#regency-ish

Lady Tsurugi had ordered three cases of the Dupain-Cheng’s renowned winter citrus tarts for her dinner party, and Marinette’s job was firstly to deliver the tarts and secondly to make sure they were each appropriately topped with a spiral of golden sugar. While the spirals themselves were mundane rather than genuinely magical, they added a certain mystical whimsy that had become a popular trend for local soirées, balls, and debuts. The trouble was that the sugar spirals did not transport easily, and Marinette had to make them on-site.

Marinette had every intention of staying downstairs in the kitchen where she belonged—if only to avoid running into a certain young musician who was playing this evening—but that was before she’d begun to return her supplies to her crate and discovered that instead of adding orange zest to the syrup like she was supposed to, she’d dumped in a bottle of fire droplets by mistake.

Her mother had warned her, time and again, about mixing her potions supplies and baking supplies, and Marinette did try to listen. She’d only brought the fire droplets to keep her hands warm on the walk home. Was it really her fault that it was the same size and shape as the bottle of orange zest her father had given her?

Maybe not, but it was her fault for not double-checking her labels before she had topped every single pastry with a glistening spiral of fire-enhanced sugar.

If Marinette did not get upstairs to fix those pastries before they made it to Lady Tsurugi and the guests, her family would never serve baked goods at so much as an afternoon picnic again.

Marinette’s first plan was to steal all the tarts back and redo each and every sugar spiral, but she wasn’t sure she had the time. Though she had studied potions, charms, and glamors under her grandmother’s tutelage, chronomancy was a field far too advanced for her.

Her second plan was to “accidentally” knock every pastry to the floor and “accidentally” trample them into dust. Unfortunately, she did not think that would spare her parents the damage to their reputation and business alike, and she imagined she would be the one paying for all those pastries and whatever additional expenses Lady Tsurugi saw fit to charge her with.

That left her with only one option: neutralize the potency of the fire droplets as quickly as she could. Luckily, she had a freshly made bottle of essence of snowdrops. She had crafted it with intentions to fill an enchanted snow globe, but this need was far more urgent.

If any of the ball’s guests suffered from the snowdrop’s potential side effect of sudden chills, hopefully they would attribute it to the winter weather. And if any of the guests were allergic to snowdrop and developed an itchy, dry scalp, well… She doubted they would point fingers at her pastries when looking for an explanation. Besides, the allergy symptoms usually resolved within a week.

Marinette crept down the hallway as quietly as she could, hoping the guests’ chatter and laughter would muffle her footsteps. As she arrived at the staging room where one of the household staff in his pristine wine red suit and perfectly white gloves was just picking up a tray of pastries, Marinette grabbed his arm. It was all the young man could do to keep from losing his balance and sending the entire silver tray of porcelain plates and tainted pastries crashing to the floor, just barely preventing Marinette from reverting to her second plan of total pastry destruction.

“What are you doing up here?” he hissed.

“I just need to add a finishing touch!” she whispered back. “It’ll only take a second!”

“It better,” he snapped, as Marinette pulled a small bottle from her pocket that looked to anyone else like a perfume atomizer. It would smell just as floral, and it might affect the flavor of the tart, but at least none of the guests would leave with burned tongues or spend the next three days laid up with burning stomach pain.

Marinette wasted no time and spritzed each of the tarts before the young man irritably whisked the tray away from her and into the dining hall.

Crisis averted.

Marinette tucked her bottle back into her apron pocket and enjoyed a brief moment of relief. She leaned against the small worktop in what was little more than a cubby where household staff could polish silverware and plates and make sure all food was ready to be served. There were a number of mahogany drawers, and each drawer handle had a solid iron pull, all individually marked with the glaring red symbol of the Tsurugi family.

Marinette shivered at the oppressive lines and colors then turned to go back to the kitchens where she belonged. She certainly wasn’t cut out for such grandeur.

But when she reached the landing on the stairs, a voice from the bottom of the stairwell floated up to her, and every ounce of blood in Marinette’s body chilled instantly, as if she had injected essence of snowdrop directly into her own veins.

“I know you said Lady Tsurugi wasn’t fond of dancing, but one of the guests wrote to me directly and suggested it might improve the general mood.”

The head of the Tsurugi’s household staff replied, “If Monsieur Agreste expects dancing, he can speak to Lady Tsurugi about it directly.”

