The Rake and the Cake (Marriage Market Misadventures #4)

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.

“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.