An enemies-to-lovers fantasy of ruin, wonder, and impossible choices.
Bakers don't bargain with gods. But when Maren Greenbriar's apprentice is stolen by the Court of Chaos, she trades her soul (and her common sense) to get her back.
The price: three deadly trials in a realm where stories eat their own endings.
The complication: the Court's ruler, a golden-eyed spirit who lives for ruin and calls her "darling."
He offers her a bargain she can't refuse. She offers him a challenge he can't forget.
Between labyrinths that rewrite memory and flames that burn the truth from bone, Maren will fight to bring her apprentice home and protect the last scraps of her mother's legacy. But every victory binds her tighter to the Spirit who saved her life and might just undo her heart.
Caught between the warmth of her bakery and the hunger for wonder she's tried to bury, Maren must decide which part of herself survives. The woman who kneads bread for a quiet village, or the one who was born to set realms on fire.
An enemies-to-lovers fantasy of ruin, wonder, and impossible choices.
Bakers don't bargain with gods. But when Maren Greenbriar's apprentice is stolen by the Court of Chaos, she trades her soul (and her common sense) to get her back.
The price: three deadly trials in a realm where stories eat their own endings.
The complication: the Court's ruler, a golden-eyed spirit who lives for ruin and calls her "darling."
He offers her a bargain she can't refuse. She offers him a challenge he can't forget.
Between labyrinths that rewrite memory and flames that burn the truth from bone, Maren will fight to bring her apprentice home and protect the last scraps of her mother's legacy. But every victory binds her tighter to the Spirit who saved her life and might just undo her heart.
Caught between the warmth of her bakery and the hunger for wonder she's tried to bury, Maren must decide which part of herself survives. The woman who kneads bread for a quiet village, or the one who was born to set realms on fire.
Maren had flour in her hair again.
Not a dusting. Not a charming, picturesque smudge like the heroines in her books. No, this was a full-bodied, ghost-of-an-Elizabethan-orphan level coating of flour. The kind that stuck to her eyelashes and dared someone to comment so she could legally hit them with a baguette.
She wiped at it with the back of her wrist and only managed to grind in a streak of dough. Perfect. Exactly the aesthetic she was going for: Bread Witch of Eldenwick.
Patron sinner of the overworked and under-blessed.
The shop smelled of vanilla and burnt sugar, the air warm enough to melt thoughts. A cracked bell hung above the door, still chiming despite the fracture. A single key lay under the hearthstone, teeth-out, as her mother had taught her. Half-superstition, half-insurance.
She leaned over the prep table and glared down at the dough she was supposed to be coaxing into something artisanal.
âYouâre scowling at it again,â a voice chirped behind her.
Maren looked up from the sullen lump of dough sheâd been threatening into cooperation.
Penny Thornwick leaned in the doorway, sunshine incarnate in a bright yellow apron. Her apron was so violently yellow it could be seen from orbit, embroidered clumsily with rosemary and patched at the corner with daisies. Sheâd tucked two rosemary sprigs into her braid like a crown, and they bobbed every time she moved her head. Their scent cut through the sweetness of the bakery air.
A thin red ribbon circled her wrist: the daily Fury ward, knotted once for courage, once for restraint. It gleamed against her skin as if the Spirit herself approved.
Maren pressed her knuckles into the dough, letting its soft resistance absorb her irritation. âIt started it,â she muttered.
Penny tilted her head, unbothered, green eyes catching the light, âYouâre supposed to knead with love, not homicide.â
âSame result,â Maren deadpanned.
The dough sagged pitifully, proving her point.
Beside her, a battered storybook lay open across a mixing bowl that definitely violated every sanitary law the Chapel ever wrote. Tales of the Fox and Other Fables, the gilt letters nearly worn away.
Her fatherâs handwriting filled the margins: tiny arguments with the text, alternate endings, the occasional ânonsenseâ scribbled beside a moral. Maren had added her own notes over the years, smaller but meaner. The book looked less read than debated to death.
