Tempest in a Teapot: SerendipiTea, #1

Prologue

Dear Miss Graham,

I’m sorry to inform you that your book INTO THE OVEN is not a good fit for Chapman and Hall’s list at this time. I’m afraid we found the story unable to stand beside The String of Pearls.

Sincerely,

Edward Chapman and William Hall

Dear Miss Graham,

We are passing on INTO THE OVEN. While it would be a riveting serial, it is too similar to another work on our list, The String of Pearls.

Sincerely,

Edward Lloyd

Miss Graham,

We’re passing on this one.

Alfred Harmsworth

Chapter 1

The barber pulled out a straight razor, the blade sharp enough to slit a man’s throat. Charlotte paused as she set a tray of rolls down on the counter of her family’s bakery. The white shaving cream smeared across the man’s chin made it impossible to tell his age, but he looked at ease in the chair as if he never suspected his barber could kill him on a whim. Without pausing the barber lifted the razor to the man’s throat and slid it across his neck with deft swiftness, blood spraying—

No, no, he couldn’t very well do that. Not when anyone walking past could see through the shop’s window and witness him killing a man. Not to mention Charlotte watching from across the street. It would take her all of five minutes to dash out the back door of the bakery and report the murder to the bobbies.

All the more reason to respect Mr. Todd’s foresight in having a trap door to the basement in the penny blood serial The String of Pearls. Breaking a man’s neck by sending him crashing into the basement wasn’t as dramatic as always using a razor, but it kept the dirty business out of sight. Unlike Mr. Todd, Mr. Housen would never kill one of his customers. It was bad for business.

Thank you for the rolls, Charlotte’s mother said, breaking her out of her reverie. Mrs. White should be here any minute to pick these up. How is our last order coming along? She scratched off Mrs. White’s name on her order list. Her mother wore her hair tied back in a neat bun. Not a speck of flour spotted her apron. She preferred to spend her time at the front of the shop instead of in the kitchen. The kitchen was the domain of Charlotte’s father.

Everything should be ready in time. Everything had been running well all day. Too well. It made Charlotte feel like she was forgetting something important. Her father’s head assistant baker had quit last month, lured in by a generous offer to work in a duke’s kitchen. Each day since had been a struggle to get back to running smoothly.

Perfect. Your father should have the fresh order of flour here within the hour. He’ll need you to keep your cousin away from the bags. Lord knows what a mess Clod could make with it all.

Charlotte froze. So that was what she’d forgotten, her cousin Claude. With the head assistant gone, her parents had agreed to give him a chance to fill the gap. The poor lad had been cursed at a young age when his father got into dabbling with magic he didn’t understand to climb the social ladder. The family had called him Clumsy Clod since. His father’s magic career ended with nothing but a cursed son to show for his efforts.

Claude was far from the last man in the city rumored to be cursed from unskilled magic. But with poverty rampant, plenty of people fell into the temptation of trying untested or dangerous magic in the hopes of escaping the factories or workhouses. Until recently there’d been no books available to the commoners to teach them safe magic. Only rumors, unfinished books, and fake spells floating about. No one in the family knew how her grandfather had managed to get a hold of the spell they used in the bakery.

The bell over the door dinged, alerting them to a new customer. A man in a smart suit strolled inside. One of the local solicitors with a habit of wearing his cravat crooked.

Quick, get into the back. Her mother shoved her through the door before she could protest. Charlotte took it as an aggressive reminder to not let gentlemen see her covered in flour. She didn’t mind, though. It gave her time to catch up on her reading instead of letting her mother parade her around to parties.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before opening them. Claude yelped and several eggs went flying upward until they crashed into the ceiling. They’d never figured out what his curse was, but whatever it was it made the boy clumsier than anyone Charlotte had ever met. At seventeen he’d tripped and dropped enough eggs for two lifetimes already. But somehow his clumsiness always worked out in the end. For baking at least. He was still learning, but every week he got better. His juggling especially. Less broken eggs these days.

The eggs dripped from the ceiling into the waiting bowl below. Clumps of flour matted Claude’s red hair. She gave him a nod and turned to her work in progress. He always cleaned up his own messes and got his orders done in time. Best to ignore the chaos and get on with her baking. On the wall beside her rested the old Graham Bakery sign. It covered a hole her cousin put in the wall during his first week.

Mr. Clarke had been Charlotte’s grandfather on her mother's side, but Charlotte’s father was a Graham. Her parents changed the bakery’s name to Graham for all of one week before putting the old sign back up after too much confusion from customers over where Clarke Bakery had gone and one woman who wouldn’t stop asking for Mr. Clarke to complain.

She picked up the large mound of dough and turned it over. The dough landed with a plop, sending a dusting of flour over her copy of The String of Pearls. Ever since she started reading about Sweeney Todd, a barber who killed his customers and gave them to Mrs. Lovett for her meat pies, she kept getting distracted by the barber across the street whenever her mind wandered.

