Atlantis in Peril by T. A. Barron

“I’m not so sure.”
    â€œReally. I make up silly things all the time. Why, I filled a whole journal with them. Well, not really a journal—an old recipe book whose margins I crammed with notes.”
    â€œShow it to me?”
    â€œSorry, Shangri. I lost it.”
    She frowned at him.
    â€œCome on,” he coaxed. “There’s your father over there.”
    Shangri turned and led him over to the baker’s stall. “Papa, look who I brought.”
    The baker, as burly as ever, looked up from decorating a tray of cinnamon buns. Recognizing Promi, he smiled and wiped his hands on the apron that covered his ample belly. Fruit stains, flecks of dough, and lots of sugar decorated the apron.
    â€œWell now,” he bellowed, “miracles never cease! A visit from our fav’rite rascal.” He winked at Promi. “Ye must be hungry.”
    â€œAlways,” Promi replied. “But really, I just came to say hello.”
    Choosing one of his freshly baked cinnamon buns, the baker handed it to him. “Do me the favor of a taste. Jest to make sure I got the mix o’ ingredients right.”
    Gladly, Promi took a big bite. An explosion of sweetness filled his mouth, every bit as good as he remembered. “Mmm,” he said with satisfaction. “You definitely got it right! Maybe you should think about becoming a baker.”
    The big man laughed heartily, even as he took the tray of tarts from Shangri and set them on the counter. “That decision’s already been made, lad.” He patted his belly. “Many cakes an’ pies ago.”
    Leaning toward Promi, he added in a whisper, “Though thanks to a certain young rascal . . . I don’t have to work for me livin’ anymore.” He tapped the small bulge under his apron—which, Promi knew, was the sapphire-studded belt buckle he’d stolen from Grukarr and given to the baker.
    â€œI’m glad,” said Promi as he finished off the bun. “So why do you keep baking?”
    â€œFer the simple pleasure of it, lad! Not so much fer the eatin’ as the watchin’. I do love seein’ others eat what I bake.”
    Shangri, who had been searching through a box at the back of the stall, declared, “Found it!”
    â€œFound what?” asked her father.
    She held up a tattered old book. “That old recipe book you gave me way back when I was young.”
    The baker chuckled. “Unlike now.”
    Ignoring him, she pranced over to Promi and slid the book into his tunic pocket. “There,” she told him. “Now you can keep a journal again.”
    â€œBut . . .” Promi’s words trailed away. There simply weren’t the words for what he wanted to say. Or if there were, he didn’t know them.
    â€œAnd here, take this, too.” She handed him a small charcoal pencil from her pocket.
    The grateful look on his face said everything Shangri had hoped to hear.
    With a nod at his cinnamon buns, the baker asked Promi, “Want another?”
    â€œWell, sure. But if I eat too many more, you won’t have any left to sell.”
    â€œA good thing,” announced the burly fellow. He wrapped his meaty arm around Shangri. “Seein’ how I was fixin’ to quit fer the day, close up the stall, an’ go fer a picnic with me daughter.”
    â€œReally, Papa?” squealed Shangri. She jumped with delight, making her braids bounce.
    â€œYes, really.” Turning to Promi, the baker added, “Will ye join us, lad?”
    â€œPlease do,” begged Shangri.
    Unsure, he asked, “Won’t I get in the way of your time together?”
    â€œNo,” Shangri answered. “Ye’ll jest add to the fun.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” teased the baker. “Got some important thievin’ to do?”
    â€œOnly when I’m hungry for pastry. And right now, I’m feeling just fine. Thanks