She squinted at the line sheâd left off on:
âAnd there, in the heart of the woods, the fox waitedâŚâ
Maren snorted. âYeah. Probably to eat someone.â
âThatâs not the moral,â Penny said, sweeping in with a tray of rolls that smelled so divine it couldâve converted an atheist. She moved through the flour-light like sunlight given human form, a faint chime following her from the bell charm on her apron.
âItâs about cleverness and fate,â Penny continued, setting the tray down.
âOr tooth decay.â Maren flipped the page with her elbow, leaving a crescent of dough across a fox illustration that smirked up at her. The margin note there read: Rewrite ending. Make girl smarter, fox hungrier.
Penny leaned over her shoulder, curls brushing Marenâs arm. âYou still change the endings?â
âWhen theyâre stupid,â Maren said. âSomeone has to rescue the heroines from bad writing.â
Penny laughed, the sound ringing off the copper pans like a small bell. âYou could write your own, you know. Tales of the Bread Witch, perhaps.â
Maren raised a brow. âBlasphemy.â
Penny grinned. âAgainst you or the Chapel?â
âBoth,â Maren said, dusting flour off her hands. âOne burns the loaves, the other burns the books.â
Penny only smiled wider, sunlight over a thundercloud. âThen itâs a good thing youâre hard to scorch.â
âIâm resilient,â Maren said. âLike mold.â
âThatâs one word for it.â Pennyâs laugh was quick and warm, the kind that lived in the rafters long after she stopped. âYou know Iâm right. You stay up half the night reading, scribbling in margins, dreaming with your eyes open. You want more than this.â
Steam ghosted up between them, sweet with cinnamon and yeast. Outside, hammers rang from the square where carpenters were raising a festival stage; the rhythm slipped through the shutters like an impatient heartbeat.
Maren tightened the braid of dough. âI want,â she said sweetly, âfor you to stop psychoanalyzing me before I weaponize this rolling pin.â
Penny grinned, undeterred. âSee? Youâve already got character work. All you need is a plot.â
âPlotâs overrated,â Maren muttered. âMost stories end with a wedding or a funeral, and both require catering.â
Penny laughed again, and for a moment, Maren almost smiled with her. Theyâd been doing this dance for years: light and dark, honey and salt, the world a little less dull when Penny was near.
Flour hung in the air like stardust, settling over everything: the copper pans, the cooling rolls, the two books propped against the wall. Her motherâs cookbook leaned against her fatherâs tattered storybook, the spines forever at odds with each other. Recipe versus fable. Bread versus wonder.
Sheâd been trying to knead the two together since she could hold a spoon.
Her gaze drifted to the door, to the bell hanging there. Outside, a sliver of sunlight cut through the glass, gilding the countertop, the flour, Pennyâs hair; everything she was supposed to love.
She could almost convince herself it was enough. Almost.
Then the bell over the front door chimed.
Not the cheerful, chaotic jingle of Old Keld with his turnips or the candle girl bartering beeswax for buns. No, this was a precise chime. Polite. Practiced. Like a curtsy in sound form.
Maren froze mid-knead, dough clinging to her fingers. âIncoming,â she murmured.
Sure enough, Mrs. Aldren swept in like she was hosting a garden party. Her bonnet was perched at a gravity-defying angle that no law of nature could explain. Her shawl was embroidered with lilies, and her basket was lined with lavender sachets, soaps, and just enough superiority to season a stew.
âThereâs my favorite girl,â she trilled, smiling widely.
Maren glanced over her shoulder, deadpan. âYou mean me?â
âOf course, dear,â Mrs. Aldren said, gliding closer. âYouâve grown up so well, considering⌠everything.â Her eyes flicked to the portrait on the wall: the Greenbriar plague, three generations of bakers glaring down from flour-smudged frames.
âEverything,â Maren echoed. âMy favorite euphemism for âorphaned young.ââ
Mrs. Aldren tutted delicately, rearranging her shawl as though sympathy were contagious. âWe all have our tests, child. The Spirits shape us through suffering. Itâs character-building.â
âMm,â Maren said. âAnd here I thought parenting did the shaping.â
Penny coughed sharply, the universal sound for please behave in front of customers.
