A situation with some fear-eaters. René rolls the statement around in his mind, appraising it from every angle until it picks up all of the disgusting possibilities littering his thoughts, filling in the already sparing details with the dreck and dross of his imagination, rendering it shapeless. A situation. Some fear-eaters. A situation so bad that the lady herself has stepped in.

He picks up the teapot and pours a cup for Henry and one for himself.  “Do you take anything in your tea?”

“A little honey sometimes, but I don’t need it,” he answers, realizing there is only a small bowl of sugar cubes on the tray.

“Like a good child of Melitown!” René smiles and, snapping his fingers, a china honey pot and delicate wooden dipper appear. Henry’s back hits the chesterfield as he recoils, and he is thankful he had not picked up his cup. René considers briefly the unsuccessfully stifled squeak Henry let out and the surprising appeal of his slightly slack jaw, a subtle advertisement of his kissableness. “Are you ok?” he asks, inhaling, tasting the room, as it were.

“It’s all so new to me. I don’t know how to not react to things that are surprising,” Henry admits, unknowingly emitting the bright notes of curiosity that mingle well with the bergamot-infused tea between them.

René misses the low rumble of his stomach, focusing on Henry’s words. Head tilted, he asks, “What is surprising and new?”

“Magic?” Henry asks in return.

“Oh—I thought—since you know the ladies… How long have you been acquainted with them?”

“I met Miss Kika at work two days ago,” he started and stopped when René held up his hand.

“Two days! Wait, she walked into that shop?”

Henry nods. “I know it sounds implausible. She gave me an invitation from Madame Tuor and Mr. Smith; he’s like… kinda like family to Avery and me—he said I should not keep her waiting, so I went that night. Last night.”

“Smith?” the older man interrupts. “Tall, golden wall of intimidation? Lawyer?”

“He’s really nice if you get to know him.”

“Does the big guy know you’ve got a new job here?”

“Yes,” Henry answers, shifting his gaze to the tea set and frowning at the honey pot. Everyone is always changing the subject.

René smirks. “Bet he wasn’t too keen on the idea.”

“Well, he didn’t like Brew Loose—not that anyone likes Brew Loose—but he’s been trying to talk me into culinary school since before I graduated.”

“And Perfection, Esquire couldn’t convince you?” He grins at the image of a stubborn Henry standing defiant against the nonesuch wilding over-starched do-gooder. Ugh.

Henry stiffens. “I’m sure he’s not wrong about my choices, but I’ve relied too heavily on his kindness as it is. And Avery is my responsibility now, so I need to work.”

René hmms. “He’s truly one of Melitown’s finest. But insufferably prim, yes? The guy hates fun.”

“Ah, I see he’s got you fooled. I’ll say nothing more, lest I tarnish his steely reputation.” Henry catches himself getting pulled into René’s flow and frowns down at the honey pot. “Can we talk about the magic? Did you teleport that from the kitchen, or will it into existence?”

“You can’t create something out of nothing,” René says, realizing the Madame had left a great deal of teaching up to him. “But some short-distance telekinesis is well within my skill set.”

“Oh, right, just some casual summoning of sweeteners. No big deal, got it.” Henry reaches for the pot and dipper and inspects them before drizzling some into his tea.

“Splendid! So I don’t have to give it up while you adjust?” René asks.

Henry laughs, “I don’t want to stand in the way of efficiency. I mean, I’m assuming I’ve been hired to help, not hinder. But is me being, um, Obvious, going to be a problem? Like with the customers?”

“The Obscure know how to handle themselves in mixed company. Most of them will assume you’re a diviner—they’re like Obvious with insight. There’s all kinds of divination and that variety often makes them hard to place. The older, more experienced Obscure with deeper connections to the Veil will know you’re not but assume you’re a close personal friend. Let’s do nothing to dissuade them of that belief.”

A sharp burst of citrusy curiosity blooms around them, and René grips his cup with more force as his stomach offers its opinions on the meal across the coffee table. Swallowing an alarming amount of saliva, he curses internally and sends a gentle wave of encouragement to the tempting brunette. “We should discuss the job, right? I’m sure you have a lot of questions.”

Henry nods and pulls a notebook out of the inside pocket of his jacket, to René’s sheer delight. “Yes, I have a few,” he answers. The devil watches him thumb through the well-worn pages and skimming down one, brows knitted, flip the page, and quickly scan both sides of the two-page spread. “Wow, a few, you say?”

René memorizes the flush of his cheeks and weighs the pros and cons of teasing him further. Pace yourself. He’ll be here every day. Wait. No, he probably won’t be. Will he? “How about I start? What’s your schedule?” he asks to the fumbling of the notebook and a look of confusion.

“My schedule? Well, currently, I usually work mornings, Monday through Saturday, plus whatever shifts need coverage because everyone else is a student, and they have lives,” he says, without an ounce of bitterness.

René hmms. “Do you like mornings? The café is open at 7 for the early crowd, but I start baking a lot earlier, which seemed like what you were interested in.”

“I always drop Avery off at school—he’s allowed to be a little early, and the café is closer to the school than our house.”

