Baker Thief

by Claudie Arseneault

  To Claude, however, she would always remain Denise, the family friend who stayed home playing games of bluff until unholy hours with his parents and the lady who hid maple candies in a small pouch and subtly dropped it when his father wasn’t looking. He had been a teenager during the elections—old enough to understand why they’d tried to paint Denise Jalbert’s single status as a mark against her humanity and to cheer on her victory. She had taught him aromanticism was no hindrance to a full and happy life, and that he should be proud of himself and even flaunt it if others attempted to diminish him for it. No matter what happened tonight, Claude would always be thankful for the path she had forged.

  Still. As he stopped at the mairesse’s two-storied house, he prayed Denise Jalbert would not balk at opposing Montrant Industries. They needed her support, and any rebuttal from her would stoke bitter disappointment.

  The Spinster had never left the quartier of her youth, although she had moved from the impoverished northern section, where crooked buildings leaned against the fortifications, to the nicer area, with tall habitations and tiny lawns. It couldn’t compare to the Quartier des Chênes, yet as the only residential part of Val-de-mer both near the sea and on water level, it was highly prized.

  To his surprise, flickering lamps still illuminated the upper floor. Claude traced a route with his eyes: vault over the ironwrought fence, sprint across the narrow lawn, climb the vine-covered walls, break the lock on the rooftop glasshouse’s door, and slip inside, towards the light. Then he went up and down the street in case she had guards keeping watch. As soon as he believed himself in the clear, he drew upon his magic and dashed out.

  Running without skirts, cape, or mask unsettled him for a moment. With the exception of his leap with Adèle, it had been months since he’d used his power without the costume—not since he’d shifted his nighttime partying to the less legal stealing outings. And it was… freeing. A strange elation filled Claude’s chest as he worked his way up the vines. The various pieces of his life he’d forcibly kept apart as he’d investigated exocores had started mixing again. It hadn’t been safe to do otherwise—it still wasn’t entirely, in truth—but he was grateful for the growing number of people with whom he could be himself fully, croissants, magic, aromanticism and genderfluidity included.

  All he was missing was Livia. Not much longer now.

  Claude heaved himself on the roof and broke into the greenhouse with one magic-powered pull. At least the door stayed on its hinges this time—he’d had trouble judging the appropriate level of strength needed on his first attempts. The cloudy night sky offered little light to navigate through the array of plants, but Claude used what was afforded to him by the lit windows and pressed on. He had no desire to linger in the stuffy atmosphere, even if the soft scent of roses filled the air. His heart hammering loudly, Claude slipped out of the greenhouse and into the second floor’s corridor. Music drifted into it from somewhere, sweet notes accompanying a tenor’s voice as he sang of his language lost to foreign industries. No surprise there: Denise Jalbert had always toiled fervently to keep institutions in Bernéais first.

  He stopped in front of the last door, already ajar, his courage failing for a moment. So much of their support would depend on whether or not the mairesse agreed to work with them. She could strike at complicit magistrates and protect Koyani and others from their direct superiors, and she could grant Nsia Kouna’s article a legitimacy they would otherwise lack. They would forge on with or without her, but if she decided to oppose… everyone’s livelihood and future was on the line here. He couldn’t fail.

  The nine saints willing, she wouldn’t fail him, either. Claude pushed the door, and his heart flipped when it creaked—as if she wouldn’t have spotted him after anyway.

  Denise Jalbert lay in a long recliner in the middle of her living room, wrapped in a black bathrobe lined with white, web-like patterns, her back propped just high enough to allow easy reading. She held a thick tome with one hand, while the other swirled a glass of strong alcohol—whiskey, Claude remembered. Her hair had always been grey, but it had paled and thinned through the years, and new wrinkles marked her face. Part of the spider imagery had clung to her because of her tallness and spindly limbs, but Claude wondered if she hadn’t grown even narrower and sharper, as if age had eroded her body. Her eyes hadn’t lost any of their strength, however, and they snapped to him the moment he entered. She lowered her book and tilted her head, frowning. He forced himself to wait, even though every second heightened his desire to bolt. Then recognition washed over the mairesse’s expression, and her concern turned into joy.