Mrs. Aldren, unfazed, inspected the trays like an auditor. âNow, Iâll take the rolls without seeds this time. The flax ones are quite⌠indecent.â
Maren blinked. âIndecent.â
âFlax,â Mrs. Aldren whispered, as if invoking sin itself. âThe Chapel says it stirs the blood. Too much heat in the body invites Temptationâs favor. Why, they say the Saints used to ban it outright.â
Maren folded her arms, the picture of calm insolence. âAh. Seduced by fiber?â
Penny nearly choked on air. âMarenââ
âIâm serious,â Maren went on, tone sweet as poisoned honey. âIf lust and constipation share a cause, perhaps the Spirits should coordinate their departments.â
Mrs. Aldrenâs smile didnât move, but her eyes narrowed just enough to suggest divine displeasure. âIndigestion and lust share the same root in the old tongue,â she said tightly.
Maren froze mid-reach, then turned slowly, expression solemn. âSo youâre telling me flatulence offends the gods.â
Penny made a choking noise. Mrs. Aldren drew herself up, scandalized. âIt is not a laughing matter!â
âNo, of course not,â Maren said. âWe should all repent immediately. Maybe light a candle for anyone who survived a suspicious stew.â
Mrs. Aldrenâs mouth opened, closed, and twitched in silent prayer. âThatâs notâwellâperhaps your mother didnâtââ
âOh, she did,â Maren said lightly, brushing flour from her sleeve. âShe just had the sense to know that divine beings donât care about bowel movements.â
Mrs. Aldren smiled tightly. âYou do like your little jokes.â
âThank you,â Maren said sweetly. âI bake them fresh.â
Penny stifled a laugh behind her hand, but the sound escaped anyway, bright as chimes. She bounced forward, rosemary sprigs bobbing as she moved.
The older woman stiffened, clutching her lavender sachet as if it were a talisman. âYou ought to wear a ribbon,â she said sharply. âRed at the wrist keeps Fury from nipping at the temper. Yours, I daresay, could use taming.â
Maren glanced at Pennyâs bright ribbon, then at her bare wrist. âMaybe Fury and I have an understanding.â
âBlasphemy,â Mrs. Aldren gasped, as though sheâd just witnessed a murder.
âOccupational hazard,â Maren replied. âYou canât bake miracles without singeing a few fingers.â
Penny darted in with the diplomacy of someone trained in disaster relief. âWe have lovely seedless rolls this morning, Mrs. Aldren. Fresh from the oven. Maren insists on perfection.â
âDoes she?â The woman eyed Maren with suspicion. Still, she selected two rolls, weighing them as though judging souls. âSuch enthusiasm,â she said at last, accepting the bag. âItâs a wonder it hasnât worn off on you.â
Maren plastered on her best polite smile, which looked a lot like a grimace. âOh, itâs worn off plenty. Mostly in the form of gray hairs.â
âGray suits wisdom,â Penny chirped, brightly loyal as ever. âAnd Maren has enough for both of us.â
Mrs. Aldrenâs brows climbed. Maren choked on a laugh. Penny beamed like sheâd just declared Maren the Empress of Bread.
Mrs. Aldrenâs lips pursed so tight they couldâve piped icing. Coins clinked into Marenâs hand, cold and deliberate.
âDo give my blessings to the Saints,â she said, heading for the door.
âOf course,â Maren said sweetly. âIâll tell them flax remains the deadliest of sins.â
The bell chimed again. Silence followed, thick enough to frost.
Penny pressed a flour-dusted hand over her mouth, eyes bright with laughter she shouldnât risk. âYou could try to be nice,â she said finally.
âI was nice,â Maren replied, sweeping stray crumbs into a pile. âI didnât throw the flax rolls.â
âProgress,â Penny said, bumping her shoulder. âBut maybe next time, less commentary on divine digestion.â
Maren sighed, brushing flour off the counter with the dignity of someone deeply unrepentant. âFine. Next time Iâll just curse her bonnet instead.â
#
Outside, Eldenwick was already in one of its morning spirals.
The cobblestones sweated from a halfhearted bucket wash, an attempt to scrub away the chalk protests about turnip prices.
Laundry lines drooped overhead, dripping onto anyone unlucky enough to pass below. The air smelled of dirt, horse, and the metallic tang of bell polish; festival week always reeked of ambition.
