I didn’t disagree, but my stomach was rumbling. I’d skipped lunch for my SRF visit. “So what now?”
She thought for a second, then bobbed her head. “Mrs. M,” was all she said, and away we went.
I had no clue what that was supposed to mean. I still had no clue when she dragged me into Pastries on Erie, a shop a few blocks down from St. Sophia’s. (Thank God for Friday nights and a respite from the convent . . . at least during the daylight hours.)
One entire wall of the bakery was filled by a long glass case of cakes, desserts, tarts, and cookies of every shape and size. A dozen people stood in front of it, pointing to sweets behind the glass or waiting to make their orders.
“Pastries?” I wondered quietly. “I was hoping for something a little more filling.”
“Trust me on this one, Parker,” she whispered back. “We’re not buying retail today.” She waved at the tall teenager who was dishing up desserts. “Hey, Henry. Is your mom around?”
The boy waved, then gestured toward a back door. “In the back.”
“Is she cooking?” Scout asked hopefully.
“Always,” he called out, then handed a white bakery box over the counter to a middle-aged woman in a herringbone coat.
“Din-ner,” Scout sang out, practically skipping to the beaded curtain that hung over the door in the back of the bakery.
I followed her through it, the smell of chocolate and strawberries and sugar giving way to savory smells. Pungent smells.
Delicious smells.
My stomach rumbled.
“Someone is hungry,” said a lightly accented voice. I looked over. In the middle of an immaculate kitchen stood a tall, slender woman. Her hair was long and dark and pulled into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. She wore a white jacket—the kind chefs wore on television.
“Hi, Mrs. M,” Scout said. “I brought someone to meet you.”
The woman, who was dropping sticks of butter into a giant mixer, smiled kindly. “Hello, someone.”
I waved a little. “Lily Parker.”
“You go to school with our Scout?”
I nodded as Scout pulled out a chair at a small round table that sat along one wall.
“Cop a squat, Parker,” she said, patting the tabletop.
Still a little confused, I took the seat on the other side of the table, then leaned forward. “I thought we were going to dinner?”
“Keep your pants on. Now, Mrs. Mercier is Henry’s mom. She’s also part of the community.”
That meant that while Mrs. Mercier wasn’t an Adept, she knew Adepts and Reapers and the rest of it existed.
“And,” Scout added, “she’s one of the best chefs in Chicago. She was trained at some crazy-fancy school in Paris.”
“Le Cordon Bleu,” Mrs. Mercier said, walking toward us with a tray of flatbread. “And she enjoys feeding Scout when her parents are out of town. Or when St. Sophia’s serves stew.”
“And when you add those together, you get pretty much always,” Scout said matter-of-factly, tearing a chunk from a piece of bread. “Warm, warm,” she said, popping it between both hands to cool it off.
“Which is pretty much always,” Mrs. Mercier agreed, smoothing a hand over Scout’s hair. “I have three boys. Scout did a favor for my youngest, so I do favors for Scout.”
I assumed that favor was why she’d become a member of the community.
Scout handed me a chunk of bread. I took a bite, then closed my eyes as I savored it. I think it was naan—the kind of flatbread you found in Indian restaurants—but this was hot, fresh, right-out-of-the-oven naan. It was delicious.
“Anything particular you’d like to sample tonight?” Mrs. Mercier asked.
Scout did a little bow. “You’re the expert, Mrs. M. Whatever you’ve got, we’d love to sample. Oh, and Lily’s a vegetarian.”
“You’re in luck,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the stoves behind her. There were pots and pans there, which must have been the source of the delicious smells. “We made dal with potatoes. Lentils and potatoes,” she explained. She put a hand on my shoulder and smiled kindly. “Is that okay with you?”
“That sounds really great. Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome. Any friend of Scout’s is a friend of mine.”
Mrs. M plated up a heaping mound of rice topped by the saucy lentils and chunky potatoes, and brought us glass cups of dark, rich tea that tasted like cinnamon and cloves. She pulled up a chair as we ate, crossing her long legs and swinging an ankle, arms crossed over her chef jacket, as Scout filled her in on our last few weeks of adventures. The dinner was amazing—even if stew hadn’t been our only other option. And it felt normal. Just the three of us in the kitchen of a busy bakery, eating dinner and catching up.
It was clear that Mrs. M loved Scout. I’m not sure what specific thing had brought them together—although I assumed the youngest Mercier had been targeted by a Reaper and that Scout had helped. That was, after all, the kind of thing we did in Enclave Three.
When we were done with dinner, Mrs. Mercier walked us back to the front of the bakery. The workday was over, so the bakery was closing up. The OPEN sign on the door had been flipped, and Henry stood in front of the case, spraying it with glass cleaner and wiping it down.
Mrs. M gave Scout a hug, then embraced me as well. “I need to get a cake ready for tomorrow. Take back some snacks for yourselves and your suitemates, if you like.” She disappeared into the back room, leaving me and Scout staring at a good twenty feet of sugar-filled glass cases.
“Holy frick,” I said, trying to take in the sight. I wasn’t really even hungry, but how was I supposed to pass up a choice like this? I thought of my dad—it was just the kind of decision he’d love to make. He probably would have spent ten minutes walking back and forth in front of the case, mulling over flavors and calories and whether such-and-such would be better with coffee or wine.
A stop at a doughnut place usually took twenty minutes, minimum.
Scout looked equally serious. Her expression was all-business. “Your mission, Parker, should you choose to accept it, is to select an item from the bakery case. It’s a difficult choice. The perils are many—”
“You are such a geek,” Henry said, the glass squeaking as he wiped it down.
“Whatever,” Scout said, tossing her head. “You’re a geek.”
“Mm-hmm,” he said doubtfully. He put his bottle of cleaner and a wad of paper towels on top of the bakery case, then walked around behind it. “All right, doofus. What do you want for dessert?”