Baker Thief

by Claudie Arseneault

  “We should move to Em’s manor,” she’d concluded, and, although Claude had looked like he wanted to sleep for days before he returned to the fight, he’d agreed with a tired nod.

  He hadn’t retrieved Claire’s typical outfit, preferring to disappear into his room to grab a clean shirt and brown wool pants. When he reemerged, he had his hair tied in his usual low ponytail, and Adèle couldn’t fathom how she’d missed the body shape resemblance between her favourite baker and the thief she was searching for. Same soft arms, thick thighs, and roundness at the waist, but Claire’s postures had always stayed more defiant, exuding confidence instead of a welcoming gentleness.

  “I don’t have the energy to deal with what the wrong presentation will do to my mind,” he’d said. “This is a private group. I’ll have to trust that all of them can keep a secret.”

  “One of them is a journalist,” she’d pointed out.

  Claude had laughed. “You’d be surprised how much they hide compared to what they publish.”

  And they’d headed out, Claude locking the bakery with a wistful sigh. He’d seemed better than when she had first arrived at the Croissant-toi—more himself, and more in control. Then again, that wasn’t too difficult: he had crumpled in her arms almost immediately. Each smile and jest still felt forced, but she’d noticed that before their non-date. No amount of sleep would cure his bone-deep exhaustion until they’d rescued Livia. Only then would he start to heal.

  Em’s manor was a welcome sight to Adèle’s tired heart. Most of the windows remained dark, and she wondered if Em had kept it like this on purpose. In theory, she lived alone. A dozen witches and Koyani’s unit staying at her place wouldn’t go unnoticed for long, but they only needed discretion to last for a day longer—hopefully, anyway. When Adèle started around the back, Claude caught her arm to stop her, mischief shining in his eyes. “Let’s take my usual path.”

  Before she could protest, he swept her off her feet and leaped up. She yelped in surprise and clung to him, laughing as they landed on the balcony with ease. Claude set her back down and she pulled on her clothes, the uniform still dirty from rolling on the ground with Élise. At least Em had spare outfits since the warehouse, and a warm bath to offer.

  “No wonder you like it so much,” she said. “What now? We bust the door without warning?”

  “Just because you call it breaking and entering doesn’t mean I really need to break things,” he quipped. “I tried to leave all non-exocore property intact. Besides, Em leaves this particular balcony unlocked. Someone should probably tell her.”

  He slid the door open and walked into the house as if it belonged to him. Adèle couldn’t help but grin—how often had she railed against that very attitude? She quickly took the lead, heading towards the kitchens. The small plate of cheese and delicatessen hadn’t fulfilled her hunger, and, at this time of the day, she suspected most of the guests would be finishing their dinner. She smiled as they passed several bedrooms with their doors open and obvious signs of habitation. The manor had felt so empty on her first visit, and Emmanuelle loved to play host. She must be enjoying this spontaneous occupation, despite all the risks it involved.

  Zita’s loud laughter echoed down the corridor, breaking the comfortable silence between Claude and Adèle. They caught hints of other voices, but the walls muffled the actual conversation. They both sped their pace without a word, their smiles growing with the noise coming from the dining room. Adèle reached the imposing double doors leading in, eager to join up with the group, but Claude’s deep and steadying breath as she turned the handle froze her. When she met his gaze, he gestured for her to go on.

  “I’m good.”

  She didn’t need more. Adèle pushed the great door open and stepped into the dining room. The long table which had seemed so large on her first visit was now filled with plates, glasses, and even a handful of extra chairs. Between Koyani’s unit and the witches, people were eating elbow-to-elbow, chatting eagerly. The extra chairs were all in the same rich wood and red cushion aesthetic—Em wouldn’t break the pattern, after all. At one end of the table, Celosia and another older witch had been granted more space. The conversations died down as people noticed them, and Emmanuelle jumped to her feet.

  “Adèle!” She was striding around the table within seconds, holding her skirts up for better movement until she could wrap her sister in a hug. Adèle returned the affectionate gesture with a grin. After a brief, tighter squeeze, Em released her and turned to the company. “And you’re… oh!”

