Page 9 of The Lone Wolf Café
“Alright, Nettie. You’ll find everything you need through this door,” the witch commanded. “So, get to it. You’ve got pastries to make.”
Chapter Three
Once I entered the kitchen, I realized parts of it were similar to my humble cooking space back home. A dark, clunky, wood-burning stove was tucked in the corner, next to a long counter with a sink at the end. Various pots, pans, and other cooking utensils hung from hooks above the counter, and a well-worn antique beverage cart was bursting with potted, overgrown herbs. A large, sunny window faced the back wall, and through it, I could see rows of witch cottages tucked behind the main village square.
The space was cozy, clean, and welcoming, and it made me eager to dive in and start baking.
Though there were still some parts of the kitchen that perplexed me. Like the door against the far-left wall with a suspicious number of locks, and the massive, cast-iron cauldron pushed into the far corner. All things one definitely wouldn’t see in a werewolf kitchen, and it reminded me that a lot more was created here than just food. I gulped at the thought of what nefarious spells Rowena could conjure up with those tools.
I shook my head.I need to focus.
I dug through my satchel, my fingers feeling around for the familiar worn leather of my grandmother’s cookbook. It was one of my most prized possessions, and one of the few belongings I’d packed when I left Hollenboro.
“Got it!” I proclaimed as I pulled out the bent, yellowed book and placed it on the counter. Inside were over a hundred pages of my grandmother’s handwritten recipes, including a dozen different desserts. My grandmother passed away when I was very young, but running my fingers over the original ink from her pen always made me feel connected to her. Reading her handwriting was like traveling back to when she was alive.Getting to know the woman I was so closely related to but barely had time to meet.
I found the recipe almost instantly, having memorized the page number for blueberry scones years ago since I made them so often. They were a favorite breakfast treat of my sisters, and with their wolflike metabolism, they could easily devour an entire batch in a single morning.
A tiny needle-prick of longing stabbed at my stomach. I missed them.
My fingers traced the faded ink as I scanned the ingredients list.Flour, sugar, baking powder…all simple and standard ingredients for baking. What truly made my pastries stand out was plenty of fresh, cold butter. It made them rich and flavorful, which was important since scones could easily suffer from being too dry or bland.
The first few ingredients were easy to acquire. Rowena had a tall canister of what appeared to be flour sitting on the beverage cart, and I found sugar and baking powder in the cupboards above the counter.
Ok, now I need butter…
I froze. That ingredient needed to be kept cool. Back on Hollenboro, we had underground cellars for such purposes, but I didn’t see any sign of one here.
My eyes scanned around the room, looking for a possible answer. They froze once they reached the bolted door.
Wolflike curiosity piqued in the back of my brain, and I walked toward the strange door.
To my surprise, the locks didn’t require a key – they simply needed to be unlatched. Clearly, Rowena wasn’t concerned about an intruder coming back here and rifling through her kitchen.
As I reached for the brassy metal handle, it occurred to me the locking system might be meant to keep whatever was inside from – I gulped –escaping.
I opened the heavy door a few inches, and to my relief, no demons or bats or other spooky beasts flew out and attacked me. But what did emerge from the door was no less startling. An icy blast of wind shot out like a rocket, sending a flurry of snow streaming into the warm kitchen.
I panicked and slammed the door shut, pressing my back into it for good measure, and my gaze shot over to the door that led to the café. Through the window, I could see Rowena carefully measuring out loose-leaf tea blends next to the register.
Maybe I should go ask her how to use this kitchen.
It seemed rational at first, but anxious thoughts quickly clouded my brain and made me indecisive.What if she judges me? What if she thinks I can’t handle this?
I groaned and buried my face in my damp palms. My jaw was clenched tight as a bear trap, and nausea weighed heavily in my stomach. My mounting panic allowed for dozens more “what ifs” to cloud my thoughts.
What if I can’t do this? Or worse, what if I can, but Rowena eventually finds out I’m a werewolf? How would a village full of witches react to an imposter? Would I make it out of here alive?
My worries stacked on top of each other like bricks, crushing my anxiety-riddled brain. As I reached my breaking point, a new, much bigger problem appeared.
I reached up and touched my fluffy red ears in disbelief, then wrapped a shaking hand around them.
No. No no no. Not this again.
Once I realized my tail was also out, I wrapped my cloak tighter around myself and retreated to the far corner behind thecauldron. I pulled my hood down over my eyes, and I gasped in breaths like I was starved for air.
Five minutes ago, I’d been worrying about Rowena discovering my secret. Now, it was out in the open. If she walked back here and saw me panicking in a half-transformed state, it would be over.
I swallowed hard.It’s stress. I’m partially shifting when I get stressed.
