Here’s the first chapter of Mira’s adventure. Once the books are published you’ll be able to read samples of each book on Amazon.

Chapter 1

June

Late afternoon in the bakery is the only quiet part of my day. The ovens are cooling, the bread is sold, and for a few blessed minutes no one needs anything from me.

The leather-bound bakery journal crackles as I open it, releasing a small puff of dust that smells like cinnamon and old ink. Elegant handwriting fills the pages, written with a quill, the ink faded but still clear.

Not my grandfather’s hand, or his father’s. I’d recognize both. This is older, much older.

Flipping through, I find no lingering spellwork in the pages. Just good old-fashioned recipes, neat as pressed flowers. If there had ever been any magic, it’s long since faded to nothing.

Not that I was looking for magic. I found the journal with others in a chest in the storeroom, buried among centuries of castoff baking equipment gathering dust. Mostly, I just like poking through old recipes, the older, the better. It’s like rummaging through the pockets of history and hoping to find a forgotten piece of candy.

Midway through the book, a dried-up sticky note flutters out. It marks a recipe for almond meringue cookies with blood orange curd. In the original hand, a note: To best color the curd, the juice of Sanguinello oranges from Sicily is desired. The red ones, as our supplier sends each winter. They do not keep, but their magic binds well.

In the margins is more writing, but in ballpoint pen. Lines scratched out. Corrections and additions squeezed in tightly. And the recipe are-titled in block letters at the top of the page: Blood Orange Macarons.

Why didn’t the writer just start with a macaron recipe instead of adapting this older almond cookie?

I glance through the ingredients, squint at the changes and additions. For all the promise made by the writer of the original recipe and all that scribbling added later, there’s still nothing magical here.

Still, it looks doable. I even like the idea in the notes of swapping some of the butter in the curd with coconut oil to keep the color bright—except it’s mid-June, and blood oranges aren’t in season. Not that Montreal ever has a season for oranges.

I tuck the sticky note back into place, turn the page, and keep reading.

Late afternoon light filters through the bakery’s tall front windows, casting long shadows across the counter from the hand-lettered name in the center of each window: La Mie Faucher. The Crumb Faucher. The heart of the bread. Below that is our logo, a black cat sitting on a croissant.

I sit perched on a stool worn smooth from years of use, elbows on the heavy oak counter. Made from the wide planks of an ancient bakery workbench, the surface of the counter is marked with deep gouges, a record carved by generations of knives.

A record of the Faucher family. Keeping the legacy alive was the argument that finally convinced my grandfather to agree to the renovation that added a coffee service and more inside seating.

Along the edge of the counter, among the gouges, are tiny sigils burned into the oak with branding irons. Good luck, health, prosperity. We still use the same irons for special orders for the magical Velari community, the sigil burned onto crackers and cookies. Token magic, ritual more than power. The kind meant to bless bread, not bend the world. I think most customers, human or Velari, never notice them.

I had kept the journal in my office in the basement kitchen until I had time to look through it properly. It’s the original kitchen from when this was a manor house. Étienne Faucher bought and converted the manor into a bakery in eighteen eighty-seven, as the rich moved out of the already dense urban core. Family legend says he commissioned the four guardian stones, one in each corner of the kitchen, from the Sho’an’s own Guild of River Guardians—but not what it cost him.

I love working down there, feeling the pulse of the ley line energy the guardian stones channel, one in each corner, and sneaking just a little of that energy into the pastries that are my speciality. Just enough to make good bread better.

But looking through old books? That needs daylight and fresh air and a giant mug of freshly made coffee.

Outside, the warming mid-June weather has coaxed locals and tourists out to the cafe patios. It seems every shop is open much later than four in the afternoon, except for us.

The brass bell over the front door jangles, followed by heavy knocking that makes me jump. I brace for yet another determined tourist who can’t believe we’re closed.

Then, through the window, I spot Anita’s familiar silhouette. Her cap of strawberry blond hair catches the light like a sleek halo, a contrast to the wrinkled cargo pants and worn t-shirt. The kind of outfit you pack food in. The kind you haul boxes in.

I scramble off the stool, catch my foot on the rung, and send my coffee mug skittering a few inches across the counter, then hurry to unlock the door.

“Anita, what’s wrong?”

“Hi Mira.” She gives me an apologetic smile. “It’s just the food bank. We didn’t get our delivery this afternoon.”

“Raul didn’t deliver it?” Our part-time worker, part-time student.

She shakes her head. “Same thing last week. I’ve been calling the store number, but it goes to voicemail. Is everything okay?” There’s no accusation in her voice, only concern.

My heart sinks. Great. Of all the mistakes, missing the food bank order feels like the worst. Like kicking a kitten. I rake my fingers through my hair, loosening strands from my already messy bun.

