Crimson Claws Sneak Peek

“They look perfect, Granny,” I announced dreamily as I pulled the mouthwatering apple tarts out of the firewood oven. My pale skin pinkened with the fresh heat that radiated off the sizzling sugary fruit as I transferred the baking stone to a clear countertop. I brushed aside a strand of my dirty blonde hair that had fallen loose from my unkempt bun as I gazed down at my handiwork with a proud smile. 

This might have been my best batch yet.

Granny strolled around the counter while whipping a fresh bowl of cream. Her flour-coated apron left a trail of white dust in her path as she crossed the bakery with a beaming smile. “Ro! Those look absolutely decadent. I just knew you could do it.” She moved the bowl of cream into the crook of her arm so she could pinch my cheek with a proud glint in her eye.

I resisted the urge to tug away from her childish praise. Her warm brown eyes crinkled so sweetly whenever she smiled like that, making it hard to take the joy of a simple cheek pinch from her—despite how obnoxious it could get... At least the bakery wasn’t open yet for anyone to see.

“Thanks, Granny, I’ve been trying to perfect the rest of Mom’s recipes.” I reached out to catch the bowl of cream that was now slipping from her hold.

She fumbled a bit once she noticed it was sliding, then laughed it off with a rosy grin as she awkwardly re-centered the bowl in her grasp. “If you keep this up, you might even exceed her talents.” She winked, walking back over to the hearth to toss in another log. “It takes quite the scholar to not only interpret her scrawled handwriting, but to also translate the meanings behind her measurements.”

I giggled as she whirled around the kitchen to grab the rolls of bread dough prepped for baking. “What do you mean? Isn’t a ‘mouse’s ear of sugar’ a fairly common descriptor of a tablespoon?” I mused while planting a sarcastic fist on my hip.

She slid around me to place the tray of unbaked bread loaves into the brick oven. “Hah! Or a ‘dewdrop of vanilla.’ That one is better suited for a poetry book than a recipe card.” She tittered as she returned to her bowl of cream.

I smiled at the memory of Mother’s playful wit. The warm scent of her famous apple tarts almost made it feel like she was still laughing alongside us in the kitchen. It had been nearly five years since she died, and almost seven years since Father—

“Here you are, Ro.” Granny slid the freshly whipped cream across the counter, nearly spilling the contents across the worn oak floors before I caught it mid spin. “Every good fruit tart needs a dash of cream. Don’t go easy on it, I can always make more. I’ll finish up the muffins.” She licked a dot of cream off her thumb, then spun back toward the storage pantry while humming to herself.

I let out a quiet, contented sigh as I loaded up the tarts with thick dollops of sweet cream. Our bakery had always been a local favorite in the province of Omaira. Every morning, a long line of regulars flooded out the door and stood in the snow to purchase their daily muffin or a freshly baked loaf of Granny’s famous rye bread. The bakery has been run by our family for generations, but now it was only Granny and I who upheld the family business.

My gaze drifted over to the frosted glass window that looked out onto the snow-blanketed village. Our province was especially cold, despite bordering a beach. This time of year, the ocean typically brought cold currents to our shores that filled our skies with bitter rain and thick snow. It was difficult to imagine the frigid temperatures beyond the glass when the interior of the bakery was sweltering from the heat of two fires constantly blazing. The moonlight was just beginning to dim as the first light of day warmed the frozen ground.

I topped off the last tart with a fat spoonful of cream, then gave an approving nod at my handiwork before checking on the progress of the loaves of bread. They were just beginning to rise, meaning we still had a good deal of time before they would be ready to be sold. 

Granny and I spent the remainder of the morning clearing the display shelves from yesterday’s crumbs and munching on the extra cranberry muffins Granny had baked. As I leaned down to the lowest display shelf, my stringy hair bun tumbled free from the leather tie, blinding my eyes with my dull blonde strands and my despised streak of silver. 

I mumbled a few irritated words as I stood to rebind my hair. No matter how many times I tried to cut the blasted silver streak, it always reappeared somewhere else. Most people liked to flaunt any silver they had, but I was more than happy to do away with it. Silver hair was usually the sign of mages, but mine only symbolized that I shared the same blood as my traitor father. He never used magic—not that I knew of—and possessed an identical silver streak in the back of his shaggy locks. He used to tell me to be proud of the magic I would one day discover—as if I could ever be proud of something from him. I scowled at the memory of my unfortunate parenthood as I hid the offending lock of hair beneath the twisted bun. Any reminder of him was better off out of sight.

