Chapter 3 - The Secret Ingredient
The servant’s quarters were small but warm, featuring a single iron bed, a pine wardrobe, and a small window looking out over the misty pine woods.
Grace didn't rest. She unpacked her baking tools, laid her two battered recipe notebooks on the stainless steel counter of the massive commercial kitchen, and went to work.
The kitchen was cold and lifeless, filled with high-end appliances that looked as though they had never been used with love.
At 4:00 a.m. the following morning, Grace tied a plain canvas apron around her waist. She cleared the counter, measured out unbleached flour, fresh farm eggs, high-fat European butter, whole milk, and real yeast.
She didn't use electric mixers. She worked the dough by hand.
The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of dough hitting the butcher block echoed through the quiet house. She stretched, folded, kneaded, letting the warmth of her palms activate the gluten.
Next came the filling: dark brown sugar, Madagascar vanilla, a pinch of sea salt, and freshly ground Korintje cinnamon that released a rich, spicy aroma into the chilly morning air.
As the rolls baked in the massive oven, the scent bloomed, escaping the kitchen doors and floating up the grand stairwell, drifting down the long, cold hallways of the second floor.
It was 5:14 a.m.
The kitchen door creaked open.
Grace turned around from the stove.
Standing in the doorway was a small boy in oversized navy pajamas. He was thin, with messy dark hair and large, shadowy brown eyes. He clutched a frayed blanket to his chest, his tiny nose twitching as he took in the warm, buttery aroma filling the room.
It was Toby, the six-year-old.
Grace didn't rush toward him. She didn't offer a fake, overly cheerful smile. She simply pulled a wooden chair near the warm oven, patted the seat, and picked up a small wire rack.
“They need five more minutes to cool,” Grace said softly, her voice warm and steady. “If you eat them too hot, the sugar burns your tongue.”
Toby stood frozen for a moment. Then, slowly, his bare feet padding softly across the cold tile, he walked into the kitchen and climbed onto the wooden chair.
Grace pulled a golden, bubbling cinnamon roll from the tray, drizzled it with fresh cream cheese icing, set it on a small china plate, and handed him a small fork.
Toby looked at the plate. He looked at Grace. Then he picked up the fork, cut off a soft, gooey piece from the center, and put it in his mouth.
His eyes widened. He closed them, letting out a soft, contented sigh.
From the dark doorway behind them, a tall shadow shifted.
Vincent Marchetti stood in the frame, leaning against the door jamb. He was wearing a charcoal wool robe over his shirt, his hair dark and unruly. He watched his youngest son—the boy who had refused to eat solid food for three days—gobble down the warm pasty with pure delight.
Vincent’s amber eyes moved from his son to Grace.
For the first time, the lethal coldness in his gaze wavered, replaced by a deep, dark curiosity.
“What did you put in that?” Vincent asked softly from the dark.
May you like
Grace looked up, meeting his gaze through the warm steam rising from the bakery counter.
“Patience, Mr. Marchetti,” Grace replied gently. “And respect for a hungry child.”