  “You’re Rico’s kid! I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you. You’ve grown so much since we last had the chance.”

  He hadn’t only grown: he had found his genders. When she had visited on a regular basis, he hadn’t known how to explain the shift in them. He’d called them moods, and while at times he’d insisted on boyish clothes, he hadn’t yet considered he could be a man one day, and a woman the next. He wondered how much his parents had told her afterwards—if they’d even talked about him beyond basic news. Knowledgeable or not, however, Denise Jalbert rolled with it with perfect ease.

  “What earned me this midnight visit?” she asked, and as the question crossed her lips, she seemed to realize he shouldn’t have reached her unannounced like this. “Young man, did you sneak into my home? Unless my memory is failing me, your sister is the reckless one, usually.”

  “I’ve been stealing exocores for weeks. What’s one more breaking and entering, especially in an old family friend’s house?”

  Reckless indeed, he thought as the mairesse’s eyes widened in understanding. He saw no point in beating around the bush, however. Either she was willing to listen, or she’d throw Montrant after him no matter how he broached the subject. She set down her glass of whiskey and studied him, perhaps silently considering the wider implications of his answer before replying. Good politicians knew to care for their every word.

  “I had a strange report on my desk today. Two, in fact.” Her voice remained calm and she sipped from her glass with deliberate slowness. “The first stated Capitaine Koyani had changed her investigation target towards Montrant Industries. The second warned me she had been removed from her position in favour of Lieutenant Jefferson, and that charges would be brought against her newest recruit. When I tried to speak directly with Koyani, I was informed neither her, nor her two concerned officers could be found. Not since this afternoon. That wouldn’t all be connected to your visit, would it?”

  She swirled her whiskey with a slight smirk, and Claude couldn’t help feel trapped. It was silly—she wasn’t attacking him—but his defensive instincts reeled up the moment he recognized he was facing a skilled and witty interlocutor. As if she would pick on a single false step from him. Overwhelmed, uncertain where to start, he dragged his feet across the room and flopped down into the sofa opposite of her lounging chair. “It is.”

  “You look like you need a drink, son.”

  “No. I don’t drink.” He leaned forward, gathering his thoughts. Straightforwardness was probably his best bet here. “There wouldn’t be enough alcohol in the world to make me forget about Montrant Industries’ horrors anyway.”

  Denise’s eyebrows shot up, but otherwise her features remained a mask of calm. She pushed herself up with shaky arms. “Well, then, let me at least refill my glass before you explain.” She trudged towards the bar, knitted white slippers sliding across the floor, and she poured another drink. Claude watched in silence. A month ago, he would have squirmed from the awkwardness of staring at their aged mairesse while she prepared her midnight shot wrapped in a bathrobe, but between the exocores, his relationship with Adèle, and the large dinner of fugitives earlier, he had lost his ability to wonder at the strangeness of life. When the mairesse was sitting back on the edge of her recliner, Claude started his explanations.

  He was glad he’d already shared everything with the exocores in his b
asement. It helped him keep his voice steady and get straight to the point. The mairesse didn’t need the whole story, as long as she understood the terrible hidden cost of Val-de-mer’s precious new bridge and who had set the price. As Claude spoke, he withdrew the proof he had selected with Nsia Kouna, providing material support to his claims. Clémence had sent an impressive range of incriminating evidence, from ols notes on the exocore creation process to letter exchanges ol wasn’t even involved in.

  Claude presented them one by one with calm, but inwardly he was praying Koyani’s strike team would make it to ols little brother in time. Denise Jalbert listened, mostly silent, only interrupting Claude for pointed and short questions. She didn’t flinch when he explained he’d overheard Élise state the gouverneure supported this, or provided several messages implying it strongly. Her calculating eyes moved from the papers in her hands to Claude, then lost themselves over his shoulder as she considered the ramifications. At length, she downed the rest of her whiskey and focused on him.

