcohol, but then something else caught its attention.

Astringent, like the cleansing solution healers liked to use, and bitter like arugula.

Definitely not something that should be mixed in with apples.

Karl glanced over his shoulder at Mama Poma, who had a stack of baking trays and cake pans on the floor next to her as she dug for the loaf pan.

She wasn’t looking in his direction. Karl tightened his grip on his magic, focusing it from simple pinging to directed discovery.

After a moment, Karl was certain. A sleeping potion had been poured over the apples, one that would resist the heat of the oven.

One bite of the bread when Mama Poma served it, and he would sleep until someone administered the counterspell.

Decaying the potion would be simple for him, but Karl hesitated, glancing over his shoulder again. The pile of sheet trays had grown, but no bread tin had apparently been located. Mama Poma swore softly as she dug some more.

Where had she gotten the apples? Were they lost in the pantry like she claimed, or was this instead another ploy by a different set of thugs to force her into selling the bakery? All they had to do was wait for her to taste a baked good made from the apples, and they could kidnap her easily.

Karl opened his mouth to warn her, but she swore again and then let out an angry, animalistic snort, and he snapped his mouth shut.

That hadn’t sounded human. In all the time Karl had been around her, he’d never caught her scenting the air or tilting her head to hear better, or any other traits that indicated half of her was some sort of animal.

But then, a spy would be trained not to give something so obvious away, particularly a Yarokian spy.

The potion might be aimed at kidnapping him instead.

Karl frowned in thought, then blasted the apples.

The potion immediately decayed down to nothing, and so did the alcohol.

The apples had, luckily, already been dried and were therefore much more resistant to decay.

They lost some of the plumpness from rehydration and the edges turned brown, but the potion was destroyed before the apples were harmed too much.

Karl stopped his magic and finished scooping the apples into the batter, carefully mixing them all together.

“Damned thing had fallen behind the shelf,” Mama Poma snarled out, thrusting the loaf pan at him.

“Oil that, pour the batter in, and dust the top with some sugar, then shove it in the oven. I’ll clean up the mess I just made.

” She returned to the cabinet, which looked empty inside since all the bakeware was scattered on the floor around it.

Karl followed her directions, but his hands moved automatically as he poured some oil in the pan and tilted it to get the oil to spread and cover every surface.

If Mama Poma was a Yarokian spy like he suspected, then why wait a week to spring this trap?

They must have needed the time to prepare and get assets in place.

Drugging Karl would mean nothing if they didn’t have a means to then move him to a secured location.

A week was also enough time to set up a pattern—a damned routine, which was exactly what he had been thinking about just that morning.

Ama and all of Karl’s guards had been on alert every time Karl headed to the bakery, but after a week they wouldn’t be worried about him until he didn’t return to the house at his usual time.

That gave Mama Poma a secure window to act within.

They also knew about Ama, Karl realized with dawning horror.

When Karl had been out and about during the botched attack on the palace, Ama was the one who had responded.

If their real goal was to get Ama, they didn’t even need to move Karl.

They just had to keep him drugged and out of commission so he couldn’t help, and Ama would blithely walk into their trap in his search for Karl.

Ama might be incredibly strong, but one man against however many assets Mama Poma had brought into the city didn’t stand a chance.

Karl was the one who had to save himself, and thereby, also save Ama.

Decided, Karl wiped out the excess oil and poured the batter into the pan. He smoothed the top with the spatula, and then scooped a spoonful of sugar and carefully dusted the top. Once the pan was ready, Karl slid it into the oven.

“How long does it bake for?” he asked.

“Hmm?” Mama Poma looked up from where she was organizing sheet trays and saw he was standing next to the oven. “Oh, forty minutes. It’s only one loaf, but it’s a wet batter.”

Karl nodded and returned to his station.

So he had forty minutes to come up with a plan.

He moved all the dirtied dishes to the sink and wiped down the countertop, before pulling the flour close.

He always thought better while kneading, and Mama Poma had told him to get started on some rolls after the apple bread.

The easiest plan was to incapacitate Mama Poma and make a run for it.

