The cake was for the Henderson-Cho wedding: a towering confection of vanilla bean and raspberry, decorated with delicate sugar flowers that Marina had spent three days perfecting. It wasn’t her largest commission, but it was her most intricate, and she wanted it to be perfect.
She worked steadily through the afternoon, piping and smoothing and adjusting. The bakery hummed around her: coffee brewing, customers chatting, Dante flirting outrageously with anyone who held still long enough.
Dante had moved to Sweetwater Cove a month after the battle with Malachar. Officially, he was “helping with the family business transition.” Unofficially, he was dating Bea with the kind of chaotic energy that made everyone slightly concerned for their safety.
“They’re arguing about herb combinations again,” Alessandro observed, glancing toward the corner where Bea was gesturing wildly at his brother. “Should we intervene?”
“Absolutely not. Last time I intervened, Bea turned my favorite mixing bowl into a toad.”
“It got better.”
“Eventually. I’m not risking my piping bags.”
Through the front window, Marina could see the harbor sparkling in the afternoon light. Boats bobbed gently at their moorings. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries mixing with the sound of the waves.
She’d started swimming again.
It had taken time. Getting her pelt back from Malachar had been one thing, but finding the courage to use it was another. For two years, she’d locked that part of herself away.
Alessandro had helped. Not by pushing, but by waiting. By flying overhead while she took her first tentative swim in years. By being there when she emerged from the water, shaking and joyful, more herself than she’d felt in ages.
Now they had a ritual. Every Sunday morning, before the bakery opened, she swam while he flew. Two different kinds of freedom, sharing the same sky. Sometimes she would surface and find him hovering above the waves, bronze scales reflecting the early light. Sometimes he would dive low enough that she could feel the heat of him even through the cold water. They never spoke during those mornings. They didn’t need to.
“The Dravens are still trying to give us money,” Alessandro said, studying his phone. “Father wants to fund a second location.”
“We don’t need a second location.”
“That’s what I told him. He’s persistent.”
“Wonder where you get it from.”
Alessandro shot her a look, but his lips were twitching. The relationship with his father was still complicated; years of distance couldn’t be undone in months, but it was improving. They were trying.
Everyone was trying.
Estelle swept in around four, resplendent in a silk kimono so finely embroidered that Marina suspected it had its own listed-status somewhere. She surveyed the expanded bakery with proprietary satisfaction.
“I see my matchmaking has yielded excellent results,” she announced.
“You didn’t matchmake,” Alessandro said. “You watched us suffer and occasionally offered cryptic advice.”
“That’s matchmaking.” The ancient kitsune accepted a scone from Marina with a regal nod. “The young never appreciate the subtlety involved.”
“She takes credit for everything,” Dante observed from his corner.
“Because everything is my credit to take.” Estelle’s eyes lingered on the raspberry and chocolate croissant Bea wassharing with Dante. “Speaking of which, when are you two getting married? The supernatural community betting pool has significant money riding on spring.”
Bea choked on her croissant. Dante looked delighted.
“There’s a betting pool?” he asked.
“Of course there’s a betting pool. There’s always a betting pool.” Estelle’s gaze moved to Marina. “I believe the current favorite for your wedding date is Valentine’s Day next year. Though there’s a strong contingent backing the summer solstice for its magical significance.”
“We’re not—” Marina started.
“Yet,” Alessandro finished.
Marina threw a dish towel at him. He caught it, grinning.
