Page 2 of The Rake and the Cake

“Ah! Oh, by the light!” gasped a nearby voice.

“Apologies.” Brook slapped on a new metaphorical cloak now, this time one of courteous, noble charm. No magic needed. “I didn’t mean to—”

She paused mid-explanation when she saw who she’d startled. A short, deliciously plump red-headed elf in an apron that did very little to hide her stunning figure. Her large greenish-brown eyes were wide, her cleavage and curls were speckled with flour, and a long tail hovered over her shoulder, the spaded tip swishing back and forth.

Now here’s something to cheer me up, all right.

“No…” The short elf sighed and brushed a lock of shiny hair from her forehead, leaving a flour smear in its wake. “I should apologize. I was in my head, counting. Lovely magic.”

“Isn’t it?” Brook’s smile came more easily.

A smile played on the short elf’s lips too. She had clear skin, creamy and pinkish, glowing with health. And sweat. Whoever she was, she’d obviously been working very hard on something. “Seems like you don’t need me to tell you.” And the short elf turned around, as if to go back to what she was doing.

And then she actually did.

Brook, always up for a challenge, stepped up behind her, admiring the smooth curve of her tail. It looked strong, thicker as it neared her spine, where it disappeared into the folds of a swishy, plain but well-made skirt. Some body modifications, like Aldian’s never-ending tattoos, were for fun. Others had purpose, be it accessibility, euphoria, or convenience. Brook suspected this one was purposeful.

As she had the thought, it was proven accurate; the spaded tip of the tail whipped around the elf’s legs, wrapped around a burlap bag, and hoisted it into the air. With one hand, the elf stirred a heavy metal cauldron; with the other, she trickled something that looked like milk into it. Then the tail began shaking the bag, and flour fell from it in a gentle shower.

“Ah,” Brook said, still looking over the elf’s shoulder. “That’s what smells so good. You’re a baker.”

“Mmm,” seemed to be an affirmative reply.

“What’s your name, pretty baker?”

“Aisling,” she replied. And then flushed, as if she’d only just realized what Brook had called her. “I… um…” Her tail twitched, and a shower of flour fell into the dough unnoticed.

“I’m Brook,” she said quietly, so Aisling would need to lean in just slightly to make it out. “And I can’t help noticing you have an advantage over the other food vendors. Why haven’t I seen you here before?”

Aisling shook her head, tossing the loose curl out of her face. Then she went back to her dough, which was thick but sticky. “It’s my first year. Well, I had a little stall in the Glaesflod for a few years, but this year I’ve got—bigger.”

The last word was halting, as if it wasn’t what she’d really wanted to say.

Brook stepped around to see her face, but Aisling set down her flour sifting bag and her milk and turned away. “If you’ll excuse me, I must have a queue by now.” She covered the dough in its metal cauldron with a linen towel.

Brook watched her disappear into the stall, then walked around to the front of it. Sure enough, a line of hungry elves had formed in Aisling’s absence, however brief it’d been. Funny that she had the means to set up shop here—and from the look of that oven, it was a very complex and therefore very dear Gearwick magitech situation, all wheels and cogs and steam and charcoal—and yet not enough means to hire help.

Aisling smiled at her patrons, murmuring apologies for the wait and using that dexterous tail of hers to select paper-wrapped pies, cakes, and breads for them from a shelf. Her tail passed the little parcel into her hands, which unwrapped and placed them in a high-up rack in her oven. Then she whisked them back out and re-wrapped them with her hands while her tail was snagging the next baked good to go into the oven.

She was like one of those machines in the Innovation Awards, wheels and gears and metal that helped one elf do the work of two or three. Except it was just her, just this pretty Aisling and her strange oven and her flour-dusted cleavage.

Wait, no, the cleavage had nothing to do with it. It was just distracting, was all.

Brook joined the queue, stomach growling now she could smell the baking of dough, a sweet scent like berry preserves, and something savory and earthy she suspected was coming from the golden squares of bread. She watched the smiles on customers’ faces as Aisling called out orders—Forest mushroom fougasse! Jewelberry cloud cake!—and the way they enjoyed that first inhale of fresh-baked goodness.

By the time Brook reached the front of the queue, Aisling wore a charming little trickle of sweat near her right temple. Brook leaned against the counter indolently with one hip and said, “What do you recommend?”

Aisling replied as if by rote: “Savory or sweet?”

“Sweet,” Brook decided with a little smirk that she hoped would make it flirty.

“Cloud cake. I have jewelberry every day, and today’s special is stone fruit. It’s very bright-tasting, so it pairs well with the cake.” Aisling pursed her full, pink lips.

Brook didn’t bother pretending not to stare at them. “And that’s what you named your stall after? The cloud cake?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never heard of it.” She finally lifted her gaze to meet Aisling’s lovely, large eyes again.