Our Vykryn escorts dismounted and handed their horses off to the driver. Their presence made me uneasy, and I didn’t miss the casual placement of Kiva’s hand near Sinvarra. Like all Illucian soldiers, they moved like hunters. Lithe. Powerful. Dangerous.

Thankfully, they stayed outside when we entered the bakery. The inside was warm from the ovens, chasing the morning chill from my skin. Fresh bread and pastries filled baskets and glass cases, samples of cherry tarts set atop a stand by the door. I popped one in my mouth, the sweetness of the fruit coating my tongue, and barely avoided stepping on a snow-white kitten lapping milk from a tin.

A woman with a kind, round face stood behind the counter, shaping dough on a bed of flour. She smiled as we approached. “Can I help you?”

I pulled the flyer out of my pocket, swallowing my sample. “I’m looking for Caylus Zander.”

She dusted her hands on her apron, moving toward a door in the back. “Caylus!”

He appeared a moment later, his massive frame taking up most of the doorway. Something fluttered in my stomach. His bright-green eyes widened, and I smirked. He had flour in his hair.

I lifted the flyer. “I wanted to talk to you about this position.”

He looked at the paper, then over my shoulder. I turned, but the Vykryn weren’t visible through the window. Was he looking for Ericen?

“I… We can go upstairs.” He started to turn, stopped, and spun back, nearly knocking a mixing bowl off the counter with his elbow as he faced the woman. He seized the bowl, steadying it as he asked, “If you don’t need me?” She waved him off, and he stepped out from behind the counter, starting toward a staircase in the corner.

Kiva cast me a doubtful look, somehow managing to infuse her raised eyebrow with an ocean of sarcasm. Her hand hadn’t left Sinvarra.

We followed Caylus upstairs, the rickety wood creaking. The stairwell emptied onto a too-small landing, so Kiva stood on the stairs while Caylus undid the lock. And the next lock. And the next lock. I counted five, and his quivering hands prolonged the process before the door swung open.

I glanced at him, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze, and even in the dim light, I could see the scarlet creeping up the back of his neck.

The entryway led into a kitchen, which contained only a square island in the center, dusted with leftover flour. The wall behind consisted of a built-in brick oven, a loaf of bread cooling inside, and beside that a stove with a kettle set on top. A mix of morning buns and muffins sat on the island, filling the room with the smell of warm bread and sugar.