Maren stepped into the sunlight, basket balanced on one hip, and blinked at the chaos. The sky hung low and heavy, typical late-summer weather in the Kingdom of Mythrin, the kind that promised rain but primarily delivered humidity and bad tempers.
Somewhere beyond the hills, the Red Steppe winds carried news of Stormreach and its holy war: Furyâs provinces shouting about devotion while bleeding for it. The Chapel called it a divine duty. Maren called it bad bookkeeping.
She glanced toward the blacksmithâs forge, where the man himself swung his hammer in steady rhythm, the red sash tied around his bicep stark against the heat. It wasnât the Fury ribbon of prayer this time, but a conscription mark.
Heâd likely be bound for Stormreach by winter, unless the army rerouted him to Amberfell to forge spearheads instead. Either way, heâd be hammering for the gods soon enough.
Penny walked beside her, a tray of honey rolls glittering under a drape of muslin and an apron bright enough to blind the sun. She waved to nearly everyone. Maren, meanwhile, grumbled at nearly everything.
âMarket first,â Penny sang, dodging a cart stacked with linen. âThen apothecary, then the bookbinder. Donât let me forget the bookbinder.â
âWouldnât dream of it,â Maren said. âYouâd mourn the cinnamon like a widow.â
Penny shot her a grin over her shoulder. âAnd youâd mourn the gossip. Look at you pretending you donât care.â
âI donât care,â Maren said. âBut I do eavesdrop recreationally.â
They rounded the corner into the market square.
Festival preparations had begun early.
Carpenters hammered together a small dais for the coming Festival of Castings, where the Chapel would parade six relics: the coin, the loom, the vessel, the key, the spearhead, and the bell tongue across the square like prized livestock.
Stalls were already draped with bunting: fox masks for Mischief, serpent bangles for Temptation, cracked bells strung as ornaments for Delight.
Children darted through the crowd wearing animal masks of the Spiritsâ creatures, chasing each other with the high-pitched reverence of sugar and belief.
One boy in a fox mask tugged at Marenâs skirt before darting away, shouting a line from a fable: âLuck loves a liar!â
Maren scowled after him. âAnd honesty loves a day off.â
Penny bit her lip to keep from laughing.
Everywhere Maren looked, there was something to remind her of the Faith. A key maker selling charms to âlock away dread.â A weaver burning scraps of thread in a small brazier as an offering to Temptation âto let go of what no longer serves.â A candle monger hawking red wax ribbons âto keep Fury calm.â
âPeople really will buy anything if you brand it with a Spirit,â Maren said, stepping around a cart of bell clappers.
Penny smiled without looking up from her tray. âThey just like feeling blessed.â
âThey just like excuses,â Maren said. âThe Festival of Castings is half theology, half consumer trap. At least the Day of Reckoning has fistfights worth watching.â
âMaren,â Penny said patiently, ânot everyone wants their religion to be violent.â
âThatâs the only honest part,â Maren muttered, glancing again toward the forgeâs red sash.
A gust of wind lifted the scent of roasting chestnuts and the distant brine of Tideglass salt, finally reaching the inland town after months of delay. A vendor shouted that the trade roads were open again, though Maren doubted it. Salt from the coast had become expensive as gold since the war started clogging the caravans.
Honey, salt, thread, and iron; the four tithes Mythrin worshiped with. Everything useful, everything taxable.
And somehow, none of it made the bread rise faster.
Penny nudged her with a shoulder. âYou look like youâre narrating the end of the world again.â
âIâm narrating the cost of it,â Maren said, adjusting her basket. âThereâs a difference.â
They passed the fountain, where petals from yesterdayâs chapel blessings floated like wilted confetti. Maren flicked one aside and muttered, âWonder how much holiness costs by the handful.â
Penny laughed, the sound light enough to lift the whole square for a moment. âCome on, Bread Witch. Letâs sell something before you offend another Spirit.â
âI donât offend them,â Maren said, following. âI just remind them theyâre ridiculous.â
On the far side of the square, the candle makerâs apprentice hammered away at a display, desperate to impress the candle girl. The candle girl leaned against a post, pretending not to watch him ruin his thumbs. Sparks practically flew between them, if not literal ones, though Maren gave it a week before both were on fire.
