Demian closed his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them again, his decision was made.
"Go," he said to Juan. "Have the carriage prepared."
Juan froze, then his eyes lit with relief. He bowed deeply. "At once, Your Grace."
Demian moved forward again this time not with the stride of a duke leaving a meeting, but of a man who had finally grasped a simple truth, sometimes, what matters most is not what is brought home, but who brings it.
Demian stopped right in front of the bakery and for the first time that morning, he muttered a curse under his breath.
"Damn it…"
The line was long. Far too long. It curved all the way to the corner of the narrow alley, filling the air with the tempting aroma of roasted meat and warm bread ironically making anyone who breathed it in even hungrier.
Juan, standing half a step behind him, bowed slightly. "That is why this bread is so famous, Your Grace," he said quietly. "People are willing to wait for hours just to get one."
