The Baker's Fake Betrothal

• Chapter 1 Flour, Fire, and a Grumpy Boss
• Chapter 2 The Magistrate's Decree
• Chapter 3 A Desperate Proposal
• Chapter 4 Rules of Engagement
• Chapter 5 The First Public Stroll
• Chapter 6 Cinnamon Rolls and Suspicious Glances
• Chapter 7 A Sword in the Pantry
• Chapter 8 The Harvest Festival Booth
• Chapter 9 A Hand Held Too Long
• Chapter 10 The Magistrate's Dinner Party
• Chapter 11 Secrets in the Cellar
• Chapter 12 Rainy Days and Warm Scones
• Chapter 13 Old Scars, New Dough
• Chapter 14 The Rival Baker's Plot
• Chapter 15 A Midnight Tasting
• Chapter 16 Whispers in the Market
• Chapter 17 The Enchanted Oven
• Chapter 18 A Slip of the Tongue
• Chapter 19 Cracks in the Crust
• Chapter 20 The Magistrate's Trap
• Chapter 21 A Bitter Betrayal
• Chapter 22 The Grand Baking Contest
• Chapter 23 Swords Drawn at Dawn
• Chapter 24 A Confession Over Croissants
• Chapter 25 The True Betrothal
• Chapter 26 Happily Ever After, Fresh from the Oven

At four o’clock in the morning, the town of Bramblewood was still wrapped in a blanket of blue-gray mist, and Pippa Vance was already losing a fistfight with a sack of enchanted rye flour.

The sack was supposed to be self-pouring, a minor luxury Garrick had bought off a traveling peddler last autumn to save Pippa’s aching wrists. Unfortunately, the enchantment had been applied by someone with a questionable grasp of spatial geometry. Instead of a neat, measured stream into the mixing trough, the sack was currently hiccuping clouds of fine gray dust directly into Pippa’s face.

"Stop it," Pippa hissed, smacking the burlap with the flat of her wooden spoon. "Just—stop. I don't need a facial. I need bread."

The sack gave one final, defiant poof, coating her eyelashes, her nose, and the front of her faded green apron in a thick layer of flour, before slumping innocently against the kneading table. Pippa sighed, blowing a stray curl out of her eyes, and wiped her face with the back of her forearm. It only made things worse, streaking her cheek like war paint.

The kitchen of The Hearthstone Bakery was her favorite place in the world, even when it was actively trying to suffocate her. It was a long, low-ceilinged room anchored by a massive stone oven that occupied nearly the entire back wall. The air smelled perpetually of toasted nuts, caramelized sugar, and the sharp, comforting tang of starter dough. Brass pans hung from iron hooks overhead, gleaming faintly in the dim light of a single oil lamp.

Pippa turned her attention to the oven. If the flour was temperamental, the fire was downright mutinous.

She knelt on the flagstones and pulled open the iron grate. Inside, a small, crackling ember-sprite—no bigger than a plump sparrow and glowing the color of a bruised plum—was curled up fast asleep on a bed of dying ash.

"Ignis," Pippa said, tapping the grate with her iron poker. "Rise and shine. We have forty loaves of sourdough, three trays of honey-buns, and a batch of rosemary focaccia that needed to be in twenty minutes ago."

The sprite cracked open one molten-gold eye, let out a tiny, smoky belch, and rolled over.

"Don't give me that," Pippa warned, reaching into her pocket for a dried apricot. "I have a Bribe of the First Order right here. You heat the stones to a steady four hundred, and it’s yours."

Ignis’s ears—which looked remarkably like flickering candle flames—perked up. With a grumpy chirp, the sprite hopped onto the central log, puffed out its chest, and inhaled deeply. When it exhaled, a wash of bright, roaring orange fire swept across the dome of the oven, instantly chasing the chill from the kitchen. Pippa tossed the apricot into the flames, where it vanished in a sweet-smelling puff of cinnamon-scented smoke.

"Pleasure doing business with you," she muttered, closing the grate.

