Page 1 of The Rake and the Cake

Chapter 1: Brook

“Please, if I end up sitting around with Aldian and his guards again, I’ll die of brain freeze,” Brook insisted. Her cousin might be the heir to the throne of Emberleigh, but, “All he talks about are tattoos and beer.”

“Words cannot possibly express how little I care, Britheue,” said her mother, stubbornly defaulting to her full, royal name, as usual.

Though she preferred to go by her childhood nickname, Brook didn’t mind her full name. She would’ve changed it on her Name Day if she had. Unfortunately, Mama made it sound like some kind of angry oath, not the name of an elf from the house of Fyreham-Graymalkin.

Brook composed her face, pressing her lips into a tight, noncommittal line. Mama could sense irony, and she rarely approved of it. At least, not in anyone but herself.

“You will not be sitting around with Aldian and his guards,” Mama said. “You’ve already missed one opportunity by disappearing right after the opening ceremonies. From now on, when you are not attending the cultural events—and yes, I do mean each and every dance—you will be at the Market Pavillion searching for an appropriate match.”

“Unless there’s someone you haven’t told us about,” Papa interrupted from behind his cloud of pipe smoke.

Brook leaned her elbow on the table and sighed. She was drowning and Father was holding out a branch for her to grab. But she couldn’t even do that.

“Oh, finding a lover is easy. Keeping them takes effort,” Mama said.

Brook couldn’t even be annoyed. It was true. And why put forth the effort if you don’t really want to keep them, anyhow?

Father set down his gossip broadsheet and looked at her expectantly. “You have something to tell us?”

Every year, every single goddess-cursed year since her Name Day, Brook’s mother had pestered her to find a good match just like her perfect brother had. She should settle down and strengthen ties with other noble families, but any well-born elf would satisfy Priscilla Fyreham-Graymalkin at this point in her errant daughter’s existence.

“You know she doesn’t,” Mama said quietly.

Papa picked up his broadsheet once more. “What about this Raylen of Moonscliffe? You know him, don’t you?”

Brook nodded. “He’s not the marrying type.”

“Says here he is.”

Brook leaned in to read over his shoulder. Was it true? Was the heroic, handsome archer finally ready to settle down? Was he finally tired of a life of fame and fortune?

Heh. Not likely.

“It’s time to get serious,” Mama cut in.

Brook winced. “May I be excused? I should get ready if I’m going to the games today.”

Mother nodded magnanimously. Papa looked over the top of his paper significantly, as if trying to communicate something important.

Brook didn’t bother trying to decode this silent message. Unlike her old friend Raylen, she had no real skills of her own. Having been educated to be nothing but a noble wife, she relied on her family for… everything. She’d meant to find a job, chase a passion, do something useful and make her way in the world herself, really she had. But she kept getting distracted by parties and music and pretty elves, and that wasn’t Brook’s fault. There were a lot of pretty elves in Emberleigh. And a lot of good parties. And the music!

… Okay. She really had to figure something out this year.

While Raylen never seemed like the marrying type, he was the type to help a friend out of a bind. If this story about him being in search of a match at this year’s market was just a rumor, maybe he’d be willing to join forces. A fake engagement for the duration of the market, or maybe a little longer, and then a staged break up? He was usually game—and charming enough to pull it off.

With this thought in mind, Brook reached out for her magic, pulled the shadows around her, and murmured a spell to bend the light. She’d perfected her disappearing act as a child hiding from boring parties and royal events. It’d taken some getting used to, since being able to feel her own body in space but not see it had been a challenge. Mama had found nannies with keen magical senses once she realized what Brook was up to, but that just made the game more fun.

She slipped into the market, skirting her way invisibly through the crowds with their wagons, bags, food, treasures, money, contracts, and a million other things for which elves flocked to the Midsummer market. Her extra caution was rewarded when she spied a particularly vocal ex-lover in the crowd—one of the idiotic royal guards who was sure to make a scene.

She took a clockwise path, dancing along the edges of Inventor’s Row and its Gearwick aura of industry and innovation. She lingered to watch a cute elf demonstrate a fabulous clockwork multi-timer to some gobsmacked potential patrons. Then she moved southward, admiring some of the less-crowded gift and clothing stalls, eying pretty scarves and flashing jewels and other beautiful things.

She’d had over forty years of dilly-dallying, shirking duty, and enjoying all the beautiful things (and elves) Everend had to offer. Now it seemed it had finally caught up to her.

Brook shook the thought off and continued on her circuit, eyes peeled for Raylen—goddess knew he was hard to miss. If she didn’t find him now, he might be at the archery butts later in the day for practice. She could always send a magical missive, but she needed the walk, the buzz of the crowd, the colors of the wares, the smells of the apothecaries’ herbs and oils. It soothed her to be among so many elves without drawing focus. Without being perceived.

As she started up the northward path, the scents of various delicacies, some she’d never get in Emberleigh, some that gave her a nostalgic stomach-clench, slowed her down again. She hadn’t eaten breakfast in her hurry to escape the inn. She tucked around the side of one of the stalls, as out of view as she could, and dropped her magical, light-bending cloak.