I grabbed a kitchen towel and started wiping down the already-clean counter. “That’s nice, but—”
“You need to get out of this kitchen occasionally.” Nana’s voice took on that particular tone—the one that meant she was building to her main point. “You’re always working, darling. Always hiding behind your mixers and your ovens. Getting too… comfortable.”
She reached out and poked my hip. The touch was light. Quick. But the meaning landed heavy.
“I’m not hiding.” The words came out sharper than I meant them to. I threw the towel into the laundry bin and turned to face her directly, not bothering to hide the anger in my stance. “I’m working. This is my business. My career. And I’m perfectly happy with my weight, Nana.”
“I didn’t say weight.” Her eyebrows rose with practiced innocence. “I said comfortable. But since you brought it up yourself…”
She let the sentence hang there between us.
I grabbed my piping bag from the counter and squeezed it once, pretending to test consistency. The buttercream didn’t need testing. My hands needed something to strangle that wasn’t my grandmother. “What about it?”
“Ignatius is very fit.” Nana adjusted one of her rings, the diamond catching the light. “Disciplined. He runs marathons, as I mentioned. Five of them last year alone. Perhaps spending time with someone so focused on health and vitality could be… inspiring.”
I squeezed the piping bag harder. A blob of buttercream oozed onto the parchment paper like my self-control leaking out. “I don’t need inspiration.”
“Of course not, darling.” She stepped closer, her perfume intensifying. “But still, it wouldn’t hurt. The Gala is in two weeks. It’s just one morning. Hunter is making his signature punch. You’ll meet someone interested in you. Is that so terrible?”
Yes, I thought. But before I could say it out loud, the door flew open with such violence that the bell screamed. The hinges protested. A gust of cold air swept through my shop, ruffling the display napkins.
Barnaby burst in. Pulling his hoodie over his head, he moved with the frantic energy of a man fleeing a crime scene. Or possibly his own execution.
“Hazel!” He dove behind my carefully arranged display of macarons without slowing down. “Is he coming? Tell me he’s not coming!”
Nana blinked slowly. She turned to stare at Barnaby as if she’d just discovered a raccoon in her rose garden. “Who is that?”
Hunter leaned over the counter, his face lighting up with fascination. “Is he a spy?”
Barnaby ignored them both. “I can’t face him! Not today! Not after what I did!” His stage whisper carried across the entire shop and probably into the street.
I stepped around the counter, moving carefully in the suddenly-too-small space. “Barnaby? What are you talking about?” He and Brok had reached an agreement. Surely, he wasn’t terrorizing poor Barnaby again.
“He appears unwell.” Nana took a deliberate step backward, putting her closer to Hunter and farther from Barnaby. “Hazel, really. Your clientele has becomeremarkably… eclectic.”
Barnaby crawled toward me on his hands and knees. His hoodie slipped back slightly, revealing sweat-dampened hair. “Please, Hazel. I just need five minutes. Maybe ten. Just until I can think of a good explanation.”
“An explanation for what?” I crouched down to his level, one hand on the counter because my knees weren’t quite steady. Barnaby’s panic was contagious.
Barnaby’s face crumpled. Guilt and terror competed for dominance in his expression. “The drink! The Kharak’dur!” He grabbed the edge of the counter and pulled himself up slightly. “I tried, Hazel! I really tried! But it’s terrible. It’s thick! It’s grey! It has chunks that don’t dissolve no matter how long you stir!”
Oh dear. I’d seen Brok present the Kharak’dur last week. He’d handled the battered container with reverence, explaining each symbol etched into the metal. This one meant strength. This one meant honor. This one meant the iron will of the mountain.
He’d told Barnaby that warriors drank it before battle. That it was sacred. That his great-aunt had prepared it herself, and wouldn’t do it for just anyone.
That Barnaby deserved it.
I wasn’t sure how that actually worked, since Barnaby should have known the mysterious great-aunt too. But maybe Brok’s side of the family was slightly more… intense.
The sad thing was I could understand why this would be a problem for both of them. “How many days have you actually drunk it?” I asked, though I was starting to suspect the answer.
Barnaby stared at my floor as if expecting it to offer salvation. “…Zero.”
No amount of chocolate could fix this or reassure him now. “Oh, Barnaby…”
“I’ve been pouring it down the sink,” Barnaby sobbed. “Every morning. For days. And he’s starting to give me looks. He knows, Hazel! He knows I haven’t been drinking it. He went to all that trouble, and he even contacted his family back home, and I’m just being… the worst.”
“This is fascinating.” Hunter crouched down next to Barnaby, studying him like he was a particularly interesting museum exhibit. “What does it taste like?”