  “The Pont des Lumières opens tomorrow and Gouverneure Lacroix will be present. What is your plan?”

  “Ruin the party.” He smirked, but what amusement he derived from the idea of crashing the celebration vanished quickly. “The exocores they had left are not sufficient to electrify the Pont, nor can their process fully drain powerful witches. So they… they’re plugging people directly into the circuit. And one of these unfortunate witches is… it’s Livia.” It didn’t matter how often he voiced this, it would always feel like a punch to his stomach. “The saints willing, the Pont’s lights will never shine.”

  “Is that all?”

  Claude scowled. “Is that not enough? I can’t be everywhere, and I won’t let them use Livia.”

  “But you are not alone.” She bent with a groan and set her empty glass to the ground. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to sound dismissive. What are Koyani’s plans? Kouna’s?”

  Claude rubbed his face and sighed. Yes. Of course. He was forgetting the others again—even his new partner. He had started this with Livia, and it was all too easy to focus only on her situation and omit the support he’d found along the way.

  “Right,” he said. “They’ll be unravelling this mess, one person at a time. Any help you can bring to placate Montrant’s agents and provide public legitimacy would be invaluable. If people don’t believe this is real…”

  “I believe you,” she said, “and when you walk out of the Pont with your sister in your arms, so will they. Boy, am I about to call in some precious favours!” She clapped her hands, and her almost childish glee surprised Claude. She sounded thrilled at the idea of contacting others in the middle of the night to force them to help her as a deference to services once rendered. Denise Jalbert leaned forward, splaying her fingers mid air. “You see, the secret of a good Spinster is in her web. I have been mairesse for fourteen years now, and people in this city either love me or owe me. I have wrapped them into my web one by one, allowing many to believe they were profiting off my kindness, or that I had forgotten my due. Trusted allies will follow my lead without any prompting, and the others… I would enjoy nothing more than to let them know I have a long memory, and some important shit to get done.”

  She scooped the empty glass off the floor, grinning, then pushed herself to her feet again. Standing obviously demanded a lot from her old body, yet as Denise Jalbert straightened to her full height, she oozed perfect confidence—a powerful pull that established the mairesse as a force of nature, one you could trust in and follow without questions. With a quick speech and a smile, she had convinced him she could achieve anything, that even the large and still hidden network behind Montrant Industries didn’t stand a chance against her. He grinned back at her and sprang to his feet.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “My dear, you and other witches in this city have suffered long enough. I was powerless to do much after the Meltdown, but my roots run deeper now. It pains me that your parents were right in leaving. Val-de-mer wasn’t safe for them. It still isn’t, but that is about to change.” She stepped closer and extended a wrinkled hand. “I’m glad you trusted me with this information. Let Capitaine Koyani know I expect her to interrupt the ceremony tomorrow night, and that should she disrupt the peace she will have my full support doing so. No one’s coming for her job without my say-so.”

  Claude grabbed the hand, and Denise Jalbert’s firm grip didn’t surprise him. “I will.”

  “And please take care. I can create logistical problems and disrupt tomorrow’s security measures, but I cannot remove them entirely. I’ll inform you all of what I successfully did for you.” She released his hand and met his gaze. A fire burned in her eyes. “May the nine saints keep you safe.”

  “And may they guide your steps and words as you call in those favours.”

  Denise Jalbert laughed, a grating but honest sound that brought Claude back to his youth. It was good to know some childhood heroes never disappointed you—that people who had inspired you, forging a path of self-awareness and confidence, could continue to support and protect you even later in life, or even when seen from closer. He’d needed that almost as much as he had needed the mairesse’s physical help, and the enormity of his relief left him light-headed. He stayed put, caught up in it yet unable to voice his thankfulness until Denise patted his arm.

  “Now get going, young man, same way you entered! My night’s work is cut out for me, and you have the looks of someone in great need of a bed, even more so than a drink.”