She hurried back to the kneading table, her hands moving with the practiced rhythm of someone who had been baking since she was tall enough to reach the counter. Her mother had taught her the basics in their cramped cottage on the edge of town, back before the winter fever had taken her. Since then, Pippa had learned the rest through trial, error, and a few singed eyebrows. At twenty-four, she knew she wasn't a grand culinary mage—she couldn't weave illusions into spun sugar or make a soufflé float three inches above its plate—but she knew how to coax a stubborn yeast into rising, and she knew how to make butter taste like a warm hug.

She was halfway through shaping the last of the honey-buns when the heavy oak door at the back of the kitchen swung open, banging against the stone wall.

Pippa didn't even flinch. She just kept rolling dough. "You're three minutes late, Boss."

Garrick Thorne grunted, which was his usual way of saying good morning.

He filled the doorway in a way that made the kitchen feel two sizes too small. At thirty-five, Garrick looked like a man who had been carved out of granite by someone who didn't particularly like him. He was broad-shouldered and tall, with dark hair that was perpetually unruly, a neat, close-cropped beard, and a jagged pale scar that ran from the corner of his left eyebrow down to his jawline. He wore a simple linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with old muscle and fainter, silvered scars—souvenirs from a decade spent hunting monsters in the Whispering Wastes.

He also wore a heavy leather apron over his trousers, though he looked far more like a blacksmith about to forge a broadsword than a man who owned a cozy neighborhood bakery.

"The stairs creaked," Garrick rumbled, his voice like gravel grinding in a bucket. He stalked over to the iron kettle hanging near the hearth, poured himself a mug of pitch-black tea, and took a sip without waiting for it to cool. "And you're covered in flour."

"The rye sack had a moment," Pippa said cheerfully, sliding the tray of honey-buns onto the wooden peel. "It’s fine. I’m fine. The sourdough is proofed, the focaccia is rising, and Ignis only tried to go back to sleep once."

Garrick’s dark eyes narrowed as he looked at the flour-dusted floor, then at Pippa’s streaked face, and finally at the tray of buns. He stepped closer, looming over the table. For a terrifying second, Pippa thought he was going to lecture her about wasting inventory. Instead, he reached out with one large, calloused finger and poked the edge of a bun.

"Too much butter on the pan," he said flatly. "The bottoms will burn."

"They won't burn," Pippa countered, nudging his hand away with her hip. "They’ll caramelize. There’s a difference. Besides, Mrs. Gable likes them sticky."

"Mrs. Gable has three teeth and a sweet tooth the size of a carriage," Garrick muttered, though he didn't argue further. He stepped back, leaning his considerable weight against the stone counter, and watched her slide the peel into the oven with a smooth, practiced flick of her wrists.

Working for Garrick Thorne was a bit like living next to a dormant volcano. You never quite knew when he was going to rumble, and he certainly wasn't going to offer you a pleasant conversation about the weather, but he was reliable. He paid her six silver pieces a week, always on time, and he never once asked her to work past sundown. For a girl who had spent the last three years bouncing between laundries and taverns just to keep a roof over her head, six silvers was a lifeline.

Still, it would have been nice if he smiled occasionally. Just to prove his face wouldn't crack.

"Did you check the flour order?" Pippa asked, wiping her hands on her apron as she turned to the rising focaccia.

"Arrives at noon," Garrick said, staring into his mug. "Assuming the miller's cart didn't lose another wheel in the mud."

"And the cinnamon?"

"In the pantry. Top shelf." He paused, his jaw tightening slightly. "Don't use it all on the morning batch. Prices went up again."

Pippa’s stomach gave a small, familiar dip. She didn't know much about the bakery’s finances—Garrick kept the ledgers locked in his upstairs desk like they were state secrets—but she wasn't blind. The price of sugar, spices, and even basic firewood had been creeping steadily upward since the new magistrate had taken office six months ago. Every merchant in Bramblewood was feeling the squeeze.

"I'll go light on it," she promised softly.

Garrick nodded once, set his mug down with a sharp clink, and turned toward the front of the shop. "I'll sweep the stoop. Don't burn the buns."