Tomorrow is Tuesday, the one day the bakery is closed. Anything that won’t last or can’t be stored or remade goes to the once-a-week food bank at Église Sainte-Marguerite-du-Rivage, a name grand enough for a cathedral but belonging to a small stone chapel tucked near the old port. There are always a few extras too, depending on how our bakers, Lulit and Kebede, feel that day. Even my grandfather doesn’t argue with them about it, only complains to me.

Raul’s last job on Mondays before he leaves for classes is to bag the leftovers Lulit and Kebede set aside, then drop the boxes off at the church.

At least it’s supposed to be that simple.

“Come in,” I say to Anita. “I’ll find you something.”

The walk-in fridge in the main kitchen hums as I slide the door open. Inside, two cardboard boxes sit abandoned, baguettes sticking out like pieces of kindling. If this was meant for the food bank, there should be a lot more of everything.

Anita leans in to see. “Just baguettes?”

“Looks like.”

She bites her lip. “People ask for their favorites. Maybe you’ve been spoiling us.”

Guilt knots in my stomach. “I’m sorry. I’ll find out what happened.”

She pulls one baguette out by the tip, weighing it in her hand. “If you have half-size sleeves, we’ll cut the bread down. Make it stretch. So everyone gets something.”

By the time I retrieve the sleeves, Anita’s by the front door, balancing both boxes in her arms. I grab one, only to get smacked in the face by a shifting baguette, its sharp score mark grazing my nose. Excellent. Bread assault.

After helping Anita load the bread and updating the inventory records, I stash the old book in my office, then head up the stairs that go up to the second and third floors, now apartments.

I live with my grandparents on the top floor. They don’t keep baker’s hours anymore, and grandmother has already started making dinner, a green salad with slices of cold roast veal, a creamy tuna dressing on the side. Three wine glasses on the counter beside a tall soft green bottle, the cork out. A local white, Domaine du Pin Argenté. Silver Pine Winery. Grandfather buys by the case from a local wine merchant, likes to try Quebecois growers.

Popping a sliver of veal into my mouth, I recognize the seasoning. From the deli on the next block over, by the hair salon she likes. Her short, blue-tinted silver curls are perfectly set. She must’ve gone out while I was working.

I pour the pale wine into a glass, inhale. Notes of ripe pear and lemon balm. It’s one of my favorites. I gesture to her. She nods, and I pour a second glass, setting it near the cutting board.

“Do you know anything about the food bank delivery?” I ask.

She glances over her shoulder, tall and graceful, elegant even in an apron and house slippers. Elle porte bien son âge. She wears her age well. I wish for the zillionth time I’d inherited her height, had hopes when I spurted up at fourteen. I still have to stand on tiptoe to kiss her cheek.

Her glance isn’t aimed at me but at the dining room table, where my grandfather sits buried behind his newspaper, the pages spread wide, rustling across the cutlery and baguette slices.

“Mon bébé,” she says. “He’s in a mood. Don’t bring it up tonight.”

Her voice is as gentle as always, but her New Orleans Creole accent only comes out when she’s royally pissed.

“Message received. Oh, I gave Anita the baguettes from the walk-in fridge. They weren’t earmarked for anyone, were they?”

“Did you find an order sheet?”

I shake my head. I hadn’t thought to check until after Anita had gone and was relieved there was nothing on the clipboard Lulit and Kebede work off, nothing logged into the inventory system.

“Of course not,” she says, louder now. “If he can’t be bothered with the paperwork, let it be on him.”

I tell her about the missed calls. About the voicemail. And decide for the tenth time that calls need to go to the counter staff, not him.

Across the room, my grandfather stiffens but doesn’t look up. He refuses to wear his hearing aid. Thick iron-colored hair, neatly combed back, frames a face carved in sharp angles, with a narrow, slightly hooked nose and deep-set eyes.

In old photos, he’s a hair shorter than my grandmother. He’s more than that now, his back slightly stooped. I know my grandmother is eight years younger, but when I was growing up, they always seemed the same age. The cane resting beside his chair is the only concession he’s made to getting older. That, and the stubbornness that has him build a newspaper fortress every evening between himself and whatever conversation he doesn’t want to have.

Still holding the wineglass, I give my grandmother a hug. “Mémère, I’ll talk with him,” I promise. “Don’t argue with him tonight about it, please. We both know he’ll just dig his heels in.”

I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. Suddenly, I’m exhausted. “He fights me on everything. When he’s not sabotaging me.”

My grandmother’s face crumbles. “Please say you don’t hate him. He’s a stubborn fool, but it would break his heart.”

Shame flushes through me. That had been a mean thing to say. “I’m just frustrated,” I whisper. “Besides, how could I hate him when I love you so much?”

“Remember that tomorrow when he asks where the bread is.”

“I filled out an order sheet for it, updated the inventory.”

She smiles, makes a play at dabbing at perfectly dry eyes with a tea towel. “Evil child.”

I refill my wineglass. “I’m going to bed. Been working since two this morning. Save me some dinner for breakfast?”

“Of course. Some lettuce. Or a cherry tomato.”

