by Claire Luana
The Confectioner Chronicles
Claire Luana
Contents
Volume 1
The Confectioner’s Guild
Western Reaches Map
Maradis Map
1. Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Volume 2
The Confectioner’s Exile
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
16. Epilogue
Volume 3
The Confectioner’s Coup
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Volume 4
The Confectioner’s Truth
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
50. Epilogue
From the Author
About the Author
Also by Claire Luana
The Confectioner’s Guild
Copyright © 2018 by Claire Luana
Published by Live Edge Publishing
Paperback ISBN: 978–0-9977018–9-0
eBook ISBN: 978–0-9977018–8-3
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the author.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover Design: Bookfly Design
Interior Formatting: Integrity Formatting
Editing: Amy McNulty
A magic cupcake. A culinary killer. The perfect recipe for murder.
Wren knew her sweet treats could work wonders, but she never knew they could work magic. She barely has time to wrap her head around the stunning revelation when the head of the prestigious Confectioner’s Guild falls down dead before her. Poisoned by her cupcake.
Now facing murder charges in a magical world she doesn’t understand, Wren must discover the true killer or face the headsman’s axe. With the help of a handsome inspector and several new friends, Wren just might manage to learn the ropes, master her new powers, and find out who framed her. But when their search for clues leads to a deep-rooted conspiracy that goes all the way to the top, she realizes that the guild master isn’t the only one at risk of death by chocolate.
If Wren can’t bring the powerful culprit to justice, she and her friends will meet a bittersweet end.
The Confectioner’s Guild is a delicious YA fantasy mystery. If you like spunky chefs and twisty mysteries with a drizzle of romance, then Claire Luana’s scrumptious tale is sure to satisfy your sweet tooth.
Chapter 1
Wren had learned early on that trouble comes in all sorts of packages. Even vanilla ones with rose petal frosting.
“Tell me about these cupcakes,” a cold voice demanded from the storefront.
Wren froze on her stool, her ears perked to listen, the cocoa bean she held in her hand forgotten.
“What would you like to know?” asked Master Oldrick, his tone light but wary.
“Everything.”
Wren set down her husking knife on the worktable with the rest of the cracked beans, wiping her hands on her streaked apron. She wanted a look at this customer. She crept across the worn tiles of the kitchen and slowly slid open one of the doors leading to the display case in the front room of Master Oldrick’s confectionery shop. A wave of cold air hit her, the ice that lined the case chilling her face as well as the chocolates. It was a blessed respite from the stickiness of the kitchen, where the air hung limp in August’s hot breath.
Master Oldrick was babbling about the cupcakes now, clearly unsure of the nature of the man’s interest. “True, cupcakes are the territory of the Baker’s Guild, but I’ve some friends in that guild, and they don’t mind us having a little fun with the cupcakes. It’s the frosting that sets ours apart. Pure confectional art. The frosting on this one’s so like a rose that you can practically smell its perfume. The ladies love them—they fly off the shelves.”
> The customer was a stranger, but the cupcake in his hand was not. It was one of Wren’s. Only she could pipe the frosting just right, each petal like a rosy-hued sunset. Master Oldrick’s arthritis was far too bad for him to perform such delicate work, and the other apprentices, Tate and Hazel, were all right for rolling truffle balls and stirring caramel, but they lacked her steady hand with a piping bag, despite being a few months younger than her sixteen years. Each of those cupcakes had taken her ten minutes to decorate, ten minutes scrunched over the countertop as beads of sweat dribbled down her knees and elbows.
Master Oldrick was continuing his detailed exposition of the cupcakes’ finer features, discussing the third-generation ownership of the mill they purchased flour from, the fine sugar imported from Aprica, the fresh cream skimmed off the milk of dairy cows who enjoyed only the finest pastureland below the foothills of Mount Luminis.
The customer held up a hand and Master Oldrick fell silent. Wren narrowed her eyes. Who was this man, and what was his interest in the cupcakes?
“Who made the cupcakes?” the man demanded.
“Ahh,” Master Oldrick said nervously. “My apprentice Wren,” he said, rubbing his neck with a gnarled hand. His gaze flicked to the far display case, where Wren peeked out between the rows of caramels and chocolate chews.
The man turned and his eyes, steely blue above the high collar of his navy coat, met hers. “I’ll speak with this Wren.”
“I’ll fetch her,” Master Oldrick said with a bob of his head.
Wren stood and slammed the door shut, her mind whirring. Despite the oppressive heat of the late afternoon, her body had gone cold.
Master Oldrick’s hands were shaking as he came into the kitchen.
“What does he want?” she hissed. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know,” Master Oldrick said. “But he has a stern way about him. Was there something wrong with the cupcakes? Could the ingredients have spoiled?”
“No!” she said, affronted. Master Oldrick knew the quality of her work was her only currency in this world. “I would never let such a thing happen.”
“I know.” He sighed. “You’re the best apprentice I’ve ever had, woman or no.”
She rolled her eyes. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard such antiquated views from Oldrick. She found it best to ignore them.
“I’ll stand by your work,” he continued. “Now don’t keep the man waiting.”