  “We’ve met,” Claude answered smoothly, extending his hand. “I own the Croissant-toi. Adèle drops by nearly every day.” And then, after a slight pause, “Sorry for that night I burst into your room to ask about science.”

  Emmanuelle chuckled and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, guiding him towards the table. “No apologies needed. That was almost as thrilling as the first time my burner prototype worked! Now, what can I do for you? I’m afraid we have no fresh croissants, but I made delicious tourtière if you’re hungry.”

  “I’m hungry,” Adèle piped in, triggering laughter from the table.

  Before long, they were both seated with everyone else. Adèle squeezed between Em and Koyani, while Claude had wound up across from her, next to Zita. Adèle chomped down on the tourtière with enthusiasm, shoving potatoes and crust into her mouth shamelessly. It had been difficult to eat before leaving this morning, and except for small bits at Claude’s she hadn’t had a chance since. Besides, she always had room for tourtière and was more than happy to listen rather than talk.

  Koyani was leading the conversation, and the plate in front of her had been replaced by a list of names. She had reviewed most of Val-de-mer’s notable figures from politics and law enforcement with Nsia Kouna’s help, filing them into three columns: safe, unknown, and unsafe. A few names in the “unsafe” column had been crossed out, while others considered safe had wide circles around them. One of the latter was the mairesse’s, and Claude didn’t fail to notice.

  “Mairesse Denise Jalbert is an old family friend,” he said. “Did you have plans to talk to her?”

  “We did.” Koyani tapped her name—with a dark blue finger, Adèle noticed, from a different prosthetic. She’d found a way to remove the exocore-powered one, then. “She is also the impulse behind my unit. I have a high opinion of her, and Mx. Kouna had nothing to indicate this should change. I think she would listen and help.”

  “Agreed. I can talk to her tonight.” He set his fork down with a small laugh. “Who needs a full night’s sleep anyway?”

  A sharp cough down the table interrupted them, and Adèle shrank back into her seat when faced with Docteure Adaho’s glare. “You do. I was given to understand you might have been shot. And how are your palms? Burns don’t cease hurting overnight.”

  Claude immediately hid his hands under the table, and although he looked thoroughly chastised, it didn’t stop him from countering with “Exocores don’t save themselves either, sorry!”

  “I could talk to her for you,” Zita said. “I’ve met her once, and so if I name you…”

  “No. You… you’ll be needed elsewhere.” His face dropped and he met Zita’s gaze. “I promised Clémence help in exchange for the information we have now. You were right about ol—they were keeping ol in check with ols little brother. The moment Montrant Industries realizes ol’s helped us, however… We shouldn’t waste any time. Clémence thought you’d be able to find the boy?”

  “I knew it! I knew they had something on ol, and when Élise mentioned family…” Her voice trailed off, horror stealing the rest of her words. Claude wondered how well she knew Clémence’s brother, or if she’d played with him in the past. Zita’s silence became contagious, and soon the entire table was watching her and Claude. Adèle shifted in her seat, unsure what to say. They couldn’t risk a child’s life, but how could they do anything if Zita couldn’t find him? Koyani set a hand over Zita’s forearm.

  “Sounds
like we have another rescue ahead of us, Paddlefish. Do you think this one will involve broken elevators?”

  “Capitaine Koyani…”

  Zuri Adaho started her protest, but Koyani interrupted with a raised palm. Even sitting, a tiny woman at a large table, she commanded attention. “I appreciate your concern, docteure, but my arm is fine. There is a child to protect. Marcel, Inha, you’re coming with me. Adèle, Yuri, I would rather have you stay, in case Montrant Industries catches up to our whereabouts. With Élise here, I have doubts, but someone has to keep watch.”

