Page 71 of The Cursed and the Broken
“Tonics to heal severe ailments, to make someone’s hair shinier, catch the eye of a potential suitor, produce better yielding crops, that kind of thing. You’d be surprised how deep nobles will dig in their pockets if they think it will increase their standing in court or to find themselves on the arm of the wealthiest bachelor. It certainly fills our coffers.”
“You heathen,” I’d giggled, punching him in the arm. “I love it.”
As I swished down the streets in a sea green dress in the finest taffeta I’d ever laid a hand on, sliding a finger over the golden embroidery lining the seams, I couldn’t help but appreciate such a swindling. Such spells did exist, though they weren’t always the most reliable, but perhaps the Wolfblood Clan really was helping others while helping themselves.
The people here, at least, were healthy and happy, and the children were well-dressed, their cheeks flushed as they scampered through the crowds, playing hide-and-seek and getting up to mischief.
I gaped at the many shops within the town centre. We passed an apothecary with curiosities lining the window. Everything from newts’ eyes to lidérc hooves to garabonc teeth—creatures much like táltosok. Old wives’ tales told of them wandering the countryside in search of milk from humble villagers. If the villager didn’t provide at least a full jug, it was said the garabonc would summon storms or blizzards and ride on dragons to wreck the roofs and tear the trees from their roots.
I’d yet to see one, but I’d always been sure to keep milk freshly stocked.
The smells of cinnamon, sugar syrup and fresh bread wafted up my nose, causing my stomach to grumble. I sighed, dreaming wistfully of Mama’s cooking. I missed her so much already. What was she doing right now? I imagined her in her garden, weaving her magic to tend to the flowers and vegetables, her apron smudged with dirt and her brown locks spilling from her bun. Eszter would be beside her, basking in the golden sun, weaving her needle and thread with practiced fingers.
Perhaps Eszter could open a store in Mistvellen one day, especially if she found a suitor here. A charming, handsome young man by the name of Lukasz. Wouldn’t that be lovely? But such dreams would never come true unless we triumphed over the cultists.
My eyes stung. Best not to imagine a world I might not exist in.
Dante’s arm looped through mine, his weight a comforting presence at my side. “Are you hungry?”
Peeking up at him from under my lashes, I smiled, forcing back the pain. “Always.”
He veered us towards the baker’s shop—a stone building with a cherry red door and matching windows. A ginger cat sat on the sill, watching everyone with inquisitive green eyes.
It arched into my touch as I smoothed a hand over its back. “Hello, little one.” A cornflower blue collar around its neck read ‘Salamon’. “One who brings peace. What an apt little name for you,” I cooed.
Salamon chirped back, his tail twirling as he prowled the sill. To my surprise, he leapt at Dante, climbing his arm and settling on his shoulders, blinking those green eyes at me. Cocking my head, I raised a brow at Dante.
He chuckled, patting his small friend. “Salamon and I go way back,” he said with a cheeky grin. “Come, there’s someone I want you to meet.” He paused, adding, “He makes the bestbejgliin the Kingdom.”
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” I grinned, dragging him by the wrist through the door.
The bakery’s interior was just as quaint with a fire crackling merrily in the corner, a workroom at the back and a long bench displaying treats. My tongue salivated at the sweets.Kakaós csiga, rolls in spirals of melted chocolate called cocoa snails;kürtos kalács, a spit cake made from sweet dough and rolled with sugar;bejgli, walnut poppy seed rolls; and an endless row of cakes.
“Dante, my boy,” boomed a voice from behind the counter. Startled from my food hypnosis, I stared at the owner. A rounded man with black hair tied in a leather strip and an apron dusted with icing grinned broadly. He scooted through the bench gap—sideways, to allow for his girth—and chuckled as he slapped his meaty arms around Dante.
“It’s good to see you, Imre.” Dante’s voice was muffled and I couldn’t help but laugh as his towering, bulky frame was now dwarfed by the baker. When they broke apart with a few claps on the back, Imre turned to me expectantly.
Dante smiled. “I’d like to introduce my—”
“Kitarni,” I interjected, holding out a hand. Imre tugged it and swept me up into a bear hug. My legs dangled like a child’s as I was lifted off the ground with a squeak. It was kind of nice to be held with such warmth. I liked Imre already, even if he was squeezing the breath from my lungs. He smelt like chocolate and berries and felt like home.
I coughed a cloud of flour as he at last set me down gently and took me by the shoulders. “My, you are a treasure,” he said with a kind smile and brown doe eyes. “Beautiful as a spring day and eyes full of fire. What poor luck has stuck you on the arm of this one?”
“Our parents saw fit for us to marry,” I drawled, smoothing my skirts down. “My magic is … sought after, you see.”
Imre nodded, catching on, but thankfully he bypassed any talk of siring heirs or bearing children. “Ahh, a binding of our peoples. Well, should you ever need an escape from this one”—he jerked his head at Dante—“you may find solace in my shop.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I chuckled. “Though you should know I have a sweet tooth that might eat you out of house and home.”
“A baker’s greatest delight is to see his work enjoyed.” He eased his way behind the counter once more, gathering a collection of sweets and wrapping them in cloth. “My gift to you, my lady.”
“Just Kitarni,” I said with a smile. “But thank you, you’re too kind.”
Dante took the bundle of sweets from my arms, raising his brow at the baker. “You aren’t trying to butter up my bride, are you?”
Imre lifted his hands in supplication but looked slyly at me. “If I was, did it work?”
Grinning, I pressed a kiss against his cheek, fluttering my lashes. “Everyone always says food is the way to aman’sheart, but bakers know best.”
