The SoHo Baking Company was a long and narrow shop, with tempting displays of decorated cookies and cakes in the shapes of keys, little jewel boxes, and even a house. It smelled like vanilla and heat, and Jane felt tension draining from her shoulders that she hadn’t even known was there.
It didn’t stay gone for long.
“Mrs. Doran!” the apple-cheeked baker cheered sycophantically, nearly knocking Jane down in her rush to shake Lynne’s hand. She seemed to reconsider at the last moment, perhaps because Lynne didn’t look inclined in the slightest to lift either fur-lined gloved hand from her couture-clad sides. The baker slid to an uncertain halt, and for an awkward moment Jane half-expected her to bow.
“I’m Hattie,” the baker settled for instead, shoving her frizzy brown bangs off of her flushed forehead. “We are just so excited to have you consider us for your wedding. Please come in.”
Whose wedding was that, now? Jane wondered grouchily, unwinding her scarf a little more roughly than necessary. Hattie hadn’t so much as glanced her way since they walked in. Also it wasn’t even noon on Wednesday, but it was already the third wedding errand of the day. Jane’s feet hurt, and she was irritated at having been ignored by the florist, the printers, and now Hattie.
And being ignored only reminded her of exactly how friendless she was. Jane was fairly sure that Maeve Montague was actively avoiding her. She kept seeing flashes of wild red hair disappearing around corners, and one time she could have sworn she heard footsteps approaching, and then rapidly receding when she began to open her office door, a lingering whiff of a Nina Ricci perfume in the air. It was getting ridiculous.
“We have less than two months,” Lynne announced authoritatively, dropping her gloves on top of her crocodile Hermès purse. “You’re hired. Let’s talk decor.”
Jane frowned. I thought you got to taste cake at cake-tastings—and that’s tastings, plural. She had actually been looking forward to that. But it was useless to resist. She hadn’t been in Manhattan long enough to care about the actual wedding site, and if Lynne wanted Hattie’s cake or fountains spewing roses, then Jane would live with that. It was the image of the horrid, Little Bo Peep wedding dress that had been haunting her dreams, and she was saving all her energy for that particular fight. And if I get some goodwill by letting her hire Hattie because of the “fabulous” tiramisu petit-fours at the Ross girl’s baby shower, so much the better.
While Lynne and Hattie entered a heated discussion over the merits of rolled fondant versus piped icing, Jane wandered over to the pile of glossy sample books in an alcove near the window.
“I can help you with those,” a husky but feminine voice whispered from behind her shoulder. Jane jumped a little, and turned to see a wide pair of amber eyes looking at her with concern. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” the owner of the eyes rushed on, pushing a thick tangle of black hair over her shoulder. She seemed to be about Jane’s age, with skin nearly the same tawny color as her eyes. “I’m Dee,” she added, although her nametag read DIANA. “Can I help you with the books?”
“Sure,” Jane replied. “Thanks.” Not that it’ll matter much what I find.
As if Jane had said the last part out loud, Dee glanced toward Hattie and Lynne, her eyebrows knitting together. She looked as if she were weighing the pros and cons of reminding her boss that the bride herself was out of the loop, but Jane shook her head meaningfully.
“It’s not her fault,” Jane whispered. “It’s the other ‘her.’ ” She nodded toward Lynne, hoping that the gesture was appropriately subtle. Raising her voice a bit, she picked up a book from the table. “Are these just for weddings, or other events, too?” she asked, loudly enough to be heard. “I’m putting together a cocktail party, and I’ve seen some gorgeous special-event cakes, but I’m not sure I want anything too traditional.” Out of the corner of her eye, Jane saw Lynne shudder, and she smirked. The more Lynne thought Jane cared about the silly details, the more Lynne would think she was winning important concessions. Besides, it was a little fun.
“You’ll want to take a look at this one,” Dee told her confidently, handing Jane a book labeled Evening Elegance. “It has a mix, but they’re all for very sophisticated events.”
“Thanks.” Jane began leafing idly through the book, although she barely registered the richly colored close-up confections on its pages. She smiled wryly at Dee as the words “absolutely nothing involving ribbons” drifted over to their alcove. “Oh, your necklace is tangled,” Jane said, pointing to the silver pendant that appeared caught on the neckline of Dee’s black top.
