Sugar & Sorcery

Prologue

Golden apples are harvested at the first breath of winter, when they are at their ripest and brimming with magic.

LEMPICKA

It wasn’t the first time I burned myself with the sucre d'or, but it was the first time that tears filled my eyes.

The sugar had bitten me, hot and sticky, right between the fingers. The spatula had slipped from my grasp, and the cauldron had answered with an outraged growl. It hissed steam. Chunks of caramelized apple pulp burst at the surface, far too dark a gold.

“You have a heart too big for such clumsy hands.” Nyla.

I turned, trying to hide the counter where the precarious tower of cream puffs was threatening to collapse. The cream ran like melted wax. Even the ovens groaned, metallic and judgmental, as if they were holding a grudge.

I never should’ve attempted a croquembouche twice my height.

Nyla didn’t say anything, just pulled a bandage from her apron pocket, like there had always been a corner reserved for my mistakes.

She wrapped my reddened fingers, the fabric smelling like her: lavender and flour.

If Nyla left, who would remind me that these little blisters weren’t failures, but a confectioner’s kisses?

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“If you keep this up, one day you'll disappear… like a burnt soufflé. Sunken and hollow,” she said, though I didn’t dare meet her ice-blue gaze. “Like the boy in the story, remember?”

I shook my head, throat tight.

She pinched my chin and gently lifted it. “A confectioner so brilliant he baked his own heart into a sugar dough. He shared it with the whole world, but they all wanted more. So he gave them every piece of himself until the last bite was gone. Until nothing was left of him.”

“Sorry I disappointed you,” I mumbled, puffing my cheeks to stop the tears from falling.

Nyla plucked the sugar stuck to a strand of my pink hair. I’d once thought about cutting it short like her brown pixie cut, hoping it’d be enough to convince the villagers we were family. But I’d never dared, especially after all those years she’d patiently taught me how to tie it up.

And there she was, moving behind me, wiping down the counter with a cloth, cleaning everything all over again. “Did it hurt that much?”

I shook my head, quietly wiping a tear away with the edge of my sleeve. It wasn’t the burn. Not that one, at least. It was the other one. The one pressing against my heart. I wanted to keep that one forever, as it would always remind me of my last day with Nyla.

She crossed the shop to fetch her grimoire from the shelf. Hers was so heavy and old. The leather was cracked, and its gold-embossed title was nearly gone.

“Do you remember the first recipe every confectioner’s grimoire contains?” she asked, dropping it onto the counter with a heavy thud.

“It’s not like I have a grimoire of my own…” I coughed, the dust rising into my nose.

Nyla tapped me on the head with a spatula before reciting the story I’d heard a thousand times.

“There was a tree with white and golden apples, blessed by frost and light.

From that tree was born the first confectioner, with a heart as pure as snow, and the gift to extract from those apples the very essence of the sucre d'or. But…”

She brandished the spatula at me like a sword.

“Cracks in the heart let curses seep in,” I recited.

“A confectioner is nothing without a strong heart. And do you know why? Because raw the sucre d'or is lethal. It can burn the soul. Only our confections and pastries can bind the magical and the mundane, because…”

I crossed my arms. I didn’t care about sorcerers. All I ever wanted was to bake for people. To bring them a little joy. Just the tiniest bit of magic. If sorcerers didn’t exist, Nyla wouldn’t have to leave. But Nyla did care.

“Sorcerers need sucre d'or pastries to restore their mana and fortify their spells. We, the confectioners, extract the sugar from golden apples and trap the magic inside. We are essential to them.”

That’s why the Wish Witch had summoned Nyla to become the royal patissière. A great honor. Yet, deep down, all I wanted was for nothing to change.

“Magic always has a price,” she declared, rummaging through one of the wooden drawers scattered throughout the shop like they’d found their own places. “I’ve seen sorcerers turn hollow from abusing it.”

I nodded. This was my last lesson, after all. The last one.

“Sorcerers and confectioners have always been two halves of the same whole,” Nyla continued, pulling out a second grimoire. “Light and darkness, bound in balance and—”

I wasn’t listening anymore. All that mattered was that little grimoire in her hands. Its caramel-and-amber cover was smooth and shiny. I shivered, my heart beating louder than a whisk stiffening egg whites. My name was engraved on it in gold letters.

“For me?!”I leaped forward, grabbed it, and held it tight, nose buried in the smell of leather.

“I know my departure is sudden. But I’ve taught you more than you think.”

I opened it. The pages stuck a little. Every confectioner had a grimoire bound to their soul.

And today, I would finally know what kind of confectioner I would become.

Nyla wove courage and strength into her pastries.

One bite and the impossible felt like just another challenge to beat.

What was lost could be found again. Her grimoire and her gift were strong and unshakable, just like her.

But me… my smile faded as I found the pages blank.

Nyla let out a chuckle—a rare thing since she was always as cold as winter.

“You thought it would be that easy? The writings of a grimoire reveal themselves as you learn, as you find your own path. Grimoires are as fickle as ovens. What you master and what you need will appear at the right time. Take care of it. A confectioner is nothing without their grimoire.”