In retaliation, I take another slice of veal and scamper away as she swats at me with the tea towel.

My room is where the old servants’ quarters had been, tucked under the timber-framed mansard roof of a narrow addition that filled the gap between the original manor house and the next building. It’s five steps down from the main apartment and has its own set of stairs from the basement kitchen.

My renovation is a work-in-progress. All the non-load-bearing interior walls are gone, but the floors remain a patchwork, with rough areas where the wide fir planks don’t meet, now hidden under rugs I picked up at the flea market. Two dormer windows face the street, while a third at the back looks out over the courtyard, the old metal fire escape just below it.

The room holds onto heat in summer, but I don’t mind. At night when I can’t sleep, I listen to the city’s heartbeat through the open windows until I can’t resist its call and I shift into a cat and prowl the neighboring rooftops until it’s time to start work at three in the morning.

Even with the wine, I sleep fitfully, and it’s not even ten in the evening when I give up. I take the shower I should have had before falling into bed, then wrap myself in a giant bath towel and pad barefoot to the window. I lean my elbows on the sill and let the soft warm air dry my skin, my hair.

Mid-June, almost the solstice.

The long, slow sunset paints the limestone buildings in shades of amber and rose, their shadows reaching out to the old port and the glassy water of the St. Lawrence River. Below, the cobbled streets are still lively, full of laughter and the clink of glasses as locals and tourists linger in the warm evening.

And over it all, the ley lines shimmer. They ripple through the city, tracing paths older than the cobblestones, older than any settlement. Most people can’t see them, even among the Velari. I know my grandparents can’t. Or Lulit and Kebede.

One major ley line hugs the shoreline of the river, pulsing deep blue-green, the color of glacier ice, with a feel like the wine from last night tasted. Smaller tributaries branch off inland, their colors warming to gold and russet, threading through the old neighborhoods like veins of molten light.

A confluence of three minor lines runs directly beneath our building before separating again, golden light seeping up through the limestone like water through sand. That added strength is likely what drew the original builders of the manor to the site, even if they didn’t know why. It’s what most definitely had attracted Étienne Faucher long afterwards. Perfect for the small, subtle magics my family is capable of in our baking, just enough to enhance what’s natural.

Seeing ley lines is like feeling the weight of a dream balanced in your palm—not sight, not touch, but something stitched between the two. If I don’t pay attention to seeing them, they fade like a dream in the morning.

Like should marry like, my grandfather insists. Leave power to the powerful. My grandmother just rolls her eyes but says nothing about her own family. Sometimes I wonder if she was already pregnant by someone else when they got married. It would explain the little I’ve overheard about my mother and her magic. My grandparents refuse to talk about her or who they think my father might be.

A flock of pigeons wheel overhead, their bodies outlined in silver as they cross through a high-flowing ley line stream. Most animals avoid the strongest currents, but here, where there are so many ley lines, some have adapted. I’ve seen squirrels skating along the smaller channels, like kids on a water slide.

As dusk settles over the city, the lines grow more distinct. Night always brings out their true colors, as if darkness lets them shed their camouflage. The main line along the river deepens into blues so electric it almost hums, while the golden threads that lie beneath the bakery take on an amber glow that reminds me of honey held up to the sun.

With the disappearing light, the rooftops call to me.

My bones shift and compress. Fur sprouts across my skin as I shrink into my cat form. The change comes easily now. The results though, the results look like someone took scissors to a wet string mop. My fur is double-coated, defiant, and about as sleek as a splattered ink blot.

Once out the window, I flex my paws against the weathered slate tiles of the roof, feeling the familiar roughness under my pads. The rowhouses share a jumble of connected rooflines, easy jumping distance depending on who last repaired what or added something. I stick to the shadows of the chimneys, skirting the occasional rooftop terrace where people linger over drinks.

A flash of movement catches my eye.

Another cat, three roofs away.

His white fur gleams in the twilight, a few dark patches mark his face, a larger patch on one haunch. He has a stocky body, powerful looking. At first, I think he’s tailless, but then I spot the stub, crooked like a question mark.

He pauses, turns his head toward me.

Our eyes meet across the gap, and something in his gaze makes my fur stand on end. Intelligence. He’s Velari.

He vanishes behind a chimney stack, and I race after him, claws skittering on the slate. But when I reach the spot, he’s gone. Just the lingering magic in the cooling air, faint but unmistakable.

I sit back on my haunches at the edge of the roof, tail twitching.

In all my nights prowling these rooftops, I’ve never encountered another shapeshifter. The Velari mostly keep to the ley line communities, separate from the human world. Only some of the low-magic families like mine, those who provide ordinary goods and services to Velari and humans alike, live in both. Kebede and Lulit can shift, although they rarely do anymore. It gets harder with age. But they aren’t cats.

The encounter leaves me unsettled, fur bristling. I should go home, but something keeps me there, perched at the edge of the roof, scanning the darkening skyline.

Waiting. Just in case.