“Crap,” Dee whispered, stuffing it inside her shirt. Jane froze, hand in midair, feeling awkward. “Oh, sorry,” Dee grimaced. “It’s just that I’m supposed to keep it hidden at work. It’s a pentacle—you know, a Wiccan thing.” She slipped it out again and waved it just long enough for Jane to make out a circle containing a five-pointed star. “Apparently it might scare off the target clientele.”
“Wiccan—like, witches?” Jane’s voice sounded unnaturally high. Somehow her least favorite things—wedding planning with Lynne and magic—were converging in one quaint little cake shop. Throw in a chainsaw murderer and it could be a real party.
“That’s the basic idea.”
Jane studied Dee’s wild black waves and wide amber eyes. In her letter, Gran had made the world of magic seem dangerous and secretive, and she’d stressed that Jane’s own safety depended on staying hidden. Then again, Gran was something of a paranoid survivalist. Was it possible that some witches—say, of the more daring, SoHo variety—just walked around wearing dark eyeliner and pentacles in plain sight? And how was Jane supposed to tell the difference between the wannabe witches and real ones? Was there such a thing as a witch-dar?
“So, um, do you do spells?” Nice, Jane. Subtle.
Dee let out a throaty chuckle. “Not me. My coven is into the religion aspect of Wicca, not the other stuff.”
Jane nodded, not sure whether she was relieved or disappointed. She certainly didn’t want to throw down with another witch in front of her mother-in-law-to-be, but she instinctively liked Dee.
“I’d say edible gold is unequivocally tacky,” Lynne pronounced from across the room, and Hattie nodded compulsively.
Dee rolled her eyes at Jane, then fingered the outline of the pentacle beneath her shirt. “There are people who think that anyone can do magic, if they do the exact rituals and concentrate just right.”
“Oh really?” Jane asked lightly, feigning detached interest. Outside, a young girl in a bright-red coat pulled her mother to the SoHo Baking Company’s window, pointing to a doll-shaped lollipop. “But you don’t think it’s possible, then?”
“No. Well. Not for me.” Dee tossed a look over her shoulder at Hattie and Lynne, as if to make sure they weren’t listening. They were the only other people in the shop. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I do feel that there’s magic out there, and I think that some people are born being able to use it somehow. But it’s not like everyone can do magic and I’m some freak exception. I think that there are some people who can, and they’re the exception.”
Jane hung on Dee’s every word, which eerily echoed the ones in Gran’s letter. She felt herself warming to Dee. What were the odds that the first non-crazy person Jane met in New York would be a black-clad Wiccan baker’s assistant?
“And it even makes sense from a spiritual standpoint,” Dee continued, “because Wiccans believe that magic is natural. My theory is that maybe there’s some kind of genetic—wait, what’s that?” she interrupted herself suddenly, snapping Jane back to the moment. “Where on earth did you get that amazing ring?”
“Thanks,” Jane said, wiggling her fingers automatically; women cooing over her engagement ring was old news already. “It’s actually a little scary walking around with it in New—” She broke off. Dee wasn’t looking at the massive emerald-cut diamond on her ring finger; she was looking right past that to the smooth silver band Celine Boyle had hidden behind the mirror in Saint-Croix-sur-Amaury.
“Where did you get that?” Dee repeated, her husky voice low and urgent.
Jane opened her mouth to reply, but the voice that cut through the room was Lynne’s. “I think that about covers it,” she snapped, staring rather intently at Dee. She followed the girl’s gaze to Jane’s hand and scowled so fiercely that Jane felt a stab of actual fear.
They know, her mind screamed irrationally. Both of them know.
Then Lynne’s dark eyes caught Jane’s, and she smiled brightly. “Time to go, dear. I’ll fill you in on what we’ve decided, in the car.” She swept out of the door, her ivory cashmere overcoat swirling majestically around her as she shouted for Yuri.
Jane’s pulse returned to normal. She shot a quick, apologetic shrug at Dee and followed Lynne out into the fading daylight. When she looked back through the picture window, Dee was still standing there, staring intently at the silver ring on Jane’s finger.