Chapter 1
The magic of the sucre d'or answers only to the hands of confectioners. For anyone else, it blackens and turns to ash. If you try to consume the sucre d'or raw, it burns like a poison too wild to tame, a deadly spark of untamed magic.
LEMPICKA
Apuff of mist slipped from my lips as my brush traced a ribbon of icing along the flaking facade.
The sugar beaded in the damp air like a frost-dusted bean.
The wood felt as dry as an old, forgotten biscuit.
I squinted. The shivering foundations wouldn’t be enough to shelter a bird’s nest. All because of the mist that had invited itself to Bois-Joli like an unwelcome guest, thick and heavy as overwhipped cream.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I whispered to the shop. “We’re doing our best.”
Nyla’s patisserie was the last in the row, exposed to every gust of wind, with no wall to guard it and no neighbor to keep it awake.
Tonight, it seemed wearier than ever. Its pale-pink coat, once vibrant like a sugar blossom, sagged under the weight of the years.
Ten winters had passed since Nyla left. Ten winters we’d struggled together.
“Still busy, Miss Lempicka. Aren’t you freezing?”
I knew that voice. Yeun. My most loyal, most enigmatic customer.
I climbed down from the wooden ladder. “Winter’s simply misunderstood. It’s the season of warm ovens… and the blooming of golden apples.”
I still wasn’t convinced he was entirely human.
His legs bent like a grasshopper’s, and his wide-brimmed hat tilted with impeccable grace, perfectly matched to his fine mustache.
But what unsettled me most was the lining of his cloak that looked like insect wings.
Sometimes blue, and tonight, I could’ve sworn they were pink.
The shop door flew open. Madame Martine burst in like a devil in a wool shawl, cane raised, back hunched. “That cursed lamb!”
Sugar crackled under her feet. She stomped right over the shards of candy scattered on the doorstep. The jar had toppled earlier this morning, and I hadn’t had the heart to pick the sweets up yet.
“Right back at you, you old goat!” Aignan shouted from the counter. “Two moons she’s been bleating the same tale, that one!”
He’d stirred up trouble again and scared off what little clientele we had (though she never seemed willing to spend a single coin anyway).
I slammed the door shut and gave Yeun a tight-lipped smile.
But his eyes had already drifted to the little scraps of papers soaked in honey candy I’d managed to read earlier.
“Not enough.”
“Always the same.”
“Humans