"They're going to caramelize!" she called after him, but the swinging door had already shut behind him.

The next two hours passed in a blur of heat, yeast, and frantic motion. Pippa pulled the sourdough loaves out just as their crusts turned a deep, blistered mahogany, their tops split in neat, golden ears. The honey-buns came out bubbling and fragrant, the butter and sugar fusing into a glossy amber glaze that made Pippa’s mouth water despite the early hour. She transferred everything onto wire cooling racks, then set to work on the savory tarts—leek and goat cheese for the town guards who came off the night shift.

By six o'clock, the sun had finally burned through the morning mist, spilling pale gold light across the cobblestones of Market Street. Pippa untied her flour-caked apron, swapped it for a clean, pale-blue one, and carried the first two trays of pastries out to the front counter.

The shopfront of The Hearthstone was small, warm, and smelled like heaven. Dark oak display cases lined the left wall, their glass polished to a shine, while a chalkboard menu hung behind the register, written in Pippa’s neat, looping script. Garrick was standing behind the counter, his arms crossed over his chest, glaring out the front window as if he were daring the street to start a fight.

"You know," Pippa said, arranging the honey-buns in a neat pyramid, "if you keep making that face, the customers are going to think we're selling poisoned tarts."

Garrick didn't look at her. "If they're scared of my face, they can buy their bread from the stall down the lane."

"The stall down the lane sells loaves hard enough to use as masonry," Pippa pointed out. She stepped around him to flip the wooden sign on the glass door from Closed to Open. "And we need their coppers. So, try to look... approachable."

Garrick’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, more like a muscle spasm—before settling back into its usual flat line. "I am approachable."

"You look like you're about to interrogate a goblin."

Before he could reply, the brass bell above the door jingled merrily, and the morning rush began.

First through the door was Barnaby, the night-watch captain, his metal breastplate dented and his eyes bloodshot. He took one look at the leek tarts, let out a groan of pure relief, and slammed four copper bits onto the counter.

"Bless you, Pippa," Barnaby sighed, accepting the paper-wrapped tart she handed him. "If I had to eat one more bowl of cold porridge at the barracks, I was going to arrest myself. Morning, Garrick."

"Barnaby," Garrick rumbled, sweeping the coppers into the till with a heavy hand.

"Quiet night?" Pippa asked, already reaching for a fresh bag as two more people stepped through the door.

"Too quiet," Barnaby muttered, taking a massive bite. He chewed, closed his eyes, and looked momentarily transported to a higher plane. "Though I saw the Magistrate’s tax collectors sniffing around the tannery before dawn. Never a good sign."

Pippa glanced at Garrick. His hand had paused over the till, his knuckles turning white against the dark wood. Only for a second. Then he snapped the drawer shut and nodded to Barnaby. "Stay warm, Captain."

The next hour was a pleasant whirlwind. Mrs. Gable came in, leaning heavily on her gnarled oak cane, and insisted on pinching Pippa’s cheek before buying six honey-buns. A pair of apprentice hedge-witches from the apothecary next door stopped by for rosemary focaccia, chattering excitedly about a potion that had turned their master’s eyebrows bright purple. Pippa laughed with them, handed out extra samples of crust to a wide-eyed toddler clinging to his mother’s skirts, and kept the coffee pot flowing.

Through it all, Garrick stood like a silent monolith at the register. He made change with ruthless efficiency, bagged loaves with hands that looked too big for the delicate paper, and spoke approximately twelve words in sixty minutes. Yet, Pippa noticed, he never once short-changed anyone, and when little Timmy, the baker’s-boy-turned-orphan who swept the market gutters, hovered shyly by the open door, Garrick silently slid a slightly squashed cinnamon roll across the counter to Pippa.

Give it to him, Garrick’s eyes said, before he turned his back to pretend he was rearranging the flour jars.

Pippa smiled to herself, wrapped the roll in a square of parchment, and slipped it into Timmy’s eager hands with a wink.