âTheyâre sweet,â Penny said dreamily, hugging her basket tighter.
âTheyâre a lawsuit,â Maren said. âRomance built on property damage never ends well.â
âNot everyoneâs doomed, you know,â Penny countered.
âEveryone in this town is doomed,â Maren said, âmostly by goats.â
As if summoned: âGoats!â someone screamed.
Three of them barreled through the square, one trailing Mrs. Aldrenâs stolen bonnet ribbon in its mouth like a battle flag. Penny yelped, clutching her tray higher, while Maren stepped calmly aside and gave them a lazy wave.
âMorning, gentlemen. Try not to eat anyoneâs laundry this time.â
By the time they reached their stall, the square was a riot of color and sound. Banners snapped overhead, painted with the six animals of the Spirits.
Their stall stood at the crossroads of chaos, wedged between the candle makerâs booth and a woman selling cheap miracles in jars. Marenâs table, by contrast, smelled of honest bread.
Penny immediately went to work, arranging the rolls in perfect rows, brushing crumbs from the tray, and charming half the crowd by simply existing.
She thrived here. Eldenwick adored her.
Penny laughed with the butcherâs wife about the cost of salt, tossed a roll to the cooperâs apprentice with alarming accuracy, and sold out an entire basket in the time it took Maren to calculate how many coppers theyâd lose to tithes.
Rosemary sprigs bobbed in her braid with every turn of her head; she looked like sheâd been born from sunlight and yeast. Meanwhile, Maren leaned against the stallâs edge and glared at the world.
âBread made with love!â Penny called to the crowd, voice bright and sure. âBest rolls in Eldenwick! Guaranteed seedless this week!â
âBread made with homicide,â Maren muttered. âComes with a free existential crisis.â
An onion vendor gave her a look like sheâd just confessed to witchcraft.
Penny didnât miss a beat. âIgnore her,â she told the woman cheerfully. âShe hasnât had her tea yet.â
Laughter rippled through the line, coins clinking into the tin cup like applause.
Maren shouldâve been annoyed. She was a little. But mostly she watched Penny. How her hands never stilled, how her face seemed to catch and reflect every spark of delight around her.
Penny was everything the market rewarded: warmth, laughter, charm. The same gifts once belonged to Marenâs mother, who used to hum as she baked and make customers feel like family. Maren hadnât inherited that melody. Her humor came out sharper, her smile crooked. She knew it, accepted it, and hated how much the world punished her for being good at the wrong kind of thing.
Still, together they worked. Penny made them love the bread. Maren made sure they paid for it.
It was almost a rhythm.
This book is truly excellent. From strong prose, an atmospheric setting, and expertly placed similes and metaphors, this book will transport its readers straight into the world of fresh bread and mysterious spirits. Enthralling from the beginning, this first installation of a new series is a promising start!
Maren and the Mischief Spirit starts of slow, setting the scene and introducing the characters. Maren and her apprentice could not be more opposite, but that is what makes them so charming. Maren is a cynical sacrilege who treats everything as a joke, and Penny is a sweet baker who never fails to lighten a mood or share a smile. The two of them own a successful business, but things take a turn after the Festival of Castings. In this book, you will dive into a world of spirits, the divine, and the mundane, all who come together for a purpose greater than all of them. A purpose that Maren herself gets to re-write as her own story.
Perfect for lovers of The Knight and the Moth and the Once Upon a Broken Heart series, this novel will have the reader's eyes glued to the page, on the edge of their seat, and thoroughly swooning. With nail-biting suspense and tension-filled romance scenes, Maren's character is tested and developed into something she never thought she'd become.
An epic pilot novel to what has the potential to be a five-star series through and through. The ending will have the audience gasping and glued to the page, expectantly anticipating the next book. Every moment of this book was purposed and worth it, and the tropes of friendship, romance, and betrayal never disappoint. Props go to Rhianna Sylver, this book is fast paced, with a steadily moving plot that only gets more intriguing the further in the reader goes. An un-put-down-able book!