Baker Thief

by Claudie Arseneault

  Livia had suggested contacting Val-de-mer’s mairesse early on. Denise Jalbert wasn’t only one of the most prominent politicians of these days, she was an old family friend. Claude remembered sitting in their living room, learning string tricks from her, his clumsy child fingers struggling to imitate her deft movements. She had worked closely with Claude’s father for years, before the threats to their family had pushed them to leave. Maybe she would listen to Claude and Livia, but what did they have to show her? Their only proof was Livia’s senses—a witch’s word—and even if Denise Jalbert believed them, as a mairesse her hands would be tied. She certainly hadn’t managed to curb the waves of violence against magic users in her city. No, if they wanted her help, they needed to have concrete proof. And since the factory couldn’t provide that, then perhaps they would have better luck with the start of the process. In order to force witches’ souls into exocores, Montrant Industries needed those witches. People were bound to have disappeared, and they hoped the witch community had noticed.

  Claude spotted their destination: a wine shop with a small hanging sign claiming Le Vin-Coeur in dark red cursive. They had walked across the city and followed the rue Saint-Phidéas as it wound its way up the hill on which most of the Quartier des Sorbiers was perched. Claude loved this area of Val-de-mer. All types of crafts lined the streets, from the most gorgeous paintings to the simplest wood carvings, including hand-dyed scarves and wool, and intricate bead art from the Yahnema community farther downriver. The Bernéais living here hailed from all over the world, and the neighbourhood thrived on their unending creativity. The Quartier des Sorbiers had always been a refuge for outsiders, and as such it had remained one of the main gathering spots for witches. Le Vin-Coeur sold wine and alcohol both local and imported, but it also served as a gateway to the hidden witch network.

  When they stepped into the tiny establishment, a single customer was paying for his bottle, chatting with the old lady behind the counter. Massive and frizzy grey hair framed her wrinkled and spotted face, and the dim light deepened her already dark skin. She laughed at her customer’s joke, an honest and throaty sound that immediately set Claude at ease. He had steered clear of the community over the last few years, getting his rare news from Zita’s visits, and diving back in now stressed him. It shouldn’t, there was no reason they wouldn’t be welcomed, but it had been long enough that he felt like a stranger in it.

  Livia obviously held no such worries: as soon as the customer left, she strode to the counter. “Excuse me, Madame?”

  “Oui?” The owner leaned forward, peering straight at Livia.

  “I’m looking for a special vintage. Château 1608. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  “Somehow, I knew this would be your kind of bottle the moment you passed my doorway,” she said. “Follow me. We keep them in the back.” Her gaze slid over Claude, and she smiled. “I assume you want the same?”

  “Please.”

  She heaved herself down her stool in stiff movements before muttering about bodies not being like fine wine when it came to age. Her pace was still brisk, though, and she led Livia and Claude down a row, into a backstore, and to a flight of stairs heading into a basement. “Can you find your way?”

  “It’s been a while, but we should manage. Right, Claude?”

  He was surprised she had even remembered the code to access this tunnel, considering how quickly he’d forgotten it. Livia’s memory had always been better than his, however. Whenever they tried to recall joint birthdays or other events, she provided so many details he was half-convinced she’d invented them. His mind instead retained random numbers with ridiculous ease. “I’ll blame you if we get lost.”

  The old lady laughed. “As long as it’s not me. Glad to see the Loureiro kids are back in town. Send your parents my regards when you next see them, will you?”

  “I will!” Livia chirped.

  Her warm tone jarred Claude—how had the owner known? Had he introduced himself when he’d last come here, years ago? He remembered her and the existence of a code, but no extensive conversations. Perhaps she’d known back then, too. His parents had always been popular figures: his dad as a politician, and his mother as a powerful witch, very active in the community. Claude had forgotten what that meant for his private life, and how many people knew he existed.