As the two pairs of footsteps grew closer, Marinette hurried into the nearest corridor and pushed her way through the first door she could find. She pressed herself against it and squeezed her eyes closed, willing them to pass by—or if they did try to come in, perhaps her weight against the door might convince them it was stuck and buy her a little more time to flee.

With a racing heart, she listened to Luka’s light and familiar footsteps reach the door. They hesitated, briefly, as the head of staff and Luka debated setting up in the parlor or the ballroom, uncertain if Lady Tsurugi’s desire for a quiet evening or Monsieur Agreste’s more lively agenda might win out. In the end, they did not open the door, and the footsteps began to fade.

Marinette let out a sigh of relief. She opened her eyes to get her bearings and found herself in a drawing room. The fire had been lit, but the lamps had not. The flickering shadows around the room illuminated a cherry-wood bookshelf, a few velvet chairs embroidered with twisting dragons, and an easel with a canvas that depicted a half-finished still life of a vase of irises, resting on a table draped in heath, the purple and pink bell-shaped flowers only just dashed with initial color.

And to her horror, Marinette discovered that she was not alone.

A young man with golden hair and emerald eyes stood near the fire, a booklet in hand, but halfway into his jacket, like he was in the middle of hiding it. Despite his fine dinner jacket and waistcoat, he looked just as panicked to see her as Marinette felt to be seen.

“I’m sorry—” she spluttered. “I was just—I’ll go—”

But as his eyes took in her apron and smock, his shoulders relaxed. There was a small smile on his thin lips suddenly, rather than the scolding Marinette expected.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I was afraid you were one of my father’s servants sent to find me. It seems we both chose the same hiding place.”

Marinette warily returned his smile. “You’re hiding?”

“Sort of.” His smile turned sheepish as he set the pamphlet in hand down on a nearby table. Even across the dim room, Marinette could read the title “Modern Dance Steps” and was able to make out an illustration of a young man and a young woman mid-motion. She had one just like it at home, and her booklet’s edges were equally worn from hours studying and practicing. But no amount of reading and practice had ever been able to make up for her natural clumsiness, despite Alya and Luka’s best efforts.

“I can tell you’re a dedicated study,” she said.

His cheeks were bright pink now, and Marinette could feel her heart melting as his embarrassment rose.

“I’ve never actually had a partner to practice with,” he admitted, “just the instructions. Thought I’d try to brush up quickly before my father insisted on a dance after dinner.”

Though it was a rather rude question, Marinette could not hide her shock. “You’ve never danced before?”

“Er—this is, technically, my first party.”

Marinette blinked and tried to reinterpret this boy’s age. Even she, as someone who worked two jobs to make a living, had been attending public dances since she had turned fifteen, and this boy certainly looked about as old as she was. While boys didn’t debut the way girls did, they often received their education from attending parties before they were old enough to commit to any real relationships and while they were still young enough to make mistakes without causing scandal. Perhaps his parents had just kept him at home until he was old enough to start courting properly.

She remembered how embarrassed she had been at her first dance, tripping over her own feet and stepping on her partners’ toes. It was Alya who had been her first practice partner and helped her learn the steps. Then it was Luka who had persisted in her education despite her clumsiness. He’d even called her lack of grace charming once.

As much as that memory ached, she knew that she ought to pay back the kindness that had been given to her.

“Would you like a practice partner?” she asked.

“I couldn’t impose.”

“It’s not an imposition at all. Everyone has to learn from someone else.”

He glanced down at the pamphlet then reluctantly took her hand. She was startled by how soft the pads of his fingers were. She was used to her own rough, calloused hands from years working with a rolling pin and pricking her fingers with needles. Luka’s hands, too, had been worn by his harp strings and the wood of his violin, and Alya’s from years of working in her mother’s kitchen. But this boy did not know work the way she and her friends did, and he never would. The heavy silver ring around his finger, probably a signet of some high station, was a clear sign that their paths were never meant to cross, and in all likelihood would never cross again.

She counted a rhythm for them to follow and led him through each step—apologizing when she stumbled over her own two feet or misstepped herself. He had a cat’s grace that she envied. In truth, it was unlikely he needed to practice with her, but as they moved about the room, she saw the tension in his shoulders drop and the tightness in his jaw relax. His soft smile even managed to make another appearance as they repeated the steps a fourth time.