When the dainty silver bell above the bakery entrance chimed, the first line of customers strode into the warm shop with broad smiles and rumbling stomachs. One by one, we sold bread, biscuits, muffins, and crumpets until the morning rush died down to a gentle trickle of regulars. My feet always ached around this hour, since I had often run back to the kitchen at least three times to restock the more popular items by this point. Once I had fully filled the display shelves again, I settled onto a small wooden stool behind the counter with a tired sigh.

Granny passed by me to collect a couple of blackberry muffins and gave me a loving pat on the shoulder. Mrs. Wilkons, one of our regulars, smiled warmly at Granny’s gesture. “You’re so lucky to have such a hard-working granddaughter like Roisen,” she mused. “Grandchildren are such a blessing. I’m sure you’ll never have to worry about a thing with little Ro always here to take care of you.” The older woman passed me a kind wink, and I felt a shy pink warm my cheeks as I sank back onto my stool.

Granny chuckled. “She’s certainly a hardworker. She would be able to relax a lot more, if only she would find herself a man to help take some of the load off her shoulders.” She passed me a coy smirk and I gaped at her.

“Granny!” I protested.

“Oh, hush. You know I’m right.” Granny waved me off as she passed the muffins across the counter to Mrs. Wilkons. “The realm is in rough shape now that the emperor’s health is steadily declining. If he can’t marry off one of his daughters before he passes, then things might get a little dicey until a new heir is crowned. It wouldn’t hurt to have a male presence lingering around every once in a while.” 

She glared at me from the corner of her vision with a silent plea, and I rolled my eyes. “The emperor is still in fine enough health for the time being; you’re just looking for any excuse you can to get a ring on my finger.” I wiggled my naked finger at her with an accusing glare. 

Mrs. Wilkons chuckled as she carefully wrapped her muffins in a handkerchief and laid them in a wicker basket. “It’s too bad the emperor only adopted daughters. If he had a son, then maybe you could have found a man with the same high standards you possess.”

I pouted as Granny laughed heartily at the woman’s chide. “Oh please, not even a crown prince could match Ro’s ideals. Any man with a heartbeat has already lost points with her.”

She cocked me a knowing look and I gave her a teasing shrug. “What can I say... I know my worth.” I flashed the women a cocky smile, and they laughed on. “It seems clear to me that the emperor is only interested in adopting daughters. Perhaps instead of seeking a husband, I need to find a way to get adopted by him, too! That would certainly solve any security concerns you have, right, Granny?”

She passed me to rearrange the muffin display, giving me a playful smack with her oven mitt on the way over. “You? A princess? I don’t think a single blacksmith in the realm would be able to craft a crown large enough to fit that big head of yours.” I shot her a glare, and she shrugged unapologetically. “Don’t give me that look. If you want to prove me wrong, then stop being so stubborn and meet some of the young men in town. There are plenty of handsome bachelors who would be willing to overlook your rigid personality.”

Mrs. Wilkons laughed heartily as she waltzed out the door with her basket of goodies. I folded my arms with a huff. I knew Granny was partially teasing, but I also knew how much she wanted to see me settled down. I was only nineteen, so I had plenty of time to consider what I wanted to do with my life, but I wasn’t certain a man was going to be part of my plans... Ever since Father ruined our family, I had pretty much given up hope on all men. When the one man you look up to more than anyone destroys your entire view of them in a single night, it makes it hard to trust anyone else. The chains that entangled my heart kept out any unwanted affections, only allowing love for Granny and pastries. The men in town were nice enough, but there were some pains that weren’t worth the risk of reliving. If I was going to protect myself, my walls had to be solid.

Fortunately, most of the men who visited the shop were well-acquainted with my prickly persona, so I usually didn’t have to waste much time entertaining their fantasies of courtship. Granny made me promise to stop picking fights with the customers after I insulted the cobbler’s son for calling me ‘Rosy.’ I agreed, but to be honest, it seemed unfair that I wasn’t permitted to fire back at him after he viciously massacred my darling nickname. In my opinion, small threats should be highly appropriate under such circumstances. 

When I made the promise, I didn’t think much of it, especially since I had likely done enough damage to the poor gent’s ego that he would warn off his friends from any romantic pursuits. But unfortunately, there was still one man who actively tested that promise.

The door chime rang sweetly as my stomach soured at the dashing smile of the local woodcutter. Zac Brantworth locked eyes with me the second he strode into the bakery. I bit back a groan as he casually strayed his gaze over toward the bread racks as if he wasn’t simply there to pester the living daylights out of me.

I hopped up from my stool and attempted to sneak back into the kitchen, but Granny cut me off and slid in front of me as fast as a viper. “Oh, silly me! I forgot to ice the Danishes! Would you be a dear, Ro, and take over the counter for a few minutes?” I opened my mouth to protest, but she was already gone. 

