A shadow moved away from the side of the bakery, and turned into Audella Tremblewood. She crinkled her eyes at Runa in a way that was almost smiling.

  “I see them.”

  “They don’t mean any harm.”

  “I can see that.” Runa hesitated. “I’m guessing they’re here to see how it goes this time. Make sure everyone left gets something to eat.”

  Widow Tremblewood nodded. “They died hungry, except the lich lords didn’t let them stay dead. And now those old bastards are properly dead and gone, and what’s left of their armies are… well. I’m sure you’ve come across them yourself.”

  “Some of them are still fighting.”

  “Ah, I’ll bet. And some are still playing the same game of knucklebones they were when it was less easy to mix up their own bones with the game pieces. And come harvest, some of them toddle along home to make sure the grain comes in safe.” She lifted a hand and patted Runa on her shoulder, or at least as close to her shoulder as she could reach. “Don’t mind them.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Good. It’s a stroke of luck, us having a baker around here again. Not that we ever go without, for the night of first loaf, but it’s different having a real baker than everyone else drawing straws to be shut up with a load of dough and a cursed oven all night.”

  “Cursed oven?”

  Widow Tremblewood shivered. “The way it looks at you. And gods save you if you bake something it doesn’t want!”

  How much trouble have you caused, little volcano sprite? Runa wondered. “Is that why the last baker left, then? He didn’t like the skeletons?”

  “Oh, no. Bracklethorn didn’t have a problem with the undead. It was the living that irritated the daylights out of him. Always bothering him, wanting the bread that we ordered instead of the bread he’d spent hours perfecting instead.”

  Runa thought of the carefully made edits in the recipe book—the adjustments, the substituted ingredients, the angry slashes through the notes that didn’t work or the recipes he didn’t like.

  “And of course once the demon showed up, well. Can’t have two personalities like that in one kitchen. Just ask Junilla.” Widow Tremblewood waved to one of the skeletons. It waved back, then lifted a third, bodyless arm and made that wave, too. “It was only a matter of time before he left, even without having to share the bakery with another baker. I always thought he’d be happiest in some great lord or lady’s kitchens. One of those castles so big everyone only has one job. One person to spend all day cleaning shoes. One person to dust the windowsills. One person to bake one perfect cake, every day.”

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  “And he’d prefer that to baking different things every day, and having his own windowsills to dust?”

  “Oh, absolutely. The only reason that man ever cleaned is that he thought dust might make the dough explode differently, or something, don’t ask me.” Widow Tremblewood leaned back against the bakery wall. “Did he find his kingly kitchen, though? Well, he must have, because he didn’t come back.”

  Runa thought, privately, that there were other reasons a persnickety baker might not return, after venturing out into the world.

  “And we know he’s not dead, because he sends a letter to his old mother every month, updating her on everything except for any pertinent details.” Widow Tremblewood clicked her tongue. “And for two years, we were without a baker. Having to draw lots for the first loaf. Until you showed up.”

  “You were that desperate, huh? I thought you were all pretty quick off the mark, letting me stay here.”

  “Well, you did make yourself useful. But you could have stayed regardless, bakery girl. You just wouldn’t have been the bakery girl, if you didn’t do it right. But the demon likes you, and you keep our stomachs full.”

  “And don’t run screaming at the skeletons.”

  “Not once we give you a little warning, at least.” Widow Tremblewood winked up at her.

  “A little more warning wouldn’t have gone amiss.”

  “Ah, what’s the worst you could have done? Given young Errant a scare?”

  “I could have done a lot worse than that.”

  “Oh?”

  Runa stared. Widow Tremblewood was still gazing out into the shadows, perfectly content, not at all appearing to realize that Runa could have done more than stumble through the festival in confusion.

  If Junilla hadn’t caught her hand, she might have attacked Errant. Even so, she’d barely caught herself before Bloodburster’s thirst for death made her act. And then, her lightstick had tried to get in on the action. As though one murderous stick wasn’t enough.

  And she hadn’t noticed.

  These people lived next to the Cauldron. How did they get through life not seeing danger everywhere?

  Because danger was everywhere. It was in the meadowlands they cheerfully gallivanted through, picking berries to make into jam. It was in the cursed items travelers peddled along the base of the caldera, that could fly like a lance through everything in their way if the idiot who was smuggling it didn’t know their business.

  It was in her. She was dangerous.

  Did… did people here not see that?

  “Um,” she began, and didn’t know how to go on. She was leaning against the wall of her bakery, with a woman who was waving hello at the undead skeletons of her ancestors, watching from the other side of the village wall. As friendly as though they were some of her living neighbors, just passing by. How did you ask someone like that, Did you notice I’m very tall and muscular and almost set your great-nephew on fire because I thought he was a real lich?

  “I think we’ll keep you around,” announced Widow Tremblewood with clear satisfaction, and Runa decided not to say anything.

  It was the late part of the night that was almost early morning. She fed the fire and punched down pillowy lumps of dough, shaping them into loaves for baking, and allowed herself a moment of wonder.

  It had all … worked.

  She’d been worried there wouldn’t be enough mother-of-dough, worried about working with new flour, worried about all sorts of things—but so far, disaster had not struck.

  She stopped, and listened, turning all her senses to the quiet corner of her mind where Bloodburster was the loudest—but it was silent.

  Her neighbors had forgotten she was dangerous. Or they’d never known.

  And maybe she could keep it that way.

  She cracked her knuckles.

  Nobody ever said no to more baked goods, right?