By nine o'clock, the morning rush had dwindled to a trickle. The display cases were half-empty, the coffee pot was down to its dregs, and Pippa’s feet were beginning to throb in her worn leather boots. She leaned against the counter, sipping a mug of lukewarm tea, and watched a stray pigeon peck at crumbs on the cobblestones outside.

"Not a bad morning," she said, stretching her arms above her head until her spine popped. "We sold out of the sourdough before eight."

Garrick didn't answer. He was sitting on the high stool behind the register, a thick, leather-bound ledger open in front of him. His brow was furrowed so deeply the scar on his face seemed to pull tight.

Pippa frowned, setting her mug down. "Garrick? Is something wrong?"

He snapped the ledger shut with a sharp thwack that made her jump. "Nothing. Go check the oven. Ignis will be getting restless."

"Ignis is fine, I gave him a lump of coal twenty minutes ago," Pippa said, crossing her arms. "You've been staring at that book like it insulted your mother. Is it the flour prices again?"

"It’s none of your concern, Pippa," Garrick said, his voice dropping an octave into the dangerous, gravelly register he used when he wanted a conversation to end. He stood up, tucking the ledger under his arm. "Your job is to bake the bread. My job is to worry about the numbers."

"Right," Pippa said slowly, a prickle of irritation—and genuine worry—rising in her chest. "Because if the numbers go bad, I still get to bake the bread in a vacuum, do I?"

Garrick stopped halfway to the kitchen door. He looked back at her, his dark eyes unreadable in the dim light of the shop. For a moment, he looked tired. Not the physical tiredness of a man who woke up before dawn, but the heavy, bone-deep exhaustion of someone carrying a weight he refused to share.

"You'll get your six silvers on Friday," he said quietly. "That's all you need to worry about."

He pushed through the door and disappeared into the back, leaving the shop quiet save for the gentle ticking of the wall clock.

Pippa stood alone behind the counter, looking at the half-empty trays of pastries. She knew Garrick Thorne was a proud man, and a stubborn one. He had walked away from a life of glory and monster-slaying to run a quiet bakery in a quiet town, and he guarded his peace like a dragon guarding a hoard.

Whatever was written in that ledger, it was bad enough to rattle a man who used to fight wyverns for a living. And as Pippa picked up her broom to sweep the stray flour from the floorboards, she couldn't shake the feeling that the peaceful mornings at The Hearthstone were about to come to a very abrupt end.

By eleven o’clock, the morning rush had faded into the quiet, rhythmic hum of a bakery between batches. Pippa stood behind the oak counter, a damp rag in hand, polishing a smudge of honey-glaze off the glass display case. The shop smelled of cooling yeast and toasted rosemary, a warm, comforting scent that usually settled her nerves. Today, however, her stomach felt like she had swallowed a lump of unbaked dough.

From the back room came the muffled clink of iron pots and the occasional low rumble of Garrick’s voice as he muttered at Ignis. He hadn't come back out since locking himself away with the ledger, and Pippa knew better than to poke a bear when it was doing arithmetic.

The brass bell above the front door jingled, and Pippa straightened, pasting on her brightest customer smile. "Good morning! We’ve still got—"

Her smile faltered as Old Man Miller shuffled through the doorway, wheezing slightly under the weight of a fifty-pound sack of stone-ground wheat. He didn't look like a man delivering good news. His face was pinched, and his eyes darted nervously toward the kitchen door.

"Morning, Pippa," Miller said, heaving the sack onto the floor near the counter with a dull thud. "Got the rest of the order on the cart. Just... need to settle up with the boss first."

"I'll get him," Pippa said, wiping her hands on her apron. She pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen. Garrick was standing by the prep table, his brow furrowed as he inspected a tray of rising dinner rolls. "Miller’s here with the flour."

Garrick nodded once, untied his leather apron, and followed her out to the front. He didn't offer a greeting, simply pulling a small, worn leather pouch from his trousers pocket. "How much, Miller?"

Miller’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He twisted his cap in his hands, staring at the floorboards. "Well, now, Garrick, you know I’ve always tried to do right by you. You’re my best customer on Market Street. Truly, you are."