He had the element of surprise, and if he started yelling the second he went out the front door the guards hidden in the street outside would respond.

They might capture Mama Poma, but the rest of the Yarokai in the city would escape and be able to come up with a new plot.

Running was a short-term solution, but a longer-term mess.

Karl wanted to end the actual threat, not prolong it.

His other option was to pretend to be knocked out by the potion. He would wait for Ama to arrive, and then it would be two against however many, and he and Ama could both die together.

Karl grimaced, looking at his hands, manipulating what was slowly becoming a sticky glop of dough as the ingredients melded.

He added more flour and dug his fingers back in.

Pretending to be afflicted by the potion was still the better option, since he could always get up and try running if the situation changed.

He didn’t have an ideal plan, but it was better than nothing.

Karl set his dough aside to rest and went to wash his hands.

He spent some time tackling the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, scrubbing away all the cooking residue and lining all the dishes up on a drying rack.

By the time the sink was empty again, the bakery sang with the warm scents of cinnamon and nutmeg perfuming the air.

The apple bread was done. Karl found cloth to protect his hands and pulled the loaf pan from the oven.

The tin went onto a cooling rack, the bread still too hot to remove, but it smelled divine.

The bread had risen all the way to the top of the tin and cinnamon and nutmeg-scented steam drifted lazily upward from the crispy browned top.

If Karl didn’t know the apples were subpar, he would have thought it a perfect loaf of bread and been looking forward to trying it.

He started work on a batch of cookies while the bread cooled, creaming together butter and sugar before adding the vanilla and eggs.

He was beginning to measure out flour for the dry ingredients when Mama Poma came over, the apple bread out of the tin and resting centered on the cutting board in her hands.

“I think it’s cool enough to try now,” she said, carefully setting the board down on the counter next to him. She went to the other counter to retrieve a serrated bread knife, then returned a moment later, handing it to him hilt first.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Karl lied, but he obeyed her silent command and put the knife to the bread.

He cut the heel off and then sliced twice more.

The inside was moist and fluffy, a really good crumb without being mushy.

Fresh apples would have added to the moisture, but he wasn’t upset with how the texture had turned out.

Karl handed Mama Poma a slice and picked up the second one for himself.

“Go on,” Mama Poma said, urging him along with a smile, her slice of bread seemingly forgotten in her hand. “I want to know what you think!”

There was no turning back once he put the bread in his mouth. Karl steeled his nerve and his resolve, brought the slice to his mouth, and took a bite.

Brilliant spices bloomed across his tongue, the cinnamon and nutmeg he’d smelled earlier melding seamlessly with the apple.

The crumb of the bread was as soft as it looked, a perfect conveyance for the spice.

However, the apples themselves… If Karl’s magic hadn’t already told him something was wrong, tasting Mama Poma’s alleged signature dish with these apples would have alerted him.

The apples were chewy and gummy. They imparted apple flavor, but the texture did not match with the crumb of the bread at all.

Fresh apples were clearly the only viable option for this recipe.

“Well?” Mama Poma asked, looking at him expectantly. Yet, the tilt to her head as she studied him said she was expectant for more than just his opinion on the bread. It was time for his acting skills to be put to work.

“Delicious,” Karl said. “I need—” He frowned and dropped the rest of the bread onto the cutting board as he staggered and used that hand to brace himself.

“—the recipe.” He forced the words out as if his thoughts were merely slowed and he didn’t realize he was speaking in short gasps.

His hand slid off the counter as he sank to his knees.

“Wha…?” he slurred, blinking up at Mama Poma.

She stood over him, a slight smile lifting her lips.

“Don’t worry, little princeling. You’ll only sleep for a bit.

Your real punishment won’t start until you wake back in Yaroi.

Have a good nap.” She turned away, heading to the back door, which she threw open.

A moment later, two men Karl didn’t recognize walked into the room, heading for where Karl lay on the floor, slumped against the cabinets.

The bright, gleeful and spiteful light in their eyes said they weren’t thinking about him surviving all the way back to Yaroi.

In fact, they probably weren’t interested in his live body leaving this bakery at all.