“You’re a natural,” she announced, before accidentally kicking her own ankle as she tried to step forward.

He laughed and caught her easily. “You’re an excellent teacher.”

“Please don’t patronize me.”

“I will admit your practice is unpolished, but you know the steps well enough.”

Her count ended, and they came to a stop in the middle of the room. He bowed to her, and she took a step back in surprise.

Red colored his cheeks once more. “That is how you’re supposed to end a dance, isn’t it?”

“Oh, of course,” she hastily dipped into her own curtsy. “You just caught me off guard—I didn’t—I mean, I’m not exactly—” Marinette gestured helplessly at her apron.

“You’re obviously not part of the household staff,” he said confidently. “I don’t see the problem.”

“I work in a bakery,” she tapped the apron pocket with the embroidered wreath of golden wheat. “That’s not really all that different. It’s your first party and all; you shouldn’t embarrass yourself by bowing to people below your station.”

“How do you know I’m above you?”

“People like me don’t get invited to these sorts of parties.”

“What if I invited you?”

It was her turn to blush. “Don’t be silly. Besides, I’d only embarrass myself with my terrible dancing.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Everyone minds eventually.” Not that it had been her poor dancing that had driven a rift between her and Luka. It had just been one of many things that had soured between them.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he said, and reached for her hand. “My mother says words are the foundation of any spell.”

Marinette’s grandmother had taught her something similar. Incantation is the beginning of all intention, not the other way around. But she wasn’t thinking about her grandmother in this moment. She was thinking about this boy and his soft hands against hers, and how she had not stood this close to a boy since Luka, how she had not been alone with a boy since Luka—and how if anyone walked in on the two of them right now, her parents would have to leave town to escape the scandal this could ignite.

Hastily, she pulled away and curtsied again. “Enjoy your first party,” she said, “and whoever your dance partner is, I hope they’re a bit more graceful than I am.”

Though it was rude of her, she didn’t wait for him to reply. She hurried back out into the corridor, gathered her things from the kitchen, and left without speaking to anyone.

It turned out that she did not need her fire droplets to stay warm on her walk home through the cold winter night. Her racing heart and burning cheeks did the work for her, keeping her warm all the way back to the bakery and up to her attic bedroom. She completely forgot her plans to pick a fresh bundle of snowdrops from her garden to replenish what she had spent salvaging the tarts.

As she swapped her bakery apron for her heavier tinker’s apron, Marinette stared dismally at the half-finished snow globe. At least that project didn’t have a deadline. It was only a gift for Nino’s little brother, who adored the first snowfall so much that she’d thought an enchanted snow globe would make a lovely Christmas gift.

Marinette stifled a yawn and flipped through her ledger of projects. There was a pocket watch that needed repair, both in keeping time and in restoring the illusory message it was supposed to play each hour. She might need to ask Alya for help. Alya was the expert with illusions; Marinette was better at potions and charms. She did do glamors on occasion, particularly when she was given clothing repairs, but those were always small, and not designed to last for very long.

She fidgeted with the internal mechanisms of the watch for nearly an hour, but made little progress. Her mind kept drifting back to her dance that evening, to his hands against hers, to the gentle smile that tugged up the corners of his mouth, like he wasn’t used to smiling and wasn’t entirely sure it was allowed.

With a groan, Marinette set the pocket watch aside and tried to work on a pair of boots she’d been asked to repair, in hopes that a less mentally challenging task would help. But it only made it easier for her mind to wander. As she pressed her needle into the leather, she remembered the young man’s soft hands. As she replaced the worn heel with a fresh one, she thought of his graceful steps. And as she stuck her tongue out and focused on weaving a self-tying charm into the laces, she remembered the way he had relaxed beneath her guidance, and how easy being with him had seemed.

Marinette tossed the shoe aside and threw herself down on her desk in frustration. She didn’t even know the boy’s name, and it was probably for the best. He was from a world she did not belong to and never would. She would never see him again, let alone speak to him. That was the way it was supposed to be.

❖❖❖

Marinette fell asleep at her desk, a myriad of projects strewn around her, each one half-finished in its own unique way. She woke to the scent of freshly baked bread.

While it wasn’t every morning that she woke at her desk, it wasn’t all that rare. With a groan, she sat up and stretched. She had berated herself time and again for falling asleep in her stays, but somehow she kept forgetting to properly put herself to bed at night. It was too easy to get wrapped up in projects and lose herself in her practice.