"How much?" Garrick repeated, his voice dropping an octave.

"Twelve silvers for the lot," Miller whispered, wincing as if he expected Garrick to vault the counter and throttle him.

Pippa gasped before she could stop herself. "Twelve? It was eight last month!"

"I know, lass, I know," Miller said miserably, looking between the two of them. "It’s the new road tolls. The Magistrate’s men set up a checkpoint at the south bridge three days ago. Every wagon coming in from the valley has to pay a grain tariff. If I don't raise my prices, I don't eat. I’m sorry, Garrick. Truly."

Garrick didn't yell. He didn't even scowl harder. He simply stood there for a long, heavy moment, his dark eyes fixed on the flour sack. Then, slowly, he reached into his pouch and counted out twelve silver pieces onto the oak counter. The coins looked painfully thin against the polished wood.

"Bring the rest around the back," Garrick said quietly. "Leave them by the pantry."

"Right away. Thank you, Garrick. Bless you." Miller scooped up the coins as if they might burn him and hurried back out into the street.

Pippa stared at the empty space on the counter where the silvers had been. Twelve silvers. That was two weeks of her wages, gone in a single delivery, just for basic flour. "Garrick," she said softly, turning to him. "If the prices are that bad, we need to raise what we charge for the loaves. Just a copper or two. People will understand."

"No," Garrick said flatly.

"Why not? Barnaby and the guards can afford an extra copper, and Mrs. Gable—"

"Mrs. Gable lives on a widow’s pension," Garrick interrupted, his jaw tight. "And half the families on this street count their coppers before they buy bread. I’m not charging them more because the Magistrate wants to line his pockets."

"Then how are we supposed to stay open?" Pippa asked, frustration bubbling up in her chest. "You can't bleed silver forever, Garrick! Even a retired adventurer can't fight basic math."

Garrick opened his mouth to reply, likely something curt and dismissive, when the brass bell above the door jingled again.

This time, it wasn't a gentle ring. The door was pushed open with enough force to slam the wooden frame against the wall, setting the glass jars on the counter rattling.

A man stepped inside, and the warm, cozy atmosphere of The Hearthstone vanished instantly, replaced by the suffocating scent of expensive lavender cologne and stale pomade.

Magistrate Bartholomew Vane was a man who looked like he had never lifted anything heavier than a silver goblet. He was tall, thin as a winter reed, and draped in a coat of deep plum velvet trimmed with silverfox fur—an absurdly heavy outfit for a mild spring morning. A thick gold chain of office rested across his narrow chest, and he carried an ebony walking stick topped with a carved ivory hawk.

Behind him trailed a short, pinched-looking clerk clutching a stack of parchment and a portable inkwell, followed by two burly men in the crisp blue tunics of the Magistrate’s personal guard.

Pippa’s hand tightened on her rag. She had seen Vane from a distance during town announcements, usually flanked by guards, but up close, his pale eyes had the cold, calculating gleam of a rat eyeing a wheel of cheese.

"Good morning," Vane said, his voice a smooth, nasal drawl. He didn't look at Pippa. His gaze swept over the display cases, lingering with mild distaste on a tray of slightly crooked cheese tarts, before settling on Garrick. "Master Thorne. How delightfully... rustic your establishment remains."

Garrick didn't move from behind the counter. He crossed his massive arms over his chest, his broad shoulders seeming to expand until he blocked the entire doorway to the kitchen. "You're tracking mud on my floor, Vane."

Vane glanced down at his polished leather boots, which were entirely spotless, and offered a thin, humorless smile. "A figure of speech, I'm sure. Though I suppose one cannot expect much in the way of hospitality from a man who spent his youth sleeping in ditches and gutting trolls."

"Wyverns," Garrick corrected evenly. "And they had better manners than you."

Pippa bit the inside of her cheek to keep from snorting. The clerk behind Vane gasped softly, his quill trembling over his parchment, while the two guards shifted their weight, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Everyone in Bramblewood knew what Garrick Thorne used to do before he hung up his sword, and even armed with halberds, the guards clearly didn't fancy their chances in a cramped bakery.

