Page 13 of The Rake and the Cake

She was in such a daze that she knocked over the fresh pitcher of water waiting just outside her door. She swore and dropped the invisibility spell, darting into the room for a towel or blanket to contain the mess.

And, of course, Priscilla was there waiting for her when she returned with it. “There you are. She was still dressed to impress in the most current Emberleigh fashion. She looked down her long, aristocratic nose at Brook.

Brook dropped to her knees to clean up her mess.

“I’ll call Azalea,” Mama said.

“No, no, it’s my fault. I’ll go and refill the pitcher for morning.” Brook’s cheeks burned hot.

“Where were you?”

“Uh…”

“Britheue. Keep this up, and you’ll be joining the guard yourself.”

That drew her up short. She looked up at Mama wide-eyed. “You wouldn’t ask me to.”

“Your magic might actually be useful to Emberleigh, if you did,” Mama replied evenly. “So, where were you?”

“I was with…” Brook flailed mentally for a moment, as only her mother could make her. “My intended!”

Mama frowned. “Surely not.”

“Yes. She’s lovely—not from nobility, but you know how they are in Gearwick.”

“Gearwick…” Mama’s forehead creased more deeply. “A good family?”

“Very respected inventors, which is like being noble, there.”

“Hmm.” She was probably thinking, Not ideal, but better than nothing. But she was too well-bred to say any such thing. “We’ll be meeting her at the Gearwick cultural dance, then?”

“Of course,” Brook said. And as she watched her mother turn sharply, then go back into her own room, she muttered to herself, “Fuck.”

Brook tried to convince herself that she’d done nothing wrong. Plenty of times, she’d told her mother untruths about friends, lovers, whatever she needed to get Priscilla off her back. But this one felt… wrong. She tossed and turned all night, until the little pocket watch on her end table told her it was almost dawn. And then she got up, pulled on her clothes, and trudged her way through the early morning gray directly to Aisling’s stall.

Aisling was there, lining up pretty little cakes on her shelves. The smell from the ovens was divine, savory and rich—must’ve been the Copperford pies. Brook meant to try one of those. But first…

Aisling glanced over her shoulder, then her eyes widened.

“Apologies. Sorry. I, uh…” Brook stuttered, suddenly at a loss. Here Aisling was working toward her dream, toward defining herself outside of her family space, just like Brook should be. And Brook had come to ask her for something. Something very selfish, though she hadn’t thought of it that way before. “Would you ever consent to a fake engagement, Aisling?”

Chapter 4: Aisling

Aisling had no idea what she’d expected when Brook appeared in the wee hours, hair wild and eyes wide like she’d just been frightened out of sleep. But it most certainly had not been, “Would you ever consent to a fake engagement, Aisling?”

At first, Aisling felt a spike of disappointment. A fake engagement? After she’d tossed and turned last night, thinking of Brook’s kiss and the warm sensation it bloomed low in her belly; after she’d had to take care of the longing ache it left between her legs to get any sleep at all last night…

Aisling swallowed her initial urge to demand an explanation. She made herself turn her back on Brook and pop into the lower deck of the oven to check on the filling for today’s Copperford pies. It bubbled away merrily, nearly finished.

But Brook, leaning against the counter and watching Aisling work, said nothing more for long moments.

When Aisling finally calmed herself, she asked, voice tight, “What, exactly, would that entail? And why?”

“Well, to get my parents—my mother, really, to leave me alone,” Brook said quickly, almost too quickly to be fully understood. “I know we only just met, but it doesn’t need to mean anything—”

Aisling couldn’t help shooting her a sharp look.

Brook’s dark cheeks reddened, so at least she had that much grace. “Or it could! I do like you—or I wouldn’t ask. Just, I need to bring someone to the Gearwick cultural dance—”