The Novel Baker Novels & Stories

He raked his fingers through his thick, dark hair and tried to think of something to say to make Leila feel better. He glanced over the tray of food that was barely touched. Cutting a slice of strawberry cake and stabbing a small chunk with the tip of a golden fork, Thorn said lightly, “The baker in the kitchen is a chubby old man with a huge beard. He’s done a marvelous job keeping it perfect, as he did with this cake.”

"Perhaps his battery died." Mrs. Baker's voice floated up from right behind me. I nearly jumped out of my skin. She still had that uncanny habit of creeping up on people without making a sound. Carefully, she placed a tray in front of me. The moment my eyes landed on its contents, Zayden was immediately shoved to a smaller corner at the back of my mind. Beef tendon soup, its surface shimmering with fragrant oil, packed with generous chunks of beef and tender cow hide. Fresh cinnamon rolls. A beef sausage roll. A fluffy omelette. A thick cheese sandwich.

I wanted to observe the engine, not merely the blueprint. On a newly paved side street, where cobblestones had been replaced by firm, level slabs, a baker was meticulously arranging his morning output in a pristine glass display case. His name, I recalled from Selie’s files, was Tomas. He was an immigrant who had survived purely on cunning cynicism before the takeover. He saw me and instinctively ducked into an extravagant, low bow.

"Mom, what's he like? I'm curious." Janine looked at her and held her hand softly, keeping it a secret for now. They came to a stop at Baker Hotel shortly. As one of the iconic buildings in Melorian, Baker Hotel was well equipped with the conditions for success. Not only was it luxurious and grand on the exterior, but its service could also hardly be topped by other hotels. The building was cleared for Mr. and Mrs. Hamerton today, and the general manager welcomed them personally. "Madam Baker, everything's set. It's at the revolving restaurant on the top floor."

"Oh, he sent Maverick Baker a message—Why did he save his number with Boner Baker? how odd will he be? I whispered slowly. I read the message. I was laughing inside me nonstop because he told Mr. Baker that he was not feeling too well that's why he left early. He even said he caught a cold fever. How ridiculous? A cold In Summer in Milan? Is there even any sickness like a cold fever? I bet Mr. Baker won't believe his horrible lies. It's hilarious for chrissake. I have known Mr. Baker for a while now. He's an executive in the company and a childish joker, not like Jace. I dropped the phone on the bed receptacle and looked straight at his delicate babyface. Then something fabulous occurred in

he asked but his question was matched with an unforeseen silence. The silence between them made it uncomfortable creating invisible space between them. When he cast a look at her, he noticed how firmly she held the rail a bit tighter than unusual as if she was afraid or had suddenly realized something. Her silence made him fully aware of her discomfort talking about herself and life experience. She gave a reply that sounded a bit huffy. " I'm a baker. " Then looked away as if his question brought back painful memories. The sea wave has lessened down that morning, the cool breeze tends to set everything at peace.

It kinda felt surreal and I liked it. My attention was drawn to the windows as I watched mortals go about their daily activities. By the left was the baker's shop with the baker yelling at his apprentice, probably for burning bread again. His face flamed up and his temper snapped. I had no idea why he still kept him around, the guy was a lost cause. There was no teaching that imbecile.

The bakery kept them in sourdough and marshmallow buns, and sometimes, in the mornings before anyone else stirred, Carolina and Xander would sneak down to the still-dark storefront and lean against the warm metal of the ovens, listening to the soft, yeasty crackle of the proofing loaves. The oldest baker, Gregor, always showed up at six but never complained about the two squatters, just shook his head and told them, “If you break it, you buy it.” In time, Carolina learned to braid the morning rolls the way Gregor did, and Xander started doing the preps: weighing flour, lining sheets, frosting the donut cakes with a speed that won him grudging respect. It was the closest he’d ever been to a f

Alina stepped closer. The baker noticed her. His expression shifted from frustration to fear, then settled into a guarded neutrality. He did not bow. He did not shout. “Your Highness,” he said. The woman turned, confusion crossing her face before recognition dawned. She stiffened, pulling her child closer, as if royalty could steal what little she had left. Alina stopped a few steps away. Close enough to be present. Far enough not to provoke. “What is the trouble?” she asked. The baker’s voice lowered. “There isn’t enough flour. The delivery never came.”

It was dense and slightly strange but warm. "It is not good," he said honestly. "It is warm," Hope said. "That counts." We ate the lamb which was genuinely excellent. The strange bread. A salad I had thrown together from the garden. We talked about small things. About the village. About whether the old bicycle in the barn could be fixed. About a book Hope was reading that she wanted to argue about with someone. And at some point, somewhere in the middle of dinner, I realized that this was it. This was what we had been running toward for years. Not safety exactly. Not peace exactly. But this.