  Exhaustion laced his chuckle, and he nodded, his mind returning to Em’s teasing about cuddling with Adèle. He wouldn’t mind that at all, especially tonight, not knowing what would happen on the morrow. “You’re right. Time to move.” He shook himself out of his daze and started towards the living room’s door, but stopped after a few feet. “Oh, Madame Jalbert? The name’s Claude now. I own a bakery in the Quartier des Bouleaux. If you wanted to drop by one day, after this is over… I’d love that.”

  “So would I, I think. And please call me Denise.”

  “Great.” He wished to add something else, anything, but she gestured for him to go, almost shooing him out. With a grin, Claude turned heel and snuck back out of the mansion. Hope lengthened his strides as he crossed the greenhouse again. He was tired, true, but he had never been so certain of his future. Tomorrow they would take down Montrant Industries, and he would save Livia.

  -28-

  POUSSE ET POINTE

  A strange silence reigned over Emmanuelle’s household when Claude returned. More than twenty people occupied the manor, yet not one of them made a sound. Claude considered slipping into Adèle’s room, to wrap his arms around her and rest with her nearby warmth, as they had mentioned of doing during dinner. Except there was something too… established couple about it, a vibe that felt wrong. Was it the timing? They hadn’t discussed in depth what “partner” could mean for them, and while Claude fancied the idea of holding someone as he fell asleep in general, doing it now, tonight left him uneasy—a strong enough signal to stop him. He preferred to wait for Adèle to wake up and for them to talk things over.

  As it turned out, his own bed was already occupied. Four of Emmanuelle’s cats had split the space. Two fluffy orange ones were piled at the foot, a third stretched across the width, and Gravity had claimed the right pillow. Claude stifled a laugh. When had he last had so much company in bed? Smiling, he undressed and squeezed himself between two of the cats, displacing Gravity enough to fit in. Between the softness of the mattress under him, the weight of a quality blanket, and the warm feline bodies pressed against him, Claude fell asleep within minutes.

  He woke up at dawn to the screams of an angry, terrified boy who absolutely did not want to eat breakfast. Claude rolled over, on his belly, and grabbed a nearby pillow to slam over his head, dislodging two cats and sending them scampering with his sudden movement. He wished he could laze in bed all day and forget the world until the inauguration of
the Pont des Lumières, but everyone would want news of his meeting with the Spinster as soon as possible. Besides, he couldn’t help worrying about Zita, and now that he’d woken up his mind wouldn’t rest before he knew she was safe. Those screams no doubts came from Clémence’s brother, but he hadn’t heard Zita answer. Tiny paws climbed on his back and pressed into it, walking over Claude until they had reached his neck, and a cold nose pushed against his skin. He mumbled an “okay, I get it, I’m moving” into the mattress, and forced himself up.

  Gravity leaped down his back and sat next to the door as Claude grabbed a change of clothes. The cat could have followed his friends out at any time, but instead hung near Claude’s feet as he headed towards the kitchen. Maybe the poor fool expected free food—as if Claude didn’t have years of training resisting the urge to overfeed strays roaming around his bakery.

  Claude entered the dining room and found half the table dedicated to a morning brunch: eggs, grilled ham, sausages all glistening with grease, while a pile of crepes waited on the side, with some precious maple syrup Em must have kept since spring. A bowl of fruit salad and orange juice completed the offering, and his mouth watered at the luxury of it all. The sun was barely up, yet they’d already prepared a brunch, and Claude didn’t remember when he’d enjoyed such a thorough breakfast. He filled a plate with a little of everything then moved to the other end of the table, where Koyani and Adèle picked at their food in silence. The screams of Clémence’s brother still echoed through the house.

  “Is no one else up?” he asked. “I would have expected everyone to hear that.”

  “Neighbours included, yes,” Koyani said. “The team is trying to sleep. Marcel needed to replenish his strength, or this kid would be doing the same.”

  “Can’t we bring him to Clémence?”