It appeared my first courtship would be more of the same.

We stopped outside a bakery, and Prince Bertilak helped me from the carriage. The crowds in the streets called to him, and to me. The prince held up a cordial hand; I clasped my hands in front of me, nodding warmly at the people. When Bear opened the door to the shop, the clamor of the crowd gave way to the chatter of a few excited patrons and the smell of butter.

The baker smiled and curtsied. “Your Highness. Your Grace.” She smiled at Bertilak, then at me.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” Prince Bertilak said cheerfully. “Thank you so much for agreeing to have us.”

I peered into the pastry case. “Can you tell us a little about what your work involves?” I asked. “I only know a little about cooking, and nothing at all about baking.”

“Well,” the bakery owner began. “I get up around three o’clock every day. The shop opens at five.” My eyes went wide, and I exchanged a glance with Prince Bertilak.

“I can’t remember the last time I saw five in the morning,” he joked.

“I get up around five most mornings. But three!” I shook my head. “Now—”

“What?” the prince exclaimed. I glanced back at the baker, more interested in hearing about her work than talking about mine, but Perrault widened his eyes, prompting me.

“It’s cooler in the fields before the sun comes up,” I said with a shrug.

Bertilak cocked his head. “The fields?”

I nodded. “I oversee about three thousand acres—the public fields that feed Arbor Hall and our needy—and a few hundred head of cattle. I help in the kitchen garden. That kind of thing.” In my periphery, Perrault pinched the bridge of his nose. Probably trying to plot an outfit that said, She’s not a field hand, truly.

The shop assistants exchanged glances. “Would you like to see the kitchen?” one of them asked.

Perrault put a hand on my arm, but I shook him off. “Of course!” I beamed. I glanced at Bertilak, and he nodded, bemused.

In the room beyond the bright storefront, two more bakers were hard at work, one rolling out pastry and the other splashing what smelled like beer over chunks of steak in a frying pan. Ignoring Perrault’s throat clearing, I peered over their shoulders, crouched to peek into the oven. “Pie?” I asked.

“Rhubarb,” the baker answered, smiling.

“Have you ever had a pecan pie?” I turned to Bertilak but caught Bear’s eye instead. Both shook their heads. “It’s pecans, butter, eggs, sugar, corn syrup—”

“Golden syrup,” Perrault broke in, glancing back and forth between us anxiously. His smile had taken on a vaguely manic edge.

“Golden syrup and sugar?” Bear laughed.

Bertilak joined in.