That conniving little—

“Afternoon, Miss Roisen.” Zac’s silky voice pierced through my internal swearing, causing me to swivel around and meet his obnoxiously attractive dark features. “You’re looking rather tired today. Busy day?” He gave me a sympathetic smile, which I promptly ignored.

His heavy blue eyes always burned into me with an unrelenting desire to know more. Normally I didn’t mind chatting with customers, but Zac wasn’t one I was eager to entertain. “Business has been fine, thank you. Will that be one rye loaf, as usual?” I asked pointedly, already making my way to the display basket with the warm breads.

“That would be wonderful, Miss Roisen.” He grinned. “I must say, I’m honored you’ve committed my order to memory. I would have never guessed that you cared so much.” He pressed his elbows against the table and cupped his chin with a teasing, whimsical gaze.

Here he goes again...

“I care about all my regulars,” I said stiffly as I wrapped the loaf in a sheet of brown paper. “It’s hard to forget such simple orders when I see you every day.” I gave him an overly sweet smile as I slid the packaged bread across the coarse oak counter. “That will be two copper pieces, please.”

Zac tapped a thoughtful finger to his chin, ignoring my outstretched hand. “So, what you’re saying is that seeing me every day makes your job easier, because you can always remember my order since I come by so often?” He raised a sly brow as his frustratingly perfect grin flashed in my eyes.

“No...” I bit my lip, debating the worth of letting a small insult slip. Granny is in the other room... “The regularity of your visit does nothing to help me recall your purchase. I remember orders because a customer will often purchase items that are similar to their personality.” Zac tilted his head curiously, snagged by the intrigue of my tale. I held back a wicked smile. “For example, Mrs. Poppin always buys cream puffs because she’s sweet and light-hearted. Mr. Renalds buys crumpets because he’s coarse on the outside and softer within... And you, Zac... you buy rye bread because it’s bitter, difficult to pair, and often an acquired taste.” 

I curled my lips into a devilishly sweet smile as I awaited the satisfying destruction of his ego. However, my smile faded when his perplexed frown twisted into a grin and he burst out into tickled laughter. “Well now, I must admit, I have never been so heavily judged off of a baked good before, but I must say, you’re not entirely inaccurate with your assessment.”

My mouth fell open in disbelief as he continued to chortle at my masterfully crafted taunt. Most men would have stomped off in a huff after such a slight. Woodcutters certainly lived up the stereotype of being dense...

“I have been known to be a bit of an ‘acquired taste,’ as you might say,” he admitted with a playful shrug. “So, I’ll tell you what... Why don’t you throw in one of those delectable looking apple tarts and see what that does to your read of me.” He pointed at the display of my beautifully crafted pastries, and I felt a strange rush of pride over the fact that he noticed them amongst the other treats.

I quietly approached the display and selected the tart closest to me. He smiled brightly. “It looks delicious. Did you make it?” 

I averted my eyes as I pursed my lips. “Yes...” 

He breathed out a small laugh. “It’s easy to tell.” I made the mistake of looking up and his deep blue eyes sank into mine with a cheeky grin. “They’re just like you... sweet and tart, with their true nature hidden under a layer of something unassuming.”

I slid the wrapped tart across the counter as he eyed the cream topping that masked the treat. “How would you know that?” I asked primly. “You’ve never even tried it.”

His roguish grin glowed against his dark skin. “Not yet... but I’d like to.” He slid the payment across the counter, then spun toward the door before I could even process his fresh attempt at a flirt. He threw up his hand with a casual wave as he pulled open the door and let in a fresh waft of frosty air. “See you tomorrow, Rosy!” 

The moment the door sealed shut, Granny popped out of the kitchen with a fresh tray of Danishes in hand. “He certainly seems keen on you,” she said as she pranced toward the counter.

“Granny!” I scowled. “Were you in the storage closet that entire time?!” For as long as the house has stood, the kitchen storage closet has always been an echo spot for the entire lower floor. Unless you were in the upstairs living portion, any words exchanged could always be clearly heard from inside that closet.

She gave me an unassuming shrug as she layered the Danishes across the display shelf. “What can I say...? It took a little while to find the icing sugar.”

I glowered at the perfectly frosted pastries, knowing just as well as she did that the icing wasn’t freshly made. She straightened and matched my tight frown with a warm sigh. “I know you don’t trust men, Ro, but they aren’t all like your father. Zac seems like a perfectly honorable young man.”

I didn’t answer, and instead began swiping crumbs off the counter with a nearby rag. Of course, Zac wasn’t like my father. Only the most twisted, vile villain could ever compare to him. Granny was likely right that no man could ever be as sick as Father was, but that didn’t take away the trauma that had scarred my heart so many years ago.

The man I had called father—who taught me to walk, let me sit upon his knee, and sang me to sleep—was the same man who had attempted to murder the emperor.