Chapter 7 Sylvie #2
“I’m glad you like it. It’s his whole life. And he never even planned to be a farmer.”
“No?”
That shocked Sylvie.
Arla shook her head.
“No. That was his fiancée’s idea.”
“Fiancée?”
Sylvie’s stomach dropped, a cold, heavy stone settling in her gut.
“Yes.” Arla hesitated. “It’s complicated. They were young. In love, probably. Her family had more money than sense and sponsored her… pursuits.”
A faint edge crept into Arla’s voice.
“Rhavor wanted her happy.”
Sylvie stayed very still, her chest tightening.
“But farm life didn’t align with her spiritual calendar,” Arla added dryly. “She wasn’t an early riser either. Goats don’t wait for your energy to align with the universe for milking. Chickens don’t manifest their own corn through the power of positive thinking.”
Sylvie snorted despite herself.
“She left,” Arla finished simply. “And he didn’t take it well. Dragons are hoarders, Sylvie. When they attach, they attach. Their mate is their most precious hoard.”
“Do they lock you indoors?” Sylvie asked before she could stop herself.
Arla laughed outright.
“No. It means when they choose a mate, they bond for life.”
“They guard, and they build around you, and they never forget.”
That felt worse somehow.
The idea of Rhavor—big, powerful, brooding Rhavor—being abandoned by the person he had chosen as his “hoard.” Sylvie found herself unexpectedly, inconveniently sorry for him.
Before she could ask anything else, Arla clapped her hands sharply, the sound echoing in the empty shop.
“Right. Marco. Curtains first. Coffee second. Move it!”
***
After Arla left, taking her boom of energy with her, the shop turned quiet again.
Sylvie stood still for a moment, her mind looping back to what the orc had said about dragons hoarding and bonding for life. Keeping things strictly professional between her and Rhavor was becoming increasingly theoretical.
She felt a low curl in her belly—warm, unresting, and dangerously liquid.
She knew, with unsettling clarity, that she would never want to hurt Rhavor. Which meant she needed to tread carefully. Very carefully.
She had to navigate this constant urge to… well, to find out exactly what was under those flannel shirts.
“You’re not helping,” she muttered at Fred.
The lavender-shaded unicorn only stared into the abyss with one slightly crossed eye, offering absolutely nothing in the way of emotional support.
She exhaled and began clearing the last of Seth’s abandoned curiosities from the shelves. Half the items she didn’t even recognize and preferred not to examine too closely in case they sneezed glitter or summoned a genie with a union contract.
She stacked them into a box, shoved the lid down, and taped it shut, just in case.
When she’d secured the shop, she’d worried she’d outbid someone local, but Arla had assured her the Town Council had practically shoved the contract into her hands.
They wanted to attract more humans to Honeybay.
They wanted the town to grow. And they’d been impressed by the patisseries she’d run in the city.
She’d even agreed to take on an apprentice. Once the bakery was fully operational, she’d need the extra hands.
She’d heard a lot about the traditional methods the Others used, and she was fascinated by open-flame baking techniques where structure was coaxed from raw heat.
Dragons had perfected it, of course.
Now that she had a wood-fired oven of her own, she might as well use it.
She suspected Rhavor would appreciate that kind of craft.
Not that I would ever bake anything specifically for him, she told herself firmly, shoving the box into a corner with more force than necessary.
The fact that she was even considering what an infuriating dragon with attachment tendencies and glowing amber eyes might appreciate was entirely unreasonable.
She needed air.
Outside, the morning was bright and deceptively calm. Sunlight spilled across Honeybay in warm, golden stripes—the kind of light that made everything look like a postcard.
The lines of trees planted along the well-maintained street cast a pleasant, dappled shade over the walkway.
The air smelled faintly of salt, the heavy floral hit of early-summer blooms.
She made her way down the main street, passing a small square with a stone fountain at its center. At the top, a stone faun held a shell in a… very strategic position while water spilled over polished stone. It looked suspiciously like the man who had applied for her job.
The street was buzzing, and Sylvie tried not to stare, but her gaze kept snagging on the locals.
A minotaur in shorts and a T-shirt that read BULL’S EYE strolled by, hand in hand with a willowy elf. They gave her a polite nod, and she found herself smiling back.
As she neared a small bookshop, the sky began to bruise.
She ducked inside just as low, heavy clouds rolled in.
She’d come in hoping to find something on baking with raw flame.
Just as she crossed the doors, she stopped.
This place didn’t look like any bookshop she knew.
The shelves with books weren’t arranged by genre. Or author. Or even alphabetically. They were arranged by color. A full, vibrating rainbow wrapped around the shop like it had been curated by someone with a very enthusiastic, very specific case of obsessive-compulsive disorder.
How do you even find anything? she murmured to herself.
A massive figure emerged from behind a shelf—skin a deep slate blue, hair thick and dark. A troll. He loomed over the counter, his presence filling the room with a sense of solid, unmovable weight.
