The Baker and the Wolf (A Villain's Ever After) by J.M. Stengl

Author:J.M. Stengl [Stengl, J.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Rooglewood Press
Published: 2021-10-14T16:00:00+00:00

The bakery feels . . . misty . . . as I struggle to pipe filling into chouquettes that keep dodging every squirt I attempt. Am I dreaming? Chouquettes never behave this way, and . . .

Ouch!

Sharp pain, like needles in my back, drags me back into reality. Momentarily, I glimpse a hideous blue light. My soul freezes . . .

Then, a shrill scream shocks me fully awake. My eyes pop open and blink in near darkness. I hear a moan, whimpering, some hissed swearing . . . and something thuds against my chamber door.

Someone is inside my room.

“Who’s there?” I roll over, sit bolt upright, and see a candle flame wave wildly as a figure with long pale hair over her shoulders gropes for the doorlatch. “Mama? What are you doing here?”

She instantly goes still, straightens to her full height, then turns to face me. Her eyes are like dark holes in her livid face. “Cerise, there’s a monster in your room! I came in to check on you, and it . . . it attacked me!”

A monster?

Memories flash through my head. After that deadly dull dinner party, I remember drinking the hot milk Mama sends up every night to help me sleep. Then Miette hopped through the window and curled up at the small of my back, purring and kneading, sometimes making me wince.

Miette. She dug in her claws to wake me up . . .

I glance around the room. “Are you sure you weren’t walking in your sleep? There’s no monster in here.”

She points at my open window. “It escaped. How many times have I told you not to sleep with your windows open? Bats can fly in! Now I might catch some terrible disease . . .” Reaching one hand over her shoulder, she pulls her hair aside and briefly turns her back to me. “Is there blood?”

I see several dark spots on her dressing gown. Miette is a force to be reckoned with.

And my mother?

Ignoring the sick feeling in my gut, I feign a yawn. “A little. But whatever it was, it’s gone now. Mama, I wish you wouldn’t enter my room while I’m sleeping. It’s rude! I’m not a child anymore.”

“You will always be my child,” she says in the fawning tone I’ve always despised. In some ways she’s a kind mother, but even as a child I sensed something off in her attitude toward me.

Nevertheless, lifelong doubt grips me. Maybe I have middle-child issues: neither the oldest nor the youngest—always stuck in between. I’m not fearless and funny like Suzette or clever and stunning like Charlotte. My sisters are the only people who see me as anything more than mediocre, garden-variety, boring Cerise.

Except . . . I’m not ordinary. I have magic. A lot of magic.

That my mother steals.

I fake a yawn, flop back down onto my pillow, and mumble, “Yep. Always. It’s the middle of the night. I should be sleeping.”

“Yes, you should, darling.” She sounds doting, tender. “I could sit here with you until you fall asleep.

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