“Within walking distance of the schools, even. A lot of the staff and students stop in on their way. I’m sure we can work something out. The little guy’s an early riser, right?”

“He’s always up before I am. How’d you guess?”

“Oh, kids usually are, aren’t they?” he brushes it off, tilting his head toward the puzzle room. “But we digress. I believe you had a few questions for me.”

Henry nods once more and returns to his tiny, careful, fine-point evenly spaced lettering, filling the pages in straight lines. He hesitates before looking up at the café owner’s dark brown stare and shrinks at the intensity. “I, um, well. Mme Tuor seemed to suggest you would object to my giving notice to Brew Loose.”

“Oh? Notice… ah. Telling them that you’ve quit?”

“Yes,” he says, focusing on the teaset between them. “I’m going to put in two weeks’ notice so we can get someone trained as a replacement.”

“Two weeks? When will you speak to the owner?” René leans forward, questioning him.

“Well… I was going to leave him a message like I always do. And two weeks is normal, right? If there’s no one to fill in, all the shifts will change, and Neely—she’s my friend and neighbor, and her mom watches Avery for me sometimes—Well, she will probably get stuck by herself most of the time since the rest of the staff is in school until there’s a replacement.”

René groans. “Messages, huh? Have you ever met the owner?”

“No, I’ve only ever reached him through messaging. The guy who was supposed to train me quit after I started. He showed me how to use the security system and lock up at night, work the register, and do the nightly count, and that’s about it. I figured the rest out for myself and wouldn’t want to just bail on anyone like that.”

“How long have you worked there?”

“Three years. I started my last year of high school.”

“That’s about as long as it’s been open, right? Never saw the owner?”

“No,” he says, thinking more about it than he really had before. “That’s… a little strange, huh?”

“Two weeks then, starting tomorrow?”

Henry nods, relieved. “Yes, if… if that’s ok?”

“Well, I’ve never had an employee, so I suppose this gives me time to talk to someone to figure out all the Obvious paperwork tedium.” Oh! I know just the guy.

“That’s a relief. I really didn’t want to leave Neely in the lurch like that.”

“If you want to miss out on two weeks of increased pay, I cannot stop you.”

Henry chokes on his tea and, through his cough, asks, “Oh? We didn’t talk about that yet, did we…”

 “Obviously, you’ll be making more here. Café de la Chèvre is an actual business—not a front for whatever illicit plots are developing in that nest. This is an apprenticeship, and the moment you join me in the kitchen, you are an assistant baker.”

“Oh,” Henry’s pulse speeds as all of his brain’s processing power has been diverted to it. Can’t we go into the kitchen now? No. No. No. No. Stop. He’s not sure how long he’s been staring at his new boss, thoughts split between the one hundred things he wants to ask about. René smiles at him patiently, thrilled to just sit and take in the banquet of wants that Henry has unconsciously spread before him. He would happily teach all of his baking secrets to this man. Hell, he was going to pay him for the privilege.

All of this without even laying a hand on him. René closes his eyes at the thought of touching him and inhales, pulling the piquant desires across his tongue, unaware he’s opened his mouth until Henry has some flavorful wishes on seeing his lips parting. René’s skin flushes lavender. Oh?

Footsteps across the tiled floor pull them from their reveries; Henry sits up straighter and says, “So, the 15th, then. What time should I be here?”

“Come after you’ve dropped your brother off.”

“Excuse me,” the six-year-old says, peeking into the room from the archway. “Can I have a glass of water, please?”

René stands, “Of course! I didn’t realize how late it was getting. Are you both hungry? There just might be an edible thing or two to be found somewhere around here,” he says, unable to resist the urge to pat Henry’s shoulder as he passes.

Avery giggles. “I really like those chocolate puffs with the bat wings,” he says but isn’t heard over the rush of René’s pulse and sudden asynchronous hammering of his hearts. The devil stands still, looking down at his hand but not seeing it.

“Buddy, I think we’ve had enough sugar to last us a week. Or at least until tomorrow afternoon,” Henry says and stands to follow them out, heard only by his brother.

It was brief, but in that moment of contact, René, struck by something unfamiliar, nameless, wondered if this weakness—this loss of control—was what it felt like to be the recipient of his espiègle enticements. It cannot be. This is more. A serious sort of diablerie. This is weighty—a perilous ensorcellment. He had not—would not—toy with sweet Henry’s feelings, only ever heightening existing desire: a pinch of salt or a squeeze of lemon. But he hadn’t even tapped into that skill, as the curiosity of someone new to Obscurity was almost too much of a good thing.

But now that he tasted this about Henry Merlo, well, he squashes the cries of protest from his hearts and lets his often-outvoted brain lead. He was a creature of impulse and pleasure and indulgence; yes, he allows. This, though, is different and fresh. I’ve been given such a rare and precious ingredient, like being handed Aphrodite’s own marjoram. The honeydew manna gathered from the early sprigs of the tamarix that was Myrice mourning Adonis. One does not simply bite into an apple grown from the seeds of Melus transformed. The devil baker of Melitown would devote careful attention to crafting a new, worthy recipe. Henry Merlo was for savoring.