“How can I help?” he rumbled, his voice like river stones grinding together.
“I’m just looking,” Sylvie said, blinking.
“I hope you like the arrangement,” he said proudly. “Everything is cataloged by RAL color code.”
He puffed out his chest, looking immensely pleased with himself.
“It’s... interesting,” she managed, her eyes tracking from a shelf of “Dusty Rose” to “Signal Blue.”
“If you need anything specific, I can tell you exactly where it is. I have the hex codes memorized.”
She believed him. He was currently swapping two books on the shelf so their shades aligned perfectly with their neighbors.
Sylvie frowned thoughtfully. The whole point of browsing in a bookshop was to let a book find you, but this rainbow-coded logic made that almost impossible unless you brought a color swatch and a guide. Still, she gave it a shot.
“I’m looking for something about... traditions. Folklore. Baking history, maybe?”
The troll scratched his chin, the sound like sandpaper on wood. “Ah. That will be RAL 1002 through to 2007. The amber section.”
He pointed decisively toward a dignified, orange corner of the shop. She had just reached the indicated shelf when the bell above the door chimed again. A small, bulky man wandered in, looking like he’d just come from a workshop.
“Hi, Bobby,” the troll rumbled from behind the counter. “Same as usual?”
Sylvie blinked. Was she in a pub or a bookstore?
“Yes,” the man replied easily, leaning against the counter. “I need the next one in the Blooming Baking series.”
“And what are we attempting this week?” the troll asked with a touch of pity.
Bobby shrugged, a sheepish smile touching his face. “I want to try something dragon-made. The impish macarons exploded on me—I followed the recipe exactly, but they’re... volatile. My kitchen still smells of sulfur and burnt sugar.”
“Which is why I keep telling you to try something human,” the troll said, casting a brief, wary glance toward Sylvie. “Their physics are much more predictable.”
Bobby snorted. “Eh. Not sure. Their recipes are a bit... beige. Not very exciting.”
Sylvie bit back a smile and turned to scan the shelf. One title caught her eye immediately: 101 Ways to Work the Flame.
It sounded suspiciously like a dragon-themed Kama Sutra. She reached for it.
“Oh! That’s a dragon’s fire-handling manual. A very special edition,” the troll called from across the shop. “Quite rare, actually. Only one edition was ever printed.”
She hadn’t noticed Bobby appear beside her, his eyes locked on the book like it held the answer to the meaning of life.
“That’s exactly what I was looking for,” he said, his voice eager. “I need to understand the heat displacement.”
Sylvie felt a sharp spike of competitiveness and drew the book slightly closer to her chest. “I’m sorry,” she said, polite but firm. “I’m taking this one.”
His face fell, and he looked like a puppy who had just been told the park was closed.
“I heard you’re into baking?” she asked, trying to soften the blow.
“Oh, yes!” His gloom evaporated instantly. “It’s my passion. Well, my new passion.”
“He used to be a blacksmith,” the troll interjected, leaning over the counter. “Now he tempers chocolate instead of steel and browses for instructions to improve his spatula skills. It’s a tragedy, really.”
“I prefer the rolling pin,” Bobby shot back, a playful glint in his eye. “And I know how to use it. Don’t test me, Barnaby.”
The troll snorted, a sound like a steam vent.
Sylvie stepped smoothly between them before they started hurling culinary insults like seasoned pastry chefs. “I’m opening a bakery in Honeybay,” she said. “And I’m looking for an apprentice.”
Bobby’s expression bloomed like he’d just been handed a golden whisk.
“That’s blooming fantastic! I’m Bobby.” He was already practically vibrating with excitement.
“I just learned how to make the best impish macarons. Mostly. If you don’t mind the occasional bang.
” He wasted no time on self-advertising.
“You’d have to make human pastries too,” she warned, holding his gaze. “Sugar, butter, flour. No explosions allowed.”
“That’s fine! I love human pastries. I just never had the chance to learn properly from someone who knows what they’re doing.”
“Great,” Sylvie said, a sense of relief washing over her. “Welcome aboard, Bobby.”
His grin nearly split his face. He turned to the troll and shouted, “Give me something human—that calls for celebration!”
“That would be RAL 6015 to 7005,” the troll murmured, scratching his head.
When Sylvie stepped back onto the street, the rare book tucked securely under her arm, she let out a long breath and looked up at the darkening sky. The first drops began to fall—cool and sharp against her flushed cheeks.
The last forty-eight hours had brought her two new employees, an enchanted unicorn with an attitude problem, and one very annoying, very hot dragon with a complicated past and deeply inconvenient hoarding instincts.
Her quiet new start was officially a chaotic mess.
And she hadn’t even turned on the ovens yet.
God help me, she thought, a small, reckless smile tugging at her lips. I think I’m going to like it here.