Vane, however, didn't flinch. He tapped the tip of his ebony cane against the floorboards. "Charming as always. Fortunately, I am not here for a lesson in monster taxonomy. I am here on official municipal business."

He gestured with two manicured fingers, and the clerk stepped forward, clearing his throat nervously.

"By order of the Office of the Magistrate," the clerk began in a high, reedy voice, unrolling a stiff sheet of parchment bearing a heavy red wax seal. "In accordance with the newly enacted Bramblewood Commercial Stability and Hearth Preservation Ordinance, effective immediately..."

Pippa leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "The what?"

"Silence, girl," Vane snapped, barely sparing her a glance. "Continue, Tobias."

Tobias swallowed hard and read faster. "...all Tier-One commercial properties situated along Market Street, specifically those licensed for sustenance, baking, and public hearth-keeping, are hereby subject to a mandatory review of generational stability. To ensure the long-term prosperity of the town center and prevent the sudden abandonment of vital infrastructure, any such establishment operated by an unmarried, unattached, or otherwise solitary proprietor shall be assessed a Solitary Enterprise Levy of three hundred gold crowns."

The shop went dead silent. Even the wall clock seemed to tick quieter.

Pippa stared at the clerk, convinced she had misheard him. "Three hundred gold?" she echoed, her voice rising. "Nobody on Market Street makes three hundred gold in a year! That’s absurd!"

"It is the law," Vane said smoothly, stepping up to the counter. He rested his gloved hands on the oak, leaning in slightly. "You see, Master Thorne, Bramblewood is growing. We can no longer afford to have prime real estate tied up in the hands of... transient individuals. Men with no roots. No family. No stake in the future of our fair town. If a bachelor like yourself were to suddenly decide to pack up his knives and wander back into the wastes, who would run the ovens? Who would feed the people? The town cannot bear that risk."

"I've been here for four years," Garrick said, his voice dangerously low. "I've never missed a day. I've never missed a tax."

"Past performance is no guarantee of future commitment," Vane replied, his smile widening just enough to show too many teeth. "However, the ordinance is quite fair. You have fourteen days to remit the three hundred gold crowns to my office. Should you find yourself unable—or unwilling—to pay, the deed to The Hearthstone Bakery will be forfeit to the municipal trust for immediate public auction."

Pippa felt the blood drain from her face. Public auction. She knew what that meant. Vane had been quietly buying up half the businesses on the west end of town through shell companies and distant cousins. If The Hearthstone went to auction, Vane’s cronies would snap it up for pennies, tear out the stone oven, and turn it into another overpriced import shop or a high-end tavern.

"You can't do this," Pippa said, stepping forward until she was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Garrick. "This is extortion! You raised the grain tariffs to bleed the shops dry, and now you're inventing fake laws to steal their deeds!"

Vane’s cold eyes finally landed on her, sweeping her up and down—from her flour-dusted curls to her faded blue apron. "And who might you be? The scullery maid?"

"I'm the baker," Pippa snapped.

"Ah. An employee. Then this matter does not concern you, little bird. Though I suggest you start looking for another position. Preferably somewhere that doesn't smell quite so aggressively of burnt sugar."

Garrick shifted. It was a tiny movement, barely an inch, but the sheer, lethal tension radiating off him made the temperature in the room feel like it had dropped ten degrees. "Take your clerk, take your guards, and get out of my shop, Vane."

Vane didn't back down, though he did take half a step away from the counter. "Fourteen days, Thorne. Tobias, leave the notice."

The clerk hastily slapped the heavy parchment onto the counter, weighing it down with a brass inkpot, and scurried backward toward the door. Vane gave his cane a crisp twirl, offered Pippa a mocking little bow, and swept out of the bakery. The brass bell jingled violently behind him as the door slammed shut.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Pippa stared at the red wax seal on the parchment, her chest heaving with a mixture of rage and sheer, unadulterated panic.