Falling into her bed was tempting, but a knock on the trapdoor of her attic bedroom reminded her that she had work to do.

“Coming, Maman,” she managed through a yawn.

Marinette used the basin on her nightstand to wash her face and pressed a cool towel to the bags under her eyes. She had promised her parents that she would help with the morning crowds and evening deliveries during the holiday season. Winter wasn’t their busiest time of year—spring, with its banquets and debuts was worse—but as both seasons had their share of parties and grand galas, her parents struggled to both fill large orders and meet the needs of their day-to-day patrons.

The only trouble was that winter was a busy time for Marinette’s second job, too.

Each Saturday night, from sunset to sunrise, she worked at the Midnight Market, repairing the odd magical object or adding magic into something mundane, and winter nights were the longest nights. She had a steady flow of business, as evidenced by the projects piling up on her desk, but somehow, the work never seemed to be enough. Her small jar of savings, kept in hopes of one day opening her own permanent shop, had stagnated at about a third of the way full, hardly enough, much less evidence of enough consistent business to sustain such a shop.

Marinette rubbed the sleep from her eyes, stifled another yawn, and swapped her heavier leather apron out for her pink baking apron before descending into the bakery below.

She said good morning to each of her parents, assured them that last night had gone well, and began to fill the bread baskets. She did not tell them about the near-disaster with the fire droplets.

They found out anyway.

Shortly after lunch, a letter sealed with the symbol of the Tsurugi family arrived, and within minutes, Sabine was calling, “Marinette!” with a voice that was lilted in a way all too familiar to Marinette. There was both a question in it and a concern, and perhaps a little bit of an accusation.

Marinette looked up at her father for help, but he raised his eyebrows and jerked his head towards the back of the shop. With heavy feet, Marinette trudged through the kitchen and into the back room. It was a mess of papers, order forms, calendars, to-do lists, and accounting ledgers, which had been disorganized long before Marinette had arrived in the world. She had inherited her organizational habits, just like she had inherited both magic and baking.

Marinette’s mother, a petite woman with short dark hair, looked up from the letter in her hand.

“Lady Tsurugi says she was quite pleased with our service.”

“Oh—that’s good news.”

“She’d like to engage us again for her daughter’s engagement announcement.”

“That’s… great?” Marinette had known her mother for far too long to believe she had been called back here for just a business arrangement.

“And she said the crisp floral flavor was unexpected but an excellent contrast to the tart orange.”

“Ah.”

“Were you experimenting with recipes again? Marinette, we have discussed using potions on the orders—”

“It wasn’t a potion! At least, it wasn’t supposed to be. I just accidentally used fire droplets instead of orange zest—”

“Fire droplets?!”

“But I fixed it! With snowdrops. It’s all fine, Maman. I know I messed up, but I took care of it. You don’t have to worry.”

Her mother sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Be more careful,” but it was a worn out warning, repeated too many times of the years to hold much meaning, “please.”

“Of course, Maman, I will.” But that promise, too, had been given time and again. Marinette did try her best to be cautious, but her clumsiness had a way of persisting like a bad penny.

“Tom!” her mother called, and Marinette’s burly father poked his head into the back room. “What do you think about adding something floral to the orange tarts?”

“I love an experimental recipe,” he replied with a broad smile.

Her parents debated which flowers might pair well with their orange tarts, and if they ought to try something similar with their berry tarts. It was a brief discussion of half-finished sentences and fragmented thoughts. Marinette’s parents had been together for more than half of their lives, and most thoughts were known before they were voiced.

Her mother added a few types of flowers to their shopping list, snatched it off of the desk along with a small purse, and Marinette’s parents left her to hold down the shop during the afternoon lull. Mornings, as mothers and housewives got together food for the day, and evenings, as those who worked all day and went home to empty beds and empty cupboards stopped in for something warm to keep them company, were the busiest times of day. Afternoons were for taking inventory, budgeting, and shopping.

And cleaning, which was exactly what Marinette was doing when, as she pushed open the door to sweep out the flour and dirt that had accumulated during the morning rush, a cat scurried inside.