  Adèle gritted her teeth, bitterness roiling at the bottom of her stomach. She knew she was being set aside, even though Koyani had reasons to back her order. And it made sense for her to stay: she still hadn’t recovered from her gunshot, the day had been long and difficult, and this was her sister’s manor. Yet she had wanted to go—to remain with the action and make herself useful—and the rebuttal stung. She turned back to her food as other witches volunteered and Koyani formed a small team from them. Adèle sulked, playing with her potato, knowing she was being childish but unable to stop herself. Em nudged her forearm and leaned forward.

  “Don’t let your boss see the pouty face,” she said, “and come on, this means you’ll be here with Claude most of the night. He’s not going to chat with the old Spinster till dawn.”

  Adèle glanced at him, watching him silently pick at his tourtière while Koyani and Zita built rescue plans. He seemed just as disappointed at not taking part as she was, but when their gaze met he smiled. She blushed, smiled back… then heard Emmanuelle snicker right beside her. When it occurred to Adèle what two people sexually attracted to one another might consider doing with a night alone, Adèle grew red and shoved her sister.

  “We both need rest, not sex!” she protested.

  “Then cuddle up,” Em said, showing her hands in mock innocence. “You do what you want, soeurette.”

  Claude was staring at them from right across the table—nowhere near far enough for him not to have heard the entire exchange. Eyebrows raised, his smile barely contained, he said, “I’m sure Docteure Adaho would agree with that assessment.”

  “I do,” she said.

  And if she had heard this conversation, it meant half the table had, too. Adèle groaned, then snatched her glass of wine off the table. “Hey, great bottle, huh? How about we all start discussing that instead? Em’s taste in wine and décor and just about everything would make a way better topic.”

  It earned her a slew of laughter, but they did change subject after that. Adèle mouthed “I’m sorry” at Claude from across the table, but he shrugged it off with a smile. No blush, just a calm smirk acknowledging he had been thinking about it. She kept drinking, paying little heed to the conversations around her, which went from serious plans against Montrant to casual gossip about the next tournoi, including a long debate on the science behind exocores. As much as she wanted to be involved in the fight, it felt good to leave the talk to others for tonight, while she daydreamed of sleep and cuddles. She and Claude had earned a break.

  * * *

  By the end of the dinner, Claude’s thin reserve of energy had been drained. He didn’t remember when he’d last talked to so many different people at once, and the way the conversation had inevitably returned to Montrant Industries or his thieving nights didn’t help. He’d known he would be the centre of attention and had tried to mentally prepare for it, yet, when Koyani and her small rescue team excused themselves to finalize their plans in another room, he sighed in relief. Six less people staring at him, and a little break from Zita’s boisterous enthusiasm. He loved his friend, but right now he’d give a lot for some peace and quiet.

  Docteure Adaho made him promise not to leave for the mairesse’s office without a medical examination, then she declared she needed to corner Capitaine Koyani and exited, mumbling something about everyone in this household being way too eager to power through injuries. Emmanuelle forced Adèle to head to bed when it became evident she was hitting nails in her chair, and before Claude had quite realized it everyone had vanished except Nsia Kouna and him. The journalist had a long pad in front of them already covered in notes. They continued scribbling in silence until Claude rose to leave. Their head snapped up and they smiled, obviously preparing their request. Claude cut them off.

  “No interview. Or anything of the sort.”

  Mx. Kouna’s expression twitched but remained pleasant. “I can understand, though I would have loved to hear how this started on your end. It seems highly unlikely that suspicious money trails and paperwork tipped you off.” They flipped their pencil as they spoke, then stored it in a front pocket with a flourish and stood. “I have the utmost respect for your need for privacy and rest, however, and will hold my questions back. No… I wanted to thank you for blowing this story open, and answer any questions you might have.”

  Claude stared, taken aback by Kouna’s lack of insistence. Respect for privacy had never seemed high on the list of most journalists’ priorities, but perhaps the circumstances warranted it. Slowly, he nodded. “I could benefit from a quick rundown on the politics behind this, especially if I’m to talk with Denise. Care for some fresh air?”