The scent of burning bread wafted across her nose. She dropped the dough and yanked the oven door open as fast as she could. Small spots of black dotted two buns in the back of the oven. The rest were a touch too golden, but they would be fine. Besides, she didn’t have time to do another batch, not until she finished the rest of the order for the Steepes.

This batch finished off the rolls, but she needed to get the tarts in the oven before the maid arrived to pick up the order. She eyed up the small black spots and checked the timer to make sure she hadn’t left the rolls in too long, but no. Five minutes were left. Not a good sign. She popped the lemon tarts into the oven and then kneeled in front of it. The floor creaked beneath her as the heat of the oven drifted over her face. Sweat beaded on her forehead.

The oven was a behemoth, and it wasn’t the only one in the kitchen either. They needed several to keep up with the demands of the bakery. Most of the surrounding neighborhoods relied on them for their daily bread. She’d have to remember to check the other ovens later.

Why her grandfather chose to put the runes at the bottom of the oven was beyond her. She’d rather have them somewhere near the top where she wouldn’t have to get on the floor to renew them. The etched runes had grown rounded and worn from all the fingers tracing them over the years. The magic of the runes would not only keep the baked goods from burning, but the magic would cook them at the perfect temperature. Assuming the runes were properly tended to. No glow remained in the runes smudged with coal ash and flour. No wonder her buns had burned. The magic had run out.

She sucked in a deep breath and let it out before getting started. As a child her father always treated the runes like the most important tool in their shop and a beloved treasure. Back then he wouldn’t let anyone else touch them. The knowledge had been handed down from her grandfather, their own magical family heirloom. On her twelfth birthday he taught Charlotte, but after all these years they no longer felt impressive. Still, she felt the pressure of doing them right even if they’d become another chore to be done instead of something to marvel at, like sweeping the floor or preparing dough for the next morning.

She recited the words her father taught her as her finger traced the etching. According to him they were Latin, but she didn’t know any Latin to know if it was true. The mystery of the words went stale ages ago. Her older cousin might understand the words thanks to his Latin classes at university and his lack of being cursed unlike his younger brother, but if he came home her mother would send her to parade around at parties with him. Parties always had the best food, but she was awful at pretending to care about politics and other current events. And her flirting attempts left much to be desired. Husband hunting was far more difficult than baking the perfect loaf of bread.

She finished the spell and the runes shimmered as the magic settled into them. Then the etching turned fiery red, chasing away any doubts of the spell working. The glow gave the impression of hot coals from the shifting magic across the runes. Beautiful, but they’d long become as ordinary in the bakery as the dozens of loafs they churned out every day.

She straightened, blowing a stray strand of dark hair out of her face. She settled onto the stool, eying The String of Pearls with longing. If she started reading now she might miss the timer like last week and everything would dry out. With no time left to remake the tarts, best not to chance it. She’d have to wait to find out the ending she’d been putting off.

All the rejections coming in the mail lately had made her loathe the book. But each time she picked it up, the pages sucked her right back in. Her mind relished the flow of the story and the gruesome imagery. Her story was too similar. Into the Oven followed a wife who, fed up with her alcoholic husband, finally tossed him into the oven to save their bakery. She did the same to the gossipy neighbor who wouldn’t stop poking around the bakery. And the man who tried to marry her to take the bakery for himself. None of them survived the oven, and no publisher wanted to serialize the story.

The tinkling of the bell alerted her to a customer.

Good evening, Laoise’s voice called, sounding perfectly prim and proper. I’m here to pick up the order for tomorrow’s party if you please, Mrs. Graham. Her voice brought a smile to Charlotte’s face. A visit from Laoise always meant a break. And if she was lucky, scandalous gossip that would offend more delicate ears at parties.

Of course, Laoise. You can check with Lottie in the back. And tell her to give you a cinnamon bun when you’re back there.

Thank you.

Laoise stepped into the kitchen, her gaze bouncing around before stopping on Charlotte. Where’s your Da? Like Charlotte’s mother, Laoise had red hair that showed off her Irish roots. Charlotte had inherited her father’s dark hair, but as a child, she used to stare into the mirror and wonder how she’d look with her mother’s hair instead. Nothing against her father, but she’d always thought of it as the boring hair that didn’t turn men’s heads like Laoise’s. Even Laoise’s freckles were charming and cute, no matter how many times she complained about them. Being constantly dusted with flour made Charlotte feel like she couldn’t compare.

He’s out getting our order of flour.

And the cinnamon buns? Your Ma said to give me one. Laoise stalked up to the counter like a hungry wolf on the hunt, dropping a stack of baskets down.

Charlotte held out the bun. Only one left today. I thought you might be by, so I saved it.

Laoise bit into the bun, her eyes rolling up. Feckin’ hell, I swear your bakery makes the best breads. If your Ma ever gets tired of your Da let me know, and I’ll marry him meself.

You’d better hope my mother doesn’t hear you talking like that or she will kick you out and you’ll never get another free bun. The laugh she held in took the bite out of the threat.

Laoise grinned, her dimples making her look more innocent than she’d ever been. Charlotte would know. The only trouble she got into growing up was whatever trouble Laoise dragged her into.