I hugged it even tighter to my chest. No matter how much effort it would take, one day, I would become like Nyla.

She straightened and gave my head a gentle pat. Her eyes swept over the rows of jars filled with violet candies, then up to the dried herbs hanging above the anis kitchen counter as though she was memorizing the place one last time. My heart clenched even tighter.

“And if anyone ever dares to tell you a woman’s heart is weaker, show them your middle finger.”

I laughed. Nyla had traveled far beyond our flavorless little village, and she was one of the only female confectioners out there!

A loud thud made me jump. My grimoire slipped from my hands and landed on the floor with a muffled flap.

A horn had pierced the rosewood door. The frame creaked as it opened sideways, the shop bell giving a feeble jingle.

“I can’t let you make the worst mistake of your life!” bellowed Aignan—our tiny black lamb—twisting like an angry worm as he tried to yank free his one and only goat horn.

Nyla sighed and walked over to help dislodge him. He’d left a small hole in the door, but nothing a little royal icing couldn’t patch up.

“You have to stay here and watch over Lempicka.”

“I’d rather be cursed twice over! She has no survival instincts. Bandaged fingers, burnt sugar everywhere. She’s a walking disaster times ten!” the talking lamb huffed, his tail flicking in irritation. “If I weren’t here, she would’ve set the shop on fire by now.”

“Hey,” I protested, my cheeks burning as I hurried to hide my bandaged hands behind my back.

It wasn’t that often... Really. But clearly, winning him over with meringues and French toast hadn’t been enough to lower his guard.

“That’s enough,” Nyla cut in, swinging her large linen travel bag over one shoulder. “Lempicka, you’ll run the shop while I’m gone.”

I nodded quickly.

“You know how I feel about sorcerers,” Aignan bellowed, but Nyla was already through the door, not sparing him a glance. “Hey! Are you even listening?”

The crisp air stung my cheeks as I followed her outside, my ballet flats tapping clumsily on the cobblestones. The village held its breath. Behind timbered walls, curtains shifted. Whispers drifted in the breeze.

“She’s leaving us. Maybe she’ll take that cursed black lamb with her.”

“What’s going to happen to the pastry shop now? That girl can barely hold a spoon.”

“Well, at least she’s not rude. The other one, though... Always thought she was better than the rest of us. A woman confectioner, such a ridiculous idea. No wonder she’s not married.”

My fingers curled into my apron. Meanwhile, Nyla fastened her bag to her horse with a fluid motion, too smooth, too practiced, like she’d rehearsed this moment a hundred times. She didn’t react to the murmurs. Or maybe she just didn’t care.

But me? Every word clung to my skin like thistles.

“I’m going to miss you.” The words slipped out. Fragile. Like spun sugar.

She leaned down to press a quick kiss to my forehead. Her face remained still, like she’d already packed her emotions along with the rest of her things. “You’ll be fine.”

“Unless the Cursed show up,” Aignan muttered behind me, glaring toward the edge of the village like dark magic might be lurking just past the narrow streets.

“They won’t come,” deadpanned Nyla. “Not here.”

I squinted. Sorcerers protected villages in exchange for outrageous prices, that much I knew. But Aignan… he was a cursed creature too, wasn’t he?

He held his head high, but his tail had curled tight against his body, heavy with all the stares pointed his way. The elders always said black lambs brought bad luck and dark sorcery. With my pink hair and amber eyes, I never understood why his fur caused so many problems. To me, he was beautiful.

“Don’t worry about him,” Nyla said sharply. “He’s a Cursed One of Category One on a danger scale that goes to ten. He’s harmless.”

“Harmless?” Aignan barked. “That’s only because I’m a lamb. The system’s rigged! I’m at least a Category Four.”

Nyla raised an eyebrow. “If you were a Category Four, you wouldn’t still be here.”

I crouched to scratch behind his ear, but he snorted and trotted back to the shop, slamming the door shut behind him with an angry kick of his hoof. “Aignan, wait—”

“Leave him.” Nyla climbed up onto her horse. “When I found him, he’d been cursed by a sorcerer. He gained the ability to speak, but somewhere along the way, he lost all sense of manners. He holds a grudge. I can’t blame him.”

She gave me one last look. A hesitant one, like she was searching for the words but they just wouldn’t come.

I waited, heart too full of all the things I didn’t dare say out loud.

She was the one who’d raised me until my fourteen years old of age.

The one who found me on the bakery doorstep.

The one who, though she’d never known how to stay in one place, had rooted herself here for me.

She loved me too. I knew it. She and Aignan were my family. But I wanted to hear it. Just once.

Please. Just once.

But Nyla turned away and tightened her grip on the reins. “Full gallop!”

She vanished in a cloud of dust. I ran after her. The dry dust stung my eyes. My apron streamed behind me. My heart pounded so hard it hurt. But she was far away. Too far away. Silent tears streamed down my cheeks.

“I’ll take care of the bakery! I’ll wait for you, I promise,” I shouted one last time, my words swept away by the wind.