Page 72 of A Wolfe in the Woods

We both smiled at each other and for a moment, the heaviness between us lifted.

The kitchen in the reception cabin wasn’t much by city standards, but I’d always liked it. My father had built most of it, and then much later I’d added the finishing touches until May finally declared it done. Wide-planked counters, a cast-iron stove that still breathed heat like an old dragon, shelves lined with jars of herbs May had dried herself. A set of copper pans hung above the sink, catching sunlight by day and lamplight by night. It smelled faintly of smoke and lavender soap. May’s touch was everywhere if you knew how to spot it—the dark patchwork curtains, the enamel pie tins stacked neatly by size.

Blanche stood at the counter, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, studying June’s recipe on her phone with the focus of a lawyer dissecting a brief. Her brow furrowed in concentration, her mouth pressing into a line every time she read a step twice. I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t dare. The moonshade berries sat in a bowl between us, dark and glistening, picked only hours ago from June’s garden. They were less than I had hoped for—wasn’t quite the season for them yet—but enough for one pie. Or, at least, I hoped.

“You’re taking this awfully seriously,” I said, rinsing the flour dust off my hands, my lips quirking.

“I’m nervous. I haven’t baked in years,” she admitted, eyes glued to the recipe book. “The last thing I want to do is ruin my first attempt.”

“I’m just hoping we have enough berries,” I said as I reached for the rolling pin.

That earned me a look of fear.

She tipped the bowl of berries toward me, arching a brow. “These came from that bush you planted for Grandma, right? I hope they’re good, or we’re in trouble.”

“She won with these,” I said as I popped one into my mouth. “Hm. A little bitter.” I pretended to grimace. “Might be able to mask it with enough sugar.”

A small, shaky laugh slipped out. “Great. My big return to Everwick society and I end up sending half the judges into a sugar coma.”

I leaned in with a grin, wanting to get her out of her head a bit. “All right, bigger question…the age-old one. Top or topless?”

She shot me a mock glare before pointing at the recipe card. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those who thinks a proper pie doesn’t need a top.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those that strictly adheres to the ‘wholly encased in pastry’ rule?” I countered.

Her chin lifted. “That’s how my grandma made them. She was a purist. She topped all her pies and won.Manytimes.” She emphasized her final line.

“I don’t think it matters. It’s a preference, not a rule. Besides…” I added, “I’ve always kind of liked being able to see the filling.”

She gasped, mock-offended. “Itdoesmatter. Presentation matters. Extra effort matters. If I’m going to do this, I want to win.”

I nodded, unwilling to argue, trying to hide the grin that threatened to break through at the seriousness of her expression. “Okay, then. Top it is.”

We set to work. The filling went into the pot, the smell of sugar and fruit thickening in the air. She rolled dough with slow precision, tongue peeking at the corner of her mouth as she tried to keep it even. I couldn’t help but grin. When she wasn’t looking, I tapped the end of her nose with flour.

She gasped, rearing back, her eyes going wide.

“I can’t believe you just did that!” she exclaimed.

“It’s just a little flour.” I dotted more across her chin.

She yelped, smacked at me and missed, landing a full palm of flour across my cheek instead. Her grin went wide, eyes bright with mischief at the mess she’d made.

“Are you kidding me?” I muttered.

“It’s just a little flour.” She laughed, already backing away.

“No, that’sa lotof flour,” I said as I streaked my hand across my powdered cheek.

“No—this is a lot of flour,” she shot back, smacking me harder with another puff that exploded between us.

I flicked a bit of flour her way. She flung some back, and in seconds the counter looked like the aftermath of a blizzard. We laughed, both of us breathless.

The laughter tapered off, leaving us both trying to catch our breath. I dragged a sleeve across my cheek, still dusted white. “Maybe we should clean this up before May comes in and finds us and her kitchen, like this,” I said.

Blanche stepped in closer, hand lifting with a kind smile. “You got the worst of it—let me help.” Her fingers hovered as she brushed my face lightly, smudging away some of the streak. She laughed under her breath, softer now. “You look like a ghost.”

It had started as a stupid impulse, just trying to crack the trepidatious nerves I’d felt radiating from her. But now…