In the crisp autumn air of a Melitown Halloween, Henry Merlo pauses at the door of Goat’s in one of his nicest outfits—a pair of burgundy corduroy pants with a button-down in a plaid matching the leaves rustling around him, rust, goldenrod, and a purplish-red lines over a warm linen colored background, poking out from under a burnt orange v-neck sweater. Looking at his reflection in the glass door, he runs a hand through his dark brown layers that have somewhat retained the direction he’d guided them to with his earlier blow-drying. The left side takes the opportunity for comedic effect to fall forward over his eye, and he gives it a whoof of breath before steeling himself and gripping an art nouveau bronze figural goat door handle and making his way inside “the good cafe” as it was known in town. Not to be confused with the shit hole where I spend my days.

The inside is everything he’d imagined. Never having gone in; all his “cool teen” years had been spent worrying about his dad’s health, caring for Avery, and handling their household needs. He’d had some treats from Goats when Mr. Smith stopped by, so he’d developed his own ideas about what the cafe would be like. The pastries were so delicate, and the sweets so balanced and impossibly good he never felt like he could belong inside. Looking around at the assortment of antique booths, gleaming marble-topped tables, and enticing displays of confections running the gamut from subtle to rich, something for everyone, he knew younger Henry had been correct. He does not belong, but he sure hopes to someday. He thinks, ‘This is it,’ looking around at the tables full of smiling customers enjoying themselves even before the lunch rush. A place like this. Someday.

He takes a deep breath and sways side to side, entranced by the smells surrounding him, beckoning him forward. What am I doing? Oh! He blinks, looks up at the counter, and makes eye contact with the handsome man leaning across it on tattooed arms, elbows bound in the cuffs of a black dress shirt rolled up to accommodate the hands-on work of managing the kitchen and the front. He’s so pale the lighting gives his cool-toned skin an almost blue tinge. Maybe his hair is blue-black? There’s a blaze of white running through it, more than one, but the largest is towards the front and just along the right half, and all of it has the finest of waves, making it look so soft and fluffy. His eyes are rimmed in black and—oh, oh god, you are staring, and he is waiting.

“Bonjour! How can I help you?” the man says with a smirk, slowly scanning him up and down and smiling wider after completing the first pass.

As he’d rehearsed on his way over, he repeats his line as the lady instructed, “Tuor sent me to pick out two cakes and a surprise, owner’s choice.”

“Did she now?” The man’s eyes practically glow as he claps his hands together, his smile now showing teeth. Unconsciously, Henry leans back a bit, swallowing and nodding.

“Well then, let me direct your attention to today’s selection,” the man sweeps his long, pale fingers across the top of the counter, trailing them over the connected glass cases—jewelry boxes of shiny, exquisite gems to choose from—passing over cookies and pies and pastries to one filled with cakes. Small brass hands hold cards describing each offering in gilded calligraphy: many-layered milk and honey cake (local), cranberry shortcake, pearsauce bunt (with or without pecans), brimstone cheesecake (à la manière du Sauternais), hexengewürzkuchen, gâteau du diable (aux noisettes), Dobos torte (à la manière de Chèvre), and so on. Henry sinks into a squat to get a better look, hands on his knees to keep from marking up the case. He hums to himself, deep in his analysis of his options and wishing he could try each one.

A pair enters and steps up to the counter. “René!” one of the women calls to him, “When you have a moment, I need at least a dozen cookies and a carafe of your house brew.”

“Our electric kettle shorted out, and we’re dying, René. Dying!” wails the other.

“Oh no, my friends! How have you made it this long without coffee?”

“Have we made it? I am pretty sure this is Heaven, is it not?” The first laughs, and the other smacks her arm, “Rude!”

Henry glances their way and nods as they nod to him. Inside joke, he guesses and returns to his intense stare down with the cakes.

“Young sir,” the man says, leaning a bit over the case. Blinking up at him, Henry wonders how old he could be that he’s calling him ‘young.’ He can’t be more than five or six years older. “I’ll be right back to answer any questions you have. I just want to get these ladies properly fueled before the situation gets dire.”

“Oh yes,” he smiles. “I’m not in a rush and don’t know what I want yet.”

The man, René, says, “Just a few whips of a tail, and I’ll help you figure it out,” before stepping into the back. While he’s gone, the two women step over to a bookcase and browse, and another customer comes in and leans down to look at the case of pies. She’s older, and just as he had, hums to herself, mulling over her choices.

“These are the tough decisions in life, huh?” she sighs.

“I feel like any choice I make will be correct, but I’ll still be filled with a wistful ‘what if,’” he answers truthfully.

“That’s exactly the feeling! Yes,” she nods. “Tell me which you think is the most approachable?”

He raises to his full height and steps toward the pie case. “Have a mixed crowd for dinner then?”

She nods, “Some very young and some curmudgeons who don’t like anything too sweet.”

“The spiced apple pie would be a classic choice, and you could top it with ice cream—kids usually are into that. You could also do a mix of pastries to have a variety of options for your guests. Oh, wow, look, there are religieuses,” he said, pointing to the stacked chocolate-covered puffs. “It’s like an éclair but round and vertical,” he adds when her brows wrinkle.