Wren straightened her stained apron and attempted to smooth the frizzy auburn halo that wreathed her head in this humidity. She marched into the front of the shop, back straight, head high.
“You asked for me, sir?” she said, getting her first proper look at the customer. He was a tall, thin man with a horsey face topped with thick, dark brows that threatened to join as one. He had an impressive shock of black hair brushed to one side in a fashion that managed to look both windswept and carefully manicured. His slender fingers held her exquisite cupcake before her, as if he were offering her a rose.
His examination of her was as obvious as her scrutiny of him no doubt had been. What did he see? Milky pale skin, elfin features, a small mouth puckered in nervousness? From the slight sneer of his lip, it appeared he found her wanting.
“Did you make this cupcake?” That cold voice again.
She shivered involuntarily. “Yes. Why?”
He ignored her question. “I need you to come with me.”
“What? Where?” Wren took a step back.
He put the cupcake back in its tasteful pink-and-white-striped box before deftly retying the white ribbon in a perfect bow. And then, task complete, he came around the counter in two strides, grasping her elbow.
“Master Oldrick!” Wren cried. She struggled against his iron grip, panic rising through her like a pot left to boil.
Master Oldrick bustled through the swinging doors. “What’s this? No customers behind the counter.”
“He’s trying to take me somewhere,” Wren explained, trying to draw her master’s attention to the more pressing issue at hand.
“Now, sir, what’s this all about?” asked Oldrick.
“Guild business,” the man said.
“I’m her master; she’s got no business with the Guild that doesn’t concern me. Is she in some kind of trouble?” Master Oldrick asked. “I’m sure whatever it is, we can come to terms.”
The man readjusted his fingers on Wren’s arm, tightening his clammy grip. With his other hand, he pulled a card from his pocket. “I am Grandmaster Callidus of the Confectioner’s Guild. I set the terms. And this girl is coming with me.”
Wren glowered at the grandmaster from across the jostling coach, trying to keep the embers of fear tamped down with the weight of her anger. It was a losing battle. She rubbed her damp palms on her dress, curling her fingers into the thin fabric to still her shaking hands. Whatever was going on, it couldn’t be good.
“Where are we going?” she asked for the third time.
For the third time, he looked at her with a contemptuous flick of his gaze before his icy stare returned to the window.
Despite her unanswered questions, Wren had been keeping a close eye past the lace curtains of the carriage and had a strong suspicion of their destination. As they turned off the packed dirt road onto the smooth granite stones of the Maradis town’s center, her prediction was confirmed: The Confectioner’s Guildhall. Just visible in the distance, nine guildhalls sat like petulant children at the knee of their mother, the gray behemoth Tradehouse where the guilds did business with each other and the rest of the city. The Confectioner’s Guildhall was a massive marble monolith resting in the place of honor at the Tradehouse’s right hand and was arguably the most magnificent structure of the impressive specimens that lined Guilder’s Row.
The carriage came to a stop in front of the steps of the Guildhall and the coachman opened the door. Callidus swept out before her and quickly resumed his position as her captor, grasping her arm as soon as she cleared the steps. It was clear he didn’t intend to let her escape. Wren’s stomach flipped. What was there to escape from?
Wren struggled up the towering steps of the Guildhall, scraping her shins as Callidus pulled her up. Five steps for the five levels of the Guild: apprentice, journeyman, artisan, master, and grandmaster. Some designer had been so intent on his symbolism that he had thrown practicality straight out the window.
As servants in the Guild’s brown and gold livery opened the wide wooden doors before them, Wren found herself pulled through the antechamber of the Guildhall for the second time in her life. And for the second time, she found herself wishing she had something better to wear.
Her first glimpse of the Guildhall had been four years ago. That time, it had been Master Oldrick’s fat fingers gripping the flesh of her arm. She’d been a grimy orphan, fresh off the streets of Maradis.
It had started innocently enough. She had been rifling through the trash in the alley behind his shop and had found a worn piping bag, mostly empty save for a dollop of shimmering green frosting. Any other street kid would have squirted the whole bag of sugar into their mouth, but the frosting had called to her. She knew such an act would be a waste, a sacrilege. Crouched under the eaves of the building to keep warm, she had grasped the smooth parchment paper of the bag and decorated the hard shell of the snowbank with a pattern of ivy leaves. The leaves had sparkled against the snow in the low light of the alley, mesmerizing her, pulling her into a daydream where she was surrounded by lush green foliage rather than frozen garbage.
Master Oldrick had woken her with a kick in the dim gray morning, but as she’d scrambled away down the alley, he’d called to her. “Stop!”
She’d kept running.
“I’ll feed you!” he’d called.
She had frozen, looking over one shoulder, her gnawing stomach compelling her to turn around. He had fed her half a loaf of warm bread smeared with butter and jam, along with a glass of sweet milk. Once she had eaten, he’d made her scrub her
hands in scalding water until they’d turned pink and had given her an audition. Wren had swirled ganache, puffed powdered sugar, drizzled white chocolate and piped more frosting. When she had tried to sneak a taste of the ganache, Master Oldrick had whacked her hand so hard with a wooden spoon that she’d felt the vibrations in her teeth.
