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His laugh is quiet but real, and the sound still surprises me sometimes. Six months ago, I didn’t think he knew how to laugh. Six months ago, I didn’t know a lot of things.
Luna makes a happy gurgling sound and reaches for the dough with her tiny hands. Her shadow, cast by the morning light, reaches too, but in a completely different direction. It stretches across the counter independently, curious and playful, and pats the dough before retreating.
“Not yet, little one,” Malak says softly. “You have to learn to walk before you learn to bake.”
“Her shadow’s already helping,” I point out. “Yesterday it handed her that rattle she dropped.”
“Yesterday her shadow also ate half her applesauce when she wasn’t looking.”
“That was helpful. Saved me from cleaning it off the floor.”
He shakes his head, but he’s still smiling. His hands press into the dough, fold it over, press again. The rhythm is hypnotic and sure. He’s finally learned to control his temperature, to keep his hands warm without burning, and the dough responds to him like it responds to me.
The bread we make now is different than what I made alone. It still has magic in it, but it’s gentle. Subtle. Just enough to make people feel a little more hopeful when they eat it, to give them the strength to face another day. Nothing that compels or controls. Nothing that frightens.
The council investigated, of course. Marcus and Moira spent three weeks testing every loaf, checking for contamination or manipulation. In the end, they declared the bakery safe, the magic within acceptable limits. Preston’s seat remains empty. No one talks about what happened to him, but everyone knows.
The town itself recovered faster than I expected. The official story is a freak sinkhole opened up near the swamp, caused by unusual seismic activity. The humans bought it. The supernatural residents know better, but they keep quiet. They saw what Malak did. They know who saved them.
The bell above the door chimes and I turn, expecting an early customer, but it’s Rowan. The dryad looks better than the last time I saw them, less haunted around the eyes. They’ve been spending time at the Hollow’s edge, helping the forest recover from the breach’s damage.
“Morning,” Rowan says, then spots Luna and their whole face softens. “And good morning to you too, little guardian.”
Luna waves, and her shadow waves too, but backwards, like it’s looking at itself in a mirror.
“Is she doing that on purpose yet?” Rowan asks.
“We don’t think so,” I say. “Malak says it’ll be years before she has real control.”
“Years before she stops accidentally trapping her shadow in doors and making people trip over it,” Malak adds without looking up from the dough.
“She’s only done that twice.”
“Three times. You weren’t there when Marcus visited last week.”
Rowan laughs and orders their usual—two sourdough loaves and a cinnamon roll. They leave exact change on the counter and a sprig of fresh rosemary from their garden, which I tuck into the vase by the register where the other offerings sit. Flowers from Mrs. Patterson. A hand-carved wooden spoon from the carpenter down the street. A jar of honey from the beekeeper who swears our bread helped her hives through the winter.
The town takes care of us now. Not out of fear. Out of gratitude.
Malak no longer hides in the attic. He works the counter most mornings, intimidating in his height and his shadow-claws that sometimes slip through his glamour, but the customers have adapted. The children especially love him. He’s patient with them in a way that surprises everyone, letting them peer at his claws and ask impossible questions about where he comes from.
“Are you really a monster?” a boy asked last week, eyes wide with fascination rather than fear.
“I’m really a guardian,” Malak told him. “There’s a difference.”
The boy thought about that, then asked if guardians liked chocolate chip cookies.
“Very much,” Malak said seriously, and the boy ran home to bake some.
Luna squirms in my arms and I set her down in the playpen we keep in the corner of the kitchen. She immediately grabs her favorite toy—a stuffed rabbit that Moira made for her—and her shadow grabs a different toy entirely, a wooden rattle. They play together, baby and shadow, and I watch them for a moment before turning back to Malak.
“You’re thinking about the birth again,” he says without looking up.
“How do you know?”
“You get this look. Distant. Like you’re somewhere else.”
He’s right. I was thinking about it. Six months ago, in the middle of the night when the contractions started and I knew with absolute certainty that this baby was coming whether we were ready or not.
