I’d been cursed a few years ago and lost my magical powers, the ability to shift into an owl, and my career as a lawyer. But hey—as an unintended side effect, I could now speak with animals.
I frowned—I should probably have a tee made up. I Was Cursed And All I Got Was This Stupid Ability To Exchange Insults With Dogs.
Daisy huffed and turned away, shooting me some serious side eye. At least I look adorable doing it. You looked like a madwoman, pacing and grumbling to yourself at all hours.
I coughed out a dry laugh, then woofed. “Ha!” At least I don’t have a major case of bed head.
She narrowed her dark eyes and growled again.
Peter looked between us, his brows pinched in concern. “You ladies okay?”
I gave him a double thumbs-up. “Peachy.”
Daisy, enchanted to sniff out lies, growled. Liar.
Peter shot me a sympathetic smile, then turned and slid an arm around me. “Come on. Let’s go find Madeline.”
I groaned but let him lead me across the lush royal lawn behind the bleachers. We came around the side of the crowded risers, which resounded with the excited chatter of the spectators. I squinted through one eye up at the crowd. Somewhere nearby, the prince and princess and Sam Snakeman were sitting with Madeline L’Orange, my reporter friend, and with her help, I’d be speaking with them soon. I just wished I didn’t feel like something the tide had washed in.
With effort, I straightened my spine and took a bracing sip of my coffee. I followed Peter toward the big white tent—the center of everyone’s attention. Three tall peaks rose into the sky, and the white fabric, gathered at the corners, flapped and snapped in the sea breeze. The long front side of the tent was open so that the audience could see all the frantic activity inside.
Bakers decked out in white aprons bustled about, some stirring bowls or reading recipes at the dozen or so butcher block stations. Others scrambled in between them, running to the wall of pantry shelves at the right side of the tent or rushing back from it with arms laden with jars of flour and bowls of eggs. Still others rooted around in the lush garden behind the tent.
I shook my head and winced, immediately wishing I hadn’t. “How do they have so much energy?”
Peter gently nudged me and winked. “Finish that coffee and you will, too.”
I could only hope.
“There’s Madeline.”
I looked up. Peter waved to our journalist friend, who stood beside her photographer on the lawn directly in front of the tent. He caught her eye, and she grinned and held up a finger. She pointed at the bakers, directing the guy with the camera, then strode over to us, her long black hair blowing in the early morning breeze.
“You’re late.”
I shot her a flat look. “Late? It’s inhumanely early.” We’d have been on time, but Peter had struggled to make me get dressed and then drag me downstairs to the little cafe at the bottom of his apartment building. I’d had to take several breaks to sit on benches along the way up to the top of the mountain.
She flashed me a bright smile and waggled her brows. “You ready? You’re about to talk to royalty.”
“Never been readier.” I looked at her more closely, suddenly suspicious. “How are you so chipper?” She was usually a night owl like me—or at least, I’d thought so.
She scoffed and waved a hand. “Oh, I’m used to no sleep. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” She winked.
Daisy bared her teeth at Madeline and growled. She’s so loud. Should I bite her?
I considered it, then let out a low woof that was muffled by the noise of the crowd and the caw of seagulls circling overhead. Good thought, but nah. We need her.
Daisy, ears flat, plunked her tawny haunches down on the soft grass, barely able to keep her eyes open. Peter leaned over and ruffled the fur on her head. She didn’t even respond.
I sighed and scrubbed the side of my face, then glared at the frantic activity in the baking tent. Already yeasty smells wafted my way. “Are we really that late? When did this start?”
Madeline turned and stood beside me, all four of us watching the aproned competitors bustling about.
“About twenty minutes ago.” Madeline shrugged. “Unless you mean the whole thing? This is day three of the competition—we’ve got two more to go until they announce the winners.”
I recognized the two celebrity judges—Francis the vampire and Rhonda the Seer—moving about among the bakers. They were popular figures in the kingdoms—the last vampire and his charismatic psychic girlfriend. Rhonda sported overalls and stopped to peek under a towel at one station, then stuck her finger in a pot of jam and sneaked a taste.
Her boyfriend, Francis, floated beside her, his toes dangling above the ground. Tall, thin, and pale, the vampire looked morose beside the bright-eyed, skipping Rhonda. I felt a kinship with the creature of the night.
A servant in blue-and-gold palace livery moved among the contestants with a tea pot and a stack of teacups magically hovering beside him. He stopped at one station to pour out a cup of tea while a couple of cubes of sugar magically lifted out of the bowl beside him and dropped into the cup with a little splash.
The servant moved on to the next table, and I took another sip of my bitter coffee, then crossed my arms, trying to warm myself in the chilly fall air. “Didn’t they do this whole thing like a year ago?”
Madeline nodded, her eyes still fixed intently on the activity in the tent. “Pretty much. But the bakers, including Princess Imogen and Prince Hank, have since opened their own bakery in the Badlands. Oop.” She winced and corrected herself. “Not the correct term anymore—on Kusuri Island. The staff Queen Edith brought in to replace them turned out to be racist sea slugs
