Page 2 of Bound to the Fae Assassin

Thirteen years later, she was finding it harder and harder to locate ingredients she could speak to. The plants that grew on her side of the wall just didn’t hold the same spark anymore. And using her magic at all was becoming more and more of a risk.

But the bakery was struggling, like so many businesses were since the prophecy. Poverty lay in wait like a rabid dog napping under the table. Her parents could pretend that everything was fine, but sooner or later, that dog was going to wake.

So, she helped by using her gift as sparingly as she knew how, and she traveled ever closer to the wall for her materials.

She thought again about the baking competition. The finalists would be sampled by the King himself, and his favor would put the winner in great demand. They could count on droves of business if that happened. But that was a long shot, at best. She was the youngest baker entered, and she still had no idea what she was going to make. Barton’s famous sweet buns were good, but they were hardly fit for a king.

She finished with the dough and portioned it onto the waiting pans. Then she mixed up some glaze while she let the dough rise. Once the first set of buns went into the oven, Farrow pulled out a tiny corner of vanilla bean and cupped it in her palms.

She envisioned the heavy warmth of the far-off lands, and the rich soil where the bean had grown. She closed her eyes and reached out with her mind.

The little scrap seemed to hum in her hand, as if recognizing the echoes of home. To her palm, it felt like the string of a lute, plucked long enough ago that the sweet note was no longer audible to human ears, but something electric still moved in the air around it.

Happiness, Farrow whispered to it inwardly. Do you remember?

It was so much harder to make the connection than it used to be. And sometimes, it didn’t work at all.

She waited, and then the joyful sounds of the singing and laughter from the workers in the lush green fields came back to her. There were low voices, brightly colored scarfs, and the scent of rain on the air, as if everyone anticipated the cool shower that was coming.

Farrow opened her eyes and let out a sigh of relief.

Thank you, she told the bit of dried bean with real gratitude. It’s beautiful.

It was just enough. That drop of bliss would survive the flavor extraction and would not be drowned in the glaze. And the people who ate it would feel just a little better for a few hours because of it. They might even hum a few bars of a working song from a distant land.

Once that part was done, she took the buns from the oven and threw in the next batch.

Then she turned her attention to the dough for the plain brown bread that was their second-best seller. There was nothing magical about the thick, heavy loaves. They were just cheap. Which was its own kind of relief. Times were tight in Fairweather. It had been so long since the crops had done well. Her ingredients weren’t the only things losing their spark.

And in spite of its name, it seemed to be always raining, or at least about to rain, in Fairweather.

She had just enough time to prepare for Old Ben Carpenter’s daily lemon poppyseed muffin.

She sprinkled the seeds on her palm and closed her eyes, envisioning a sea of bright flowers.

Peace, she called to the seeds. Do you remember?

The scarlet blossoms in her mind moved, rippling as if in a gentle breeze. She could taste the scent of pollen in the air, rich and fragrant. Peace seeped into her.

Thank you, she told it. Your sweet memory will mean everything to Ben.

She was just setting the humming seeds into a bit of paper for later when the door banged open, sending the little bell on top jingling merrily.

“Fair morning to you, Jericho,” she said pleasantly to the baker’s boy, without looking up from her task.

“Fair morning, Farrow,” he replied, in the warm, sincere way that was all his own.

Jericho was hardly a boy anymore - he and Farrow were of an age. But he was a worker, not an owner, so he might well be the baker’s boy until he died of old age.

Unless her parents had their way and she fell in love with him, that was.

“You’re early,” she said, glancing up.

“Thought you could use a hand cleaning up a bit,” he said lightly, his brown eyes twinkling.

“That’s kind of you,” she told him. “But I haven’t had time to do much damage yet.”

He chuckled.

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