  A single round lamp at the top illuminated their way down and their bodies cast long shadows as they descended into progressive darkness. Claude kept a hand on the railing, his grip tightening with every resounding creaking under his steps. He was heavier than Livia, and the wooden planks were so rotten half of him was convinced they would give in under his weight. Once again, he found himself wishing for Claire’s clothes. The mask and cape helped manage his stress, like a permission to accomplish dangerous and sometimes illegal acts—like dressing up for an important interview, except more complicated, with an added layer of being himself that well-tailored outfits could never grant him. They were only here to gather information, however, and the outfit had to stay hidden. Perhaps if this was to last, he ought to explore feminine presentations that didn’t involve purple hair or the type of colourful, flowing skirts he had always favoured, even before he had stolen his first exocore.

  They reached a low doorway with no handles. Livia set her hand against it, and a soft blue glow traversed the wood, following its veins outward from her palm. Before long, the door shimmered from top to bottom and with a last flash, it vanished. Bright light flooded the corridor from beyond, forcing Claude to squint against it. Livia had to duck under the frame to continue on, and she winked back at Claude when she noticed he passed without leaning forward. He stuck his tongue at her and raised five fingers—the number of minutes he was born ahead of her. Her laugh was lost in the murmur of conversation from the room.

  The cave stretched in a half-circle, and its stone walls had been polished to a sheen. They reflected the greenish glow of mushrooms spread across the ceiling, shedding a soft light over the tables beneath. The space could fit about twenty, but a stone-brick corridor extended from the darkened area on the other end, even deeper into the hill. The rich inhabitants from the Quartier des Chênes often mocked the Quartier des Sorbiers as an anthill teeming with useless poets, but Claude doubted they understood how accurate their metaphor was.

  Zita waved at them from one of the tables, tiny arms stretched as far up as she could. His friend was built like a barrel: short and stocky and muscular, with a crown of short-cropped and curly hair, a flat nose, and a large mouth she typically had a hard time keeping shut. Everyone knew Zita couldn’t keep secrets. She was the community’s biggest gossip, and an invaluable source of information. Plus, her Seeker powers allowed her to track down almost any witch in town. If anyone could help them find missing people, it would be her.

  “Now that’s a surprise!” she exclaimed as Claude and Livia sat at her table. “Who would have thought Claude would visit me, instead of the other way around?”

  He threw a grin at her, as if it could hide part of the guilt. She teased him, but they could all see the truth in her words. Zita was his closest friend, yet if not for her weekly stops at the bakery, they would have lost sight of each other. He had always struggled to keep in touch with people who mattered.

  “Life is full of twists and turns,” he said.

  Zita cocked her head to the side, eyeing him. She must have seen right through his smile—more perceptive of her than she usually was. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I’m… mostly, yes. Why?”

  “That grin is tell-tale Claire, friend. I’ve told you, your smile changes depending on how masculine you feel. Not so much now, huh?”

  Claude laughed, and shook his head. He didn’t see his own smile often enough to tell, but Zita certainly would have. “Not so much, but I’m fine, I promise. How have you been?”

  “Super dandy! It’s calmer in the summer. People spend more time outside, enjoying the weather, and less inside, buried under six
feet of snow and writing letters to their families. I haven’t delivered much over the last few days.” She slid down her chair. “What brought you here?”

  “Questions,” Livia said. “We’re looking for something and thought you could help.”

  Zita’s eyes widened in curiosity. She jumped up with barely contained enthusiasm. “Let me get you a drink, then! And if we finish before your glasses are empty, we can just hang out. It’s been so long! They have some unique wine samples here—you ought to taste them, Livia. Claude, still no alcohol?”

  “Please.”

  Zita grinned and skipped away with a pleased “you got it”. Claude watched her head for the counter, drumming his fingers on the table. They had forgotten to discuss one important detail before coming here. “How much do we tell her?”

  “As little as we can.” Livia met his gaze. “I love Zita, but she can’t keep a secret from other witches. If we say anything about the exocores, everyone will know.”

  “Maybe that’s a good thing. They deserve to be warned.”