Stray cats usually hung out at the butcher’s shop, and weren’t really a problem for the bakery. This cat, however, seemed determined to get inside. He leapt over her broom, took a brief moment to get his bearings, then darted straight into the kitchen.

Marinette dropped the broom and chased after him. “You can’t be in here!” She couldn’t imagine what her father would say if he found cat hair in the flour. At least it wasn’t hard to follow the footprints through the thin layer of white dust that coated the floor. Though she couldn’t actually see the cat, she could tell that he had crawled under one of the work tables.

She flopped down onto the floor and tried to get a better look at him. He was pure black with bright green eyes. There were no other markings that she could see, but she thought she caught a glimpse of a silver collar around his neck, so he must belong to someone.

“Are you lost, kitty?” she asked.

He didn’t answer—not that she had expected him to.

She reached her hand back towards him, but he only inched farther away, careful to stay just out of reach.

“Oh, come on. Wouldn’t you rather have a sausage or some fish? We only have bread here. This isn’t where you belong.”

But the cat did not budge. She wondered if the cat had just been looking for somewhere warm. The first snow hadn’t come yet, but frost was starting to creep its way into the village. She pursed her lips and crawled backwards until she had the space to stand up. As she dusted off her apron, she ran through a list of ways to lure the cat out. In the end, she settled on the simplest option and reached for a bottle of milk.

As she poured the milk into a small bowl, the bell above the shop door jingled.

“Coming!” Marinette called. She set the bowl down by the kitchen door, hoping to lure the cat away from cover so she could grab him quickly, then looked up and froze when she caught sight of the shop’s newest patron.

It was the very same young man she had met last night, standing in the bakery doorway looking as lost as if the wind had blown him in.

He glanced around the shop, eyes wary like the bread itself might leap at him from the baskets. He wasn’t wearing the finery he had worn at Lady Tsurugi’s dinner, but she could still tell his clothes were expensive. The heavy fabric of his white waistcoat was perfectly tailored to his shape and decorated with both gold buttons and embroidered gray birds along the lapels. The shot silk scarf around his neck shimmered with blue and silver, and his black coat showed no sign of winter wear, as if it had been made new for this season. He certainly didn’t look like the sort of person who hurtled into bakeries.

“What are you doing—I mean—” Marinette, fighting both her surprise to see this young man and the butterflies that had erupted in her stomach, struggled to find her words. “Why are you—I mean, I’m so sorry—How can I help you?”

His eyes finally met hers and they did not look impressed with what they saw. She wondered if it was the wrinkled dress she’d slept in or the perpetual bags under her eyes that suddenly displeased him. Perhaps he’d found her prettier or at least more palatable in the firelit parlor, and now in the light of day, she had turned plain and uninteresting.

“Cat,” he said abruptly. “I’m looking for a black cat.”

“Oh! It’s yours then? I wondered with the collar—”

“Where is he?”

Marinette swallowed, unsettled by his new brusque tone. If anything, she’d been the rude one last night. Was he simply replying in kind?

“He’s hiding under one of the tables in the kitchen. I couldn’t reach him, but I just put out some milk. He’ll get hungry eventually—”

But the boy was already pushing his way past her like he owned the bakery.

“You can’t just barge in—”

“Where did you say he was?”

Reluctantly, Marinette pointed at the table the cat had run to. She was beginning to think that if she was this boy’s cat, she certainly would prefer hiding in a bakery to going home.

He crouched down, but didn’t lie on the floor as Marinette had. He seemed to have a bit more sense about dirtying his clothes than she did.

“Don’t play this stupid game,” he snapped at the cat, and thrust his hand under the table. “You know which one of us is going to get flayed alive if we don’t go home right n—” He yelped suddenly and yanked his hand away. He clutched it against his chest as he straightened and grunted a curse under his breath.

Marinette could not help a startled gasp. “You can’t curse in here! You’ll keep the bread from rising!”

He turned his glare on her and she was surprised to see blood pearling on the back of his hand. His cat had gotten in a good scratch.

“Did your mother teach you that superstition?”

Marinette lifted her chin, annoyed by the sneer in his voice. “My father—and my grandmother. She’s a witch, so I expect she knows best.”

The disdain in his eyes finally gave way to a mild curiosity. He tipped his head to one side and looked her up and down, like he was finally seeing her as another human being. But all he said was a rather rude, “Huh,” then looked at the saucer she had left by the door. “You might as well toss that. He won’t go for it.”

