She had felt those confusing feelings under the mistletoe weeks earlier in spite of their rivalry, and she had felt even more confusing feelings since the kiss. There was still something of the bond they’d shared in childhood there, that was certain, and there was something so familiar and comforting about being around him, something that made her feel like she didn’t have to pretend in his presence, that she could be exactly who she was.
That was when he wasn’t being an arse about the bakery, at least.
Charlotte finally finished all the batter, filling most of their large icebox with bowl after bowl. Next up was the fillings. Champagne and chocolate Gallic meringues, strawberry and raspberry jams, and white chocolate and plain chocolate ganaches to go on top. It was a pity Alison had hated the fondant so much—it was so much easier of a topping to work with than the ganache, but the almond flavor could be polarizing, and it didn’t go well with the fillings she’d chosen anyway.
The Gallic meringues came together quickly, although Charlotte’s arms felt as though they might fall off by the time she was done whipping them, even with the help of the manual beaters. The jams had already been made, so it was just a matter of measuring out the quantity required. Mrs. Knox liked to have everything measured and prepared before beginning to bake, something she calledmise en place, a Gallic convention that ensured that everything required was ready and available before the time-sensitive tasks began.
The two types of chocolate ganache were where the trouble began. The truffles she’d made just that morning used nearly the same recipe, and so she’d been overly confident in her abilities. Her first attempt came out grainy—she’d been impatient and had begun whisking the chocolate and cream together too soon.
No matter. She tried again, but this time she scorched the cream while trying to multi-task and chop chocolate at the same time. She swore—a lot—as she dumped the cream into a waste bucket and threw the pan into the wash basin. It was a problem for future Charlotte.
Her third attempt was interrupted by a knock at the door. “We’re closed,” she called, not wanting to pause the heating process.
“Charlotte, it’s Gwenla. Open up!”
Charlotte sighed as she removed the cream from the heat. It would probably still work when she resumed, but baking could be so finicky that there was always the chance that starting and stopping could ruin something entirely.
“What’s going on?” she asked Gwenla as she let her inside.
“Did you feel that breeze just now? The temperature’s dropping fast out there. It looks like a storm’s coming. I’m going around to make sure everyone has plenty of firewood and supplies.”
Charlotte leaned out the door to see for herself. There was quite a chill compared to when she’d arrived in the morning, and the sky had gone completely grey. “What about the wedding? Keir and Alison’s guests are meant to arrive tonight and tomorrow.”
“I know,” said Gwenla. “I sent a pigeon to Fossholm to see if any of the folks staying there can come up today. With any luck, it’ll just settle up in the mountains and miss us entirely. But be ready, just in case.”
Charlotte thanked Gwenla and resumed the ganache making, this time with a bit more urgency. She knew they were low on firewood at Keir’s house, and she doubted he’d be home in time to take care of it.
Unfortunately, urgency and baking did not mix. This time, the cream was too hot, and the chocolate separated.
“Argh! I’ve done this a hundred times. Why can’t I do it when it counts?” Charlotte shouted into the empty bakery.
There was something that might help though. Something sitting in a shop across the street that offered far better temperature control than the wood stove she was working on.
She didn’t need Julian’s help, and she certainly wouldn’t ask for it under normal circumstances. But being able to use his stove would cut down on the time the rest of the tasks would take dramatically, assuming it meant she could get them right on the first try.
It was for this reason that she crossed the street to his shop. There were no ulterior motives, no secret desires that were threatening to come to the surface. Nothing but pure practicality.
It had begun to snow by the time Charlotte walked into the street for the second time, and the wind was blowing so hard Charlotte barely heard Gwenla shouting at her.
“Charlotte! He’s gone. Julian’s gone.”
She handed Charlotte a hand-written note, the wind nearly whipping it out of her grip before she could read it.
Closed early for a delivery in the mountains. Back in the morning.
-Mr. Julian Blair, Proprietor
“The mountains?”
“Gods, he’ll never make it back in this,” said Gwenla. “The mountains always get it worse than here in town.”
“I’ll go,” said Charlotte. “The korrigan magic—I can stand the cold better than most. I’ll make sure he makes it back.”
“Oh, bless you, girl,” said Gwenla.
“Get home before you freeze to death. You’ve done what you can.”
“Aye, I think you’re right. Oh, I hope it melts off before the wedding! A white wedding is one thing, but this?”