"That slimy, pompous, velvet-wrapped weasel," she hissed, slamming her palm onto the counter. "Three hundred gold! He knows nobody has that kind of coin lying around! He’s not even trying to hide it anymore!"

Garrick didn't answer. He reached out, picked up the parchment, and stared at it. His face was carved from stone, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle feathered beneath his beard.

"Garrick?" Pippa asked, the anger draining out of her as she watched him. "What are we going to do?"

Garrick’s shoulders sagged—just a fraction, barely noticeable, but it terrified Pippa more than any of his scowls. He dropped the parchment back onto the counter and turned toward the kitchen.

"I'll start packing the dry goods," he said, his voice hollow. "If I sell the brass pans and the enchanted flour sacks, I should have enough to pay you a month's severance. You'll be fine until you find another place."

Pippa blinked. "Severance? You're just going to give up?"

Garrick stopped at the swinging door, looking back at her. His dark eyes were shadowed, heavy with a resignation she had never seen before. "What do you want me to do, Pippa? Draw a broadsword on the town guard? Burn down the Magistrate’s hall? I left that life behind because I was tired of fighting. I wanted peace. If Vane wants the building, he has the law behind him. I don't have three hundred gold."

"But this is your home!" Pippa cried, gesturing wildly at the warm, sunlit shop. "You built that oven! You—"

"I bought an old building and fixed a chimney," Garrick interrupted quietly. "It’s just bricks and mortar. I'll find a cottage outside the walls. Maybe do some blacksmithing."

He pushed through the door and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Pippa alone in the quiet shop.

Pippa stood frozen behind the counter, listening to the heavy, deliberate footsteps of Garrick moving around the back room. She looked at the gleaming display cases, the chalkboard menu she had spent an hour decorating with little chalk wheat stalks, and the warm sunlight streaming through the front window.

Just bricks and mortar. He was lying to himself, and he was lying to her. She had seen the way he tended to the hearth before dawn, the quiet pride in his eyes when a batch of sourdough came out perfect, the silent kindness he showed to stray orphans and tired guards. This bakery wasn't just a building to him; it was the only place in the world where Garrick Thorne wasn't a monster-slayer. It was his sanctuary.

And it was hers, too.

Furious, Pippa snatched the Magistrate’s decree off the counter. If Vane wanted to hide behind the law, fine. She knew how to read.

She skimmed past the pompous preamble, her eyes darting over the dense, looping script of Tobias’s handwriting. Tier-One commercial properties... Solitary Enterprise Levy... three hundred gold crowns...

Her finger traced the lines down to the bottom half of the page, where the print grew noticeably smaller—the standard bureaucratic trick of burying the actual rules where no one bothered to look.

...whereas the intent of this ordinance is to foster domestic stability within the municipal center, Pippa read silently, her brow furrowing, exemptions shall be granted in full to any proprietor who can demonstrate an active, legally recognized familial partnership. Specifically, any establishment operated by a married couple, or by two individuals bound by a formal, publicly witnessed betrothal registered with the Guild of Hearth and Home prior to the expiration of the fourteen-day assessment period, shall be deemed compliant and exempt from the Solitary Enterprise Levy in perpetuity, provided the union is solemnized within six months of registration.

Pippa read the paragraph again. Then a third time.

A slow, dangerous heat began to build in her chest, chasing away the cold panic.

Vane had written the law to target bachelors like Garrick, assuming a grumpy, scarred recluse who scared half the town would never manage to get himself betrothed in two weeks. And Vane was probably right—under normal circumstances, Garrick Thorne couldn't charm a stray dog, let alone convince a woman to marry him in fourteen days.

Pippa looked down at the parchment, then up at the swinging door to the kitchen.

"Registered with the Guild of Hearth and Home," she murmured to herself. "Publicly witnessed."

It was reckless. It was completely insane. Garrick would probably throw her out into the street just for suggesting it.

Pippa folded the parchment neatly, tucked it into the pocket of her apron, and marched toward the kitchen. If Garrick Thorne thought he was going to surrender his bakery without a fight, he was about to learn that Pippa Vance was much more stubborn than a sack of enchanted rye flour.