Marinette ignored his advice. “Would he chase a ribbon?”

“If he’s in the mood. He doesn’t seem to be, though.” The boy glanced down at his hand and winced when he saw the blood had gotten onto his shirt. “My father’s going to kill me.” He started to swear again, but at least he had the grace to bite it off before he finished.

Maybe the kind boy from last night was buried in there somewhere.

Marinette pulled a stool up beside the hearth of the fireplace, the warmest part of the kitchen. “Sit. I’ll fix your shirt and get your cat.”

“You can’t fix a bloodstain.”

“You can’t, maybe.”

Marinette hurried upstairs and dug through her box of thread for a white spool, grabbed an embroidery needle, and double-checked the labels on her bottles of herbs. She wanted to be sure she grabbed the right one this time.

When she came downstairs, she found that the young man had accepted her offer of a seat. His eyes flicked quickly between her, the window, and the door. It reminded her of how panicked he had looked when she had first found him in the parlor last night.

She thought of the cat, diving for cover under the table, and this boy, checking doors and windows like something was on his heels. There was something to the way that fear lived in them both that unsettled her. Just as she had offered him the kindness of a dance last night, she would offer him all the hospitality she could here in her own family’s bakery, even if he seemed resistant to accept her help.

“Coat off, please,” Marinette said, and set her things down on the worktable.

He hesitated, alert gaze still following her. But as she pumped water over a towel and grabbed a bowl of salt, he removed his coat.

First, she used her cloth to clean the scratch on his hand, then wrapped a scrap of fabric around it. When she was done caring for his wound, she reached for the buttons of his shirt.

“I promise I’m not going to undress you,” she murmured.

He blushed bright red, just as he had last night, as she unfastened the golden buttons of his waistcoat then the smaller mother-of-pearl buttons of his shirt so that she could get at both sides of the blood stain. His posture was stiff while she blotted the stain, like he was sitting for an etiquette test, and he kept his eyes trained on the window. She wondered if he’d ever been alone with a girl before, or if there had always been a chaperone to observe him. Perhaps when she had met him last night, that had been his very first private conversation with any woman.

She and Luka had had their fair share of moments without chaperones. He would join her on a delivery or they’d run into each other at the Midnight Market. She’d enjoyed their time alone, at least at first. But the well of personal conversations had eventually run dry.

She was never sure which of them had lost interest first, whether it was his irritation that she’d had to reschedule one too many times because of work, or her annoyance with him for buying her one too many things she didn’t need. He had wanted someone he could dote on, and she had wanted a partner and an equal. Somewhere along the way, the lengthy conversations had become a series of clipped answers, the linked hands while walking had become an obligation, and the goodbye kisses had transformed into a chore.

This boy beside her, however, probably didn’t have any experience with that, certainly not if last night was his very first party. She wondered if he was so anxious because this was the very first time he had ever left his parents’ sight.

Once the stain was good and damp, she rubbed salt into it and muttered a small incantation for luck, the first her grandmother had ever taught her. And while the stain faded, it did not fully disappear.

“I told you,” he muttered as she tossed the towel aside and reached for her spool.

“I’m not finished,” she said, with every shred of patience that she could muster.

She uncorked her jar of milkweed and picked up her spool. She pinched the thread between her fingers and let the rest of the spool roll to the floor until it came to rest next to the cat’s hiding place.

When she began to rub milkweed along the length of her thread and did not go to retrieve her spool, he asked in a tight voice, “Did you need me to—”

“Just leave it,” she replied gently and muttered another incantation, this one for glamor.

She threaded her needle without bothering to pick up the spool of thread from the floor and began to carefully stitch around the edge of the blood stain. Each time she tugged a little more thread through the stitches, she glanced at the spool rolling around on the floor. On the third tug, a black paw reached out for the thread.

Marinette bit back a small smile and continued embroidering the white shirt with her white milkweed-dosed thread. While she worked, the boy beneath her hands fidgeted anxiously with the heavy ring around his finger. His eyes shifted between the window and the periodically appearing cat paws, but never once glanced back at her.

When the silence became unbearable, Marinette asked, “Did you enjoy your first party?”

“Did I—what?” The shock and revulsion in his voice was so strong that Marinette very nearly stopped her work.

Instead, she swallowed and adjusted her question. “Well—did you dance last night?”

