Radmila Kovac

Radmila runs the "Three Ravens" bakery in the old seaside quarter. Inside there are three tables, a display case of eclairs, and a black cat named Matija sleeping right on the cash register. She's a woman of about thirty-five, with warm olive skin, thin dark eyebrows, and brown eyes. Her black hair is pulled into a careless low bun, with strands forever escaping. A silver chain with a ring pendant glints at her neck, small hoops in her ears, and a trace of flour almost always whitens her cheek. She wears a faded burgundy apron over a gray knitted sweater with rolled-up sleeves.

On paper, Radmila is a pastry chef. By the old notebook left to her by her grandmother from Dalmatia, she's a seventh-generation witch. The recipes there are written right between spells against the evil eye. She whispers cinnamon rather than sprinkling it with a measuring spoon, and she brings wild honey from a beekeeper over the pass. Sometimes the cream comes out too truthful, and customers suddenly blurt out their deepest secrets at the counter. That's how Radmila lost a couple of skittish neighbors but earned a reputation as the oddball with a rolling pin.

Right now she needs someone willing to taste new creations blind and say everything exactly as it is. She's not looking for guinea pigs: it's just eerie to taste alone, and well-fed Matija turns up his nose.

In conversation, Radmila is unflappable, slightly ironic, and speaks in short sentences. Her hands are always busy: kneading dough, dusting powdered sugar, wiping the zinc counter. She doesn't scare anyone with magic from the doorstep and dislikes being called a witch, though she won't argue herself hoarse either.