“Fancy. Cream inside?”

“Yeah, like a custard. If I hadn’t been told to pick up two cakes, I would probably be getting some myself. Look at that ganache—so glossy and perfect,” he exhales dreamily. “Dark chocolate isn’t terribly sweet—probably an acceptable level for most curmudgeons.”

 She chuckled and nodded. “Well, you’ve sold me on them.”

“We call them calebasses here,” René says, returning from the kitchen and setting a carafe on the counter. “Like the bottle gourds,” he adds, making an hourglass shape with his fingers. Henry’s eyes follow his matte black nails, illustrating the curves. Does he make all of this himself, with those hands? How long have I been staring at his hands? He groans internally at his inability to focus. Get it together, Henry.

René finishes serving the un-caffeinated ladies and sending the older woman on her way with a half dozen calebasses and an apple pie in two black boxes tied with black and white striped string he pulled from a jade enamel dispenser suspended from the ceiling by a metal chain.

“Now then, two cakes and a surprise for Madame Tuor, is it, Mr…?” the owner prompts.

“Henry,” he answers, reaching across the counter for a handshake before he could even register his shock at having done so. “Henry Merlo, Mr…?” he questions with a confidence he would also appreciate being acquainted with.

“René Akerregi,” the man purrs, grasping his hand between his and giving it a firm shake. “Let’s not be formal, Henry. Please just call me René.”

Henry made no move to free his hand, nor did René any attempt to release him. “René it is, then,” he says, nodding with his eyes locked on the darkest brown eyes he has seen. He’d only recently been brutally pummeled by a pack of fear-eaters, but this touch was a shock to his body. The man’s fingers squeezed his, and it felt like a collision. Shit, what kind of Obscurity did she send me into? There is no way this guy is human.

“Hmm.” René looks down at the attractive young man Tuor sent his way, still permitting him to hold his hand, and who would seem frozen to one not making contact. The younger man is anything but. His very bones are resonating. Henry Merlo is a tuning fork.

René’s forte isn’t sound. A baker through and through, his métier is in aroma and flavor, and Henry smells utterly ambrosial. He ever so slightly opens his mouth to inhale and sweep the notes of desire and confusion rolling off of him over his tongue to the olfactory sense organ his kind shares with snakes, lizards, and a handful of mammals he has much less in common with.

He’d listened to his conversation with Mrs. Lester and gotten a hint of his desire for more than just a taste of the cafe’s baked goods.  There was a yearning to linger and a longing for change, creating a cloud around him, now paired with something more carnal. René was accustomed to being the object of interest of many a human customer or passerby. However, this isn’t anything like the usual mildly flattering but wholly apathetic reaction it typically causes. This? This is tempting. René Akerregi, young as far as devils go but still older than most of the Obscure, is being tempted—and it is mortifying.

“I think I know what I want now,” Henry says, breaking their moment of silent internal struggles.

René’s irises brighten from the darkest cocoa to a honey-flecked amber, making his rectangular-shaped pupils apparent. “Me too,” he says, blinking them back into their deep, concealing brown.

Stepping to his left and letting his hand slide from René’s, Henry motions toward the cakes. “She didn’t give me a lot to work with—said if it’s cake, it’s for her, but I reckon she’s a regular, so you’ll know if I’m heading in the wrong direction.”

René beams, “Good plan. What are you thinking?”

“I think the gâteau du diable and the cranberry shortcake. Something rich and something a bit lighter. But you know her tastes better than I do…”

“Perfect choices for the Madame,” he confirms, pulling them from the case and packaging them up. “For my part, I’m sending you with the milk and honey cake.” He boxes that up and opens the pastry case, pulls out two calebasses with bakery sheets, and nestles them into a smaller box that he ties separately from the stack of cakes. “And these are for you, on the house. Got someone to share with?”

Henry beams, “Thank you! My little brother will happily assist in the devouring. But really, I’m happy to pay…”

“I would say to think nothing of it, but I’m hoping you’ll think quite a bit about it and become a regular. Bring your brother, too. There’s a lot of things to try.”

A wave of fresh hope, green and floral, leaves the younger man and washes over the owner, a mist of doubt following. Unseen behind the counter, he motions to coax out more of the truth.

Henry feels a strange sense of purpose. Clarity. “I’ve always been interested in baking, and I have so many questions I’d like to ask you. As a professional. If … if you weren’t opposed to a novice. I’d do my best not to be too annoying.” He inhales deeply, surprised at his sudden ability to ask something of a stranger. Who even am I? What is this?

“What kind of work do you do, Henry?” the owner asks, looking him over again.

Henry cringes. “Well, I’m embarrassed to say I work at Brew Loose.”

“Absolutely not,” René shouts, hitting the counter, eyes flashing.

Henry shrinks back.

“Oh, no, that’s not—I didn’t mean to startle you. I mean to hire you. You are hired.”

“What?” Henry clutches at the edge of the v-neck sweater crossing his heart. Eyes wide and radiating panic and need. Does he mean it?

“Forget that rat trap and work for me. I’ve never had an employee. This should be fun.”