He let out something like a laugh, if such a thing could be filled with despair rather than joy. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh.” The brusque nature of his reply left her speechless. She was used to frustrated and rude clients, but this boy was taking it a little far. Maybe this was just what all the gentry were like—perfectly polite at parties, rude and irreverent the rest of the time.

She finished the outline of the small stain without pressing the conversation and worked her thread down the center of the stain, pleasantly surprised with the shape it had taken on.

When she was finished, she snipped the thread and, with expert timing, reached for the cat just as he reached for the spool. She caught him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him out. He did not yowl at her nor try to scratch her, but he did let out a loud, plaintive meow and twist so that he caught his claws in her apron. She pressed him against her chest and stroked between his ears to calm him down. She was surprised to find, beneath his sleek coat, a dry and flaky skin that left white flecks in his fur—or perhaps the cat had merely encountered a patch of flour on the bakery floor.

The boy examined her needlework with a disdainful glare. “Is that a butterfly?”

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” she replied, careful to keep her voice light and ignorant of his rude attitude. “The shape of the stain doesn’t always work out to be something so fitting.”

“Fitting?”

“I just thought—the dancing—last night—you said your father—so I thought—aren’t you Monsieur Agreste’s son?”

“I am not his son,” he snapped with a vitriol sharp enough to make Marinette step back. The cat in her arms went still, too.

“Oh—I’m sorry to have assumed. My mistake.” Marinette swallowed, unsure how else to respond to such unprecedented anger.

He, too, seemed to realize the inappropriateness of his outburst. His cheeks turned a deeper red and he kept his gaze low. “I don’t think my father’s going to appreciate this any better.”

Marinette considered letting him walk out just like that, half-finished repair on his shirt. He deserved it, after his behavior this afternoon, but not only was a witch required to give all gifts with a kind attitude, leaving a job half-done was no good for her reputation.

“There’s still one final step.” She pressed her fingers first to her lips then to the embroidery.

The thread of the butterfly’s wings lifted from his shirt, flapping delicately like a butterfly freshly emerged from its chrysalis. As it tested its new wings, the stain lifted a little with each flap. Then, as if carrying the stain off with it, the butterfly flitted away to the window. Marinette pushed open the pane and the pale butterfly disappeared into the city.

The boy ran his fingers over the place the butterfly had been. “I can still feel the stitches.”

“There’s a glamor to hide them,” she explained. “Direct sunlight will still catch the threads, and glamors are rarely permanent, but it should last as long as the shirt will.”

His eyes drifted to the window again, as if he could still see the butterfly on the horizon. “So that was what, for show?”

“Blood can be unpredictable. My father insists I avoid it, but sometimes it can’t be helped.”

“You work with bloodstains a lot?”

“All sorts of stains. I have a stand at the Midnight Market and a lot of the repairs I do are for clothing.”

He hesitated for only a moment longer, eyes still on the window and a question pursed in his lips, but when the clock in the town square began to strike, he hurried into his coat. Marinette did not so much hand him his cat as he snatched his cat from her arms and ran from the bakery, nearly toppling Marinette’s mother over on his way out.

“Unhappy customer?” her father asked with a concerned frown, catching his wife despite the loaded baskets on his arms.

Marinette stared at the door, as if she didn’t quite comprehend that the boy was already gone. “He just… he lost his cat.”

“Were you able to help him?” her mother asked as she took one of the baskets from her husband and set it on one of the shop’s tables.

“I think so.”

Her parents exchanged a concerned glance.

“Are you all right, Marinette?” her father asked.

“Hm?”

“You seem distracted,” her mother said. “Why don’t you head upstairs and get some rest. Your father and I can get this put away and take care of the evening crowd.”

Marinette insisted that she was fine. She helped her parents clean up the kitchen and sort through the shopping, but that was as much as they would let her help. Her father warned her that if she did not put herself to bed, he would carry her upstairs and tuck her in so tight it would take three men to get her out. With a tired laugh and a stifled yawn, Marinette agreed to get some rest.

She didn’t so much remember to undo her stays this time as she automatically and distractedly unlaced the undergarment while turning over her strange encounter with the young man. Their first meeting had left her flustered, embarrassed, and a little giddy. This one… he had seemed so different, particularly so rude. Was he annoyed with her for abandoning him so suddenly after their dance last night?