  The dinner room had grown stuffy, and he’d rather enjoy the rare summer nights remaining. Kouna agreed, and they even took a small detour by their room to leave the pad there. No notes, then. Claude relaxed—perhaps Kouna had indeed no professional interest in this. They threaded through the house in silence, as discreetly as they could, but as Claude slipped into the cool night he opened up.

  “I do have personal reasons,” he said. “Although I had started stealing the exocores long before they came into play. I could feel something off about them.”

  “Instincts rarely lie.” Nsia’s leisurely pace allowed Claude to keep up without struggling despite their long strides. Their entire body language exuded calm, as if nothing could unsettle them, and that eased him further. “You should know that I will not publish any information you wouldn’t want me to. Sometimes my job is to get to the bottom of a story and expose the whole truth, but more often still it is to shed a harsh light on terrible stories while wrapping its victims in protective shadows. I would rather stay an obscure journalist with no prizes to their name than bring more pain and danger to your door with a public profile.”

  “You’re a good egg.” Part of Claude had wanted to quip about finding a rare journalist with a sense of ethics, but intense relief weakened his legs and stole his words, leaving only his mother’s. “You’re a good egg,” she’d say whenever he’d gone along with Livia’s complicated schemes to keep her safe, and she always followed it with “one day it’ll get you into more trouble than you can handle”. She’d been right.

  “Thank you?” Kouna answered with a hint of confusion. One of Em’s cats tried to dart between their legs then, and they scooped him up with ease, bringing the fluffy creature at eye level. “Hello, gorgeous. Have I drawn you yet? How many of you are there?”

  “Six.” Adèle had described each of them in great details over coffee, one morning. Claude reached out to scratch the kitty’s head. He was all black, with a white stain on his chest and another above his nose. “This is Gravity, I think.”

  The cat struggled against Kouna, obviously already tired of the brief kitty love received. They put him down. “Good name. He sure wanted to return to the ground fast.”

  Gravity darted away, disappearing inside through the little cat trap. Claude sighed. He would rather have petted Gravity for hours than return to the task at hand.

  “All right.” He clapped his hands, as if the movement could summon motivation. “Run me through the politics behind this. I know parts of who’s who—my mother used to be involved—but I’m rusty. Then we can browse what you received for the most adequate proof to show the mairesse.”

  Nsia Kouna chuckled. “Should have brought my pad after all. These networks are better understood with charts and snide commentary. But here we
go.”

  The journalist started at the top, with the information they had on Gouverneure Lacroix and which could confirm what Claude had overheard in the labs. They continued from there to the political figures more specific to Val-de-mer, and Kouna highlighted names, systems, and cliques. Memories of family dinner drifted back to the forefront of Claude’s mind. How often had his parents discussed these same people? And in the last weeks before they had left for Tereaus, to join the thousands of witches who’d sought safety for themselves and their families, the topic had always revolved around who was safe, and who should never be trusted. Claude hadn’t paid attention to the details—how could he have predicted he’d benefit from the information later? When his parents had left, he’d been glad to vanish from public life and to the tranquility of his bakery. He hoped this dip back into it would come to an end soon, and that the correct proportion of butter and salt in his dough could once more become his main source of concern.

  -27-

  VIEILLE FILLE,

  NOUVELLE TOILE

  Mairesse Jalbert was rarely called by her proper name outside of official spaces, and sometimes not even within them. Inhabitants of Val-de-mer’s nine quartiers had long since adopted her nickname as an affectionate term: she was the Spinster, dubbed this way by political opponents eager to paint her as an old crooked lady without a husband or children and, as such, unworthy of trust. It hadn’t worked—rather, Denise Jalbert had made it work… in her favour.

  Campaigning on the imagery of a social security web and the capture of corrupted parasites, Denise Jalbert had demonstrated lone spiders could reach out and benefit many. It had taken countless knitting circles and a stubborn pride in herself, but her message had resonated loud and clear. Her web was benevolent; her lack of family proof that a woman’s worth was not defined by children or partner. She had won her elections in a landslide and never lost since.