  “Yes, but against what? We still don’t understand how they do this, or what to watch for.” Livia shook her head. “I worry they will learn and be on their guard. Let’s inquire about disappearances and missing witches. The community will know something dangerous is happening, but we might avoid a panic.”

  Claude grunted in agreement. He had no real idea of how to go about this. His initial plan hadn’t gone past stealing the exocores and figuring out the source of his malaise. Now that he knew what had set him so ill at ease with these exocores, he had trouble forming concrete plans. The sheer awfulness of it all obliterated his thoughts. That’s why he needed Livia. Her calm and foresight would get them through.

  Zita returned with three glasses. Rich red wine filled hers and Livia’s, but she handed Claude a glass of clear yellow liquid.

  “Sparkly apple must! Alcohol free and delicious, from an orchard not an hour away from here.” She swirled her wine around, breathing it in. “All right, question time?”

  “Has the community grown smaller recently?” Claude asked, figuring it’d be a prudent formulation.

  “Witches are disappearing,” Livia added. So much for subtlety. “You talk to everyone, no? Noticed anything?”

  Zita frowned. “They’re just leaving, Livia. The climate here is downright hostile. All you hear is how we’re scum, a waste of space and resources, dangerous criminals driven to chaos by their powers. It hasn’t gotten better since you moved away.” She shifted her gaze to Claude, obviously expecting him to confirm it. When he said nothing, she pouted. “It’s the same exodus as fifteen years ago, except slower.”

  “Then where are they leaving for? Our community in Tereaus hasn’t grown. Do they have another haven?”

  “Maybe? I don’t know everyone’s whereabouts.”

  “Yes, you do.” Livia smirked. “You’re a Seeker, and the biggest gossip in Val-de-mer! Knowing these things is what you do.”

  Zita laughed and brought her fist over her heart. “You do me too much honour.”

  “Please. Think about it?” Claude asked. “They might not have seemed like violent disappearances, but something is wrong. We’re sure of that.”

  “You two are hiding something from me.” It wasn’t a question, and neither of them bothered denying it. Zita nibbled at her lower lip, her silence stretching as she considered his request. Her expression darkened as seconds flew by. “People are leaving Val-de-mer, more than usual. I’ve passed along several messages about sick loved ones, job opportunities in the countryside you can’t refuse, old friends suddenly coming in town during a roadtrip… It started months ago. Perhaps even years?”

  “And they never give news again?” Claude pressed her.

  “Let me think! It’s been a long time, and I suck at keeping track.”

  They fell silent. Livia and Claude sipped from their drinks while Zita very dramatically rubbed her temples while emitting thinky noises. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Claude couldn’t help but smile. He loved Zita’s expressiveness, and how she didn’t care for the ridicule. She was always herself, fully and completely.

  “You’re right,” Zita admitted after a moment. “Over the last two years, we lost contact with almost all of those who left the city. They don’t even send letters back.” She lifted her head and stared at both twins in turn. “What happened to them?”

  Worry laced her words. A heavy silence hung between the three of them. Livia stared at her wine, as if the rich liquid had become the most absorbing element in this entire room and letting Claude answer the awful question however he could.

  “We can’t say for now.” He would rather be honest. His lies sucked, anyway. Omission was the only way he could get away with secrets. “We’re not even sure. All we know is that it’s bad, and we need your help. All of it.”

  Zita leaned forward, hands wrapped around her glass, and held Claude’s gaze. “You don’t have to ask. I wish you’d tell me! But fine, keep it secret. Just promise I’ll be the first to learn of it once you unravel this.”

  “Promise,” Livia and Claude answered at once.

  “Then I know who you need to talk to.” Her tone had returned to its natural cheer. “Do you remember Clémence? The agender community organizer your mom often met with? Ol still does a lot for the community, and with so many people gone, ol has become an important point of contact. I gossip, but ol has everybody’s trust, and the real news. If something’s up, Clémence ought to know, and ol can probably help.”