One of these days you are going to slip up and my mother will realize you aren’t so proper after all.

She should already know based on what a terror I was as a child. Nothing could match the time Laoise dropped a whole fish into her father’s soup as punishment for his bad temper. In comparison Charlotte’s father had been too mild mannered and quiet to earn Laoise’s ire. Anyway, I brought you a gift too. She dangled an envelope from between her thumb and pointer finger.

A letter?

No, an invitation.

Charlotte wrinkled her nose. A luncheon?

Better than a luncheon. It’s for the tea party! I got you the invitation meself. The Steepes came back from their country estate early this year to host a party before the social season starts. I guess Mr. Steepe wanted first choice of the eligible beauties this year.

Charlotte stared at her, unblinking. An invitation to a Steepe event? That isn’t a funny joke. Laoise had worked for the Steepes for several years now, enough to fill her with stories about their influence and exhausting parties. The Steepes weren’t nobility, but they were wealthy thanks to their business dealings that put them as high as a family could go without title.

Laoise scowled. It’s not a joke. I delivered Mr. Steepe a cup of tea right before I left. He asked about the party preparations, and I told him I was about to fetch the bakery order. He complimented your bakery and said it’s his favorite. I asked him if he knew the baker had an available daughter.

You didn’t. Charlotte’s voice rose a notch in a panic. The luncheons with other small business families had been bad enough, but a party that would have nobility at it? She’d be far too out of place. Her clothing wouldn’t be up to their standards or her manners. She’d do nothing but embarrass herself. He knows I’m a baker too, right?

Laoise sucked in a breath before continuing as fast as she could speak. He said he wasn’t aware the baker had an available daughter, and that he would send an invitation with me since it was the polite thing to do. I said any man would be lucky to have a wife good at baking and he agreed! He asked me to wait while he fetched another invitation and here it is. She shoved the envelope at Charlotte.

Charlotte eyed it dubiously. I don’t understand why you think I should attend.

He is looking for a wife! Everyone expects him to choose someone soon. She waggled her eyebrows. He could choose you if you go.

Charlotte laughed. When Laoise glared she stopped. Are you being serious?

Going won’t hurt you. Steepe parties are one of the most sought after invitations in the city, and I got you one.

Charlotte sniffed at the fancy writing on the envelope. Even the elegant loops felt too far above her. He isn’t going to settle for a baker’s daughter when his family’s reputation could land him a noble’s daughter. She got to work packing up the last of the order for the party.

That isn’t the point! Laoise said through a mouthful of pastry. The point is to help you make friends who happen to have handsome, single brothers or cousins.

You sound like my mother.

Laoise shoved the rest of the bun into her mouth and then grabbed Charlotte by the shoulders, forcing her to stop. Charlotte raised her eyebrows, waiting for her friend to finish chewing. Even Queen Victoria had to marry. The rest of us are no exception. The Steepes have connections to countless other businesses. You could meet a man who could help run the bakery once its yours.

Charlotte folded in on herself. To have to marry to keep the bakery wasn’t fair. But the laugh her father’s solicitor gave her had been enough to tell her she’d have a battle on her hands. Her mother had her husband at her side when she inherited. Help would be nice when her time came. She could admit that much.

There, there, Laoise said as she pulled Charlotte into a hug, patting her back hard enough it almost hurt. On the bright side, without all this baking, you’ll have time to write more books. Laoise pulled away to grab the book on the table. She waved it in the air. You can murder a rich businessman with a baguette or something in the next one. Who dies in this one? She squinted at the cover.

With a sigh Charlotte pulled her book away. They don’t all have murder in them. And you know all my attempts to get published have failed. Bakeries don’t make for chilling enough settings anymore. I need to think of something else. Her notebook full of ideas sat nearby, full of nothing but new recipes and crossed out book ideas.

A recipe book then for bread. Laosie bumped into the basket of tarts. Oh, right. The party. Her smile fell. If I don’t get back soon the housekeeper will have my head. She grabbed up as much as she could, hardly making a dent in the pile of baked goods. Make sure you wear something flattering. Maybe something blue or that lavender dress.

You do realize the lavender is the only dress I have suitable enough for a party like that?

All the easier to choose! Laoise said, far too cheerful, as she backed out of the kitchen. I’m going to get the coachman to come grab the rest.

What was that about a party? Charlotte’s mother asked as she arranged the window display.

Charlotte glared at Laoise, begging with her eyes to not say a word.

Laoise flashed her a demure smile. Mr. Steepe and his mother sent an invitation for their party tomorrow. Can you help Charlotte with her hair in the morning?

Charlotte’s mother clapped her hands together in delight. Oh how wonderful! Her brow furrowed, her smile turning to a frown. But your dresses won’t do for such an occasion. We need to go shopping. And wipe that flour off your cheek.

She dabbed at Charlotte’s cheek with her apron. Charlotte wiggled away, knowing she was trapped. Somewhere behind her Laoise complimented the coachman’s muscles, offering to get the door for him on his way out. By the time Charlotte pulled on her cloak and took off her apron, Laoise guided the coachman to the