She raced by three such shops. Too small. She needed a big one, with a full kitchen.
At the fourth shop, she skidded to a halt. Hesitated. She could smell the thick, rich scent of meat broth.
Maybe.
She heard the footsteps approaching the mouth of the street.
It’ll have to do.
She strode through the shop door. The shop was very small—not ten feet square—and completely bare except for a small counter on which were displayed samples of the shop’s wares. When she saw that they were meat pastries, Antonina sighed with relief.
A middle-aged woman—the cookshop owner’s wife, she assumed—approached Antonina and began uttering some pleasantry. Antonina didn’t catch the words.
“Are you cooking meat broth?” she demanded. “For pastries?”
The woman, frowning with puzzlement, began to nod. Antonina grabbed the woman’s wrist and dragged her toward the door at the opposite end of the shop. The woman was heavyset, taller than Antonina, and began squawking and struggling vigorously. To absolutely no avail. Antonina was a very strong woman, for her size, and she was filled with implacable determination.
She shouldered the door open and hurled the woman through, following an instant later. Before closing the door, she peeked at the shop entrance. The outer door was still closed. Her pursuers, she thought, hadn’t seen her enter the shop.
Good. I’ve got a little time.
She turned and confronted the woman, who was now spluttering with outrage. The woman’s husband was standing next to her, glowering, holding up a metal ladle in a half-threatening gesture.
“Shut up!” snarled Antonina. “There are men just outside your door who are trying to kill me! They’ll kill you, too.”
The woman’s mouth snapped shut. A second later, her mouth reopened. Wailing:
“Get out! Get out!”
The husband stepped forward hesitantly, raising the ladle.
There was a large table against the wall of the kitchen next to the door. Antonina slammed her purse onto the table and emptied its contents. A pile of gold coins spilled out. Along with a small dagger.
The shopkeeper and his wife were, first, transfixed by the sight of the coins. Then, by the sight of the dagger in Antonina’s hand.
“You’ve got a simple choice,” hissed Antonina. “You can take the money—call it rent for the use of your kitchen—or you can take the blade. In your fucking guts.”
The shopkeeper and his wife ogled her.
Antonina hefted the dagger. The wife’s face, as she eyed the razor-sharp blade, paled a bit.
The shopkeeper’s face paled quite a bit more.
He was fat and middle-aged, now. But, in his youth, he had led a rather disreputable life. He was not particularly impressed by Antonina’s sharp little blade. He was a professional cook. He had several knives which were just as sharp and much bigger.
But he recognized that grip. That light, easy way of holding a blade.
“Shut up, woman!” he snarled to his wife. “Take the money and go upstairs.”
His wife frowned at him. The shopkeeper threatened her with the ladle. Antonina stepped away from the table, clearing a space. The shopkeeper’s wife scuttled over, glancing at her fearfully. Then, after scooping up the coins, she practically sprinted to a small door in the rear corner of the kitchen. A moment later, Antonina heard her clumping up the stairs which led to the living quarters above.
Her husband began backing his way toward the same door.
“You can’t come upstairs,” he muttered. “I’m not going to get involved in any of this. Things are crazy right now.”
Antonina shook her head.
“Just bar the door and stay upstairs. But, before you go—where do you keep your flour? And your knives?”
The shopkeeper pointed to a cupboard with the ladle.
“Flour’s in there. The knives, too.”
“Good. Leave me the ladle.”
He frowned, glanced at the ladle, shrugged.
“Where do you want it?”
Antonina pointed toward the big kettle on the stove. Hurriedly, the shopkeeper dropped the ladle into the simmering broth and then scampered out of the kitchen.
Antonina stepped to the door which led to the outer room of the shop and pressed her ear against it.
Nothing. They haven’t found the shop yet.