  Not only that, but Clémence had asked Zita to deliver quite a few of the messages to now-vanished witches. Ol could help them track these even farther up until they found Montrant Industries. Zita promised to set up a meeting for them in two days’ time, and not-so-subtly reminded them they could always find her here, in this pub, if they decided to share more information. Once that was settled, they moved away from the disappearances to reminiscing about their teenage years together. At first it felt wrong—they shouldn’t play catch up while people went missing—but Claude forced himself to relax. Livia hadn’t been in Val-de-mer for years, and they could jump back into their mystery tomorrow. Besides, the night was still young, and there would be ample time to rescue more exocores after his chat with Zita.

  -6-

  LE NID FAMILIAL

  Adèle ran nervous fingers through her short hair once more, hoping she didn’t look in desperate need of a new cut. Her sister would never let her hear the end of it, and Adèle didn’t have the time or energy to freshen up. Besides, beautiful hair wouldn’t mask the bags under her eyes. Heavy make-up might, but the one woman in Adèle’s life skilled enough for such a feat was the very one she wished to hide her exhaustion from. Emmanuelle had warned Adèle not to move into the Quartier des Bouleaux’ neighbourhood, insisting that she instead take residence in her manor. Plenty of room for one’s little sister, she promised, but as much as Adèle loved Em, she needed her space—a place that belonged to no one else.

  Claire’s break-in had robbed her of that cocoon. Adèle had spent the last night waking up at the slightest sound, tensed, convinced another intruder had slipped inside her home. She devoted entire days to tracking down that thief, only to imagine her returning during her sleep. Adèle might have been calmer if their investigation had progressed, but they had no real leads. It had stalled quickly, and while her new coworkers didn’t give her a hard time over it, she knew they were assessing her skills in silence. She needed to succeed.

  Between proving her worth at work and rebuilding her trust in her cramped flat, the one place Adèle felt safe and unjudged was Claude’s little bakery. She had started arriving earlier to chat with him—fifteen minutes of meaningless, fun exchanges—and wished he was open in the late afternoon, when she passed his shop on the way back from the precinct. Flanking her day of work with these conversations would do wonders for her mood. Hopefully Em wouldn’t press the issue of Adèle’s tiredness and tonight would provide
a well-deserved break from the upheavals of the last week. Adèle replaced her rebel bang one last time, smoothed her blouse, and headed out.

  Summer had grown old, but evenings remained warm, shedding off the stifling humidity of Juillet and allowing Adèle to walk through the city without feeling like the air itself was trying to strangle her. She loved this period of the year. In a few weeks the leaves would turn all manner of yellow and red in a last burst of colour before winter. Adèle headed off, ignoring her vélocycle in favour of a stroll. She had ample time ahead of her, and Em had always preferred for people to show up a quarter hour late, rather than before. She relaxed more in that short extra walk than she had in the entire week, her quick stops at the Croissant-toi excluded—a good omen for the night, she hoped.

  Em lived at the edge of the Quartier des Mélèzes, where the fortification wrapped around wealthy manors—once a protection against invaders, now a screen from the other citizens dwelling a rock throw away. Two-storied houses with clean white walls and lush vines lined one side, while grimy low-roofed buildings of the Quartier des Saules hunched on the other. Unlike the Quartier des Chênes, the manors here had no large yard to accompany them, and the street names remained in Bernéais. This neighbourhood had been the home of Bernéais lawyers, doctors, and other liberal practitioners for decades—those few who had achieved wealth despite the obstacles before them.

  When set against the neighbouring residence, Em’s home was modest. It still dwarfed Adèle’s tiny apartment and left her with an uneasy sense of inadequacy. She would never be able to afford such a big house. Not that she really wanted to, but she wished she had the money to have the option. She could dream—most promotions in police corps required greasing palms, turning a blind eye on doctored reports, and keeping your mouth shut when asked. A manor like Em’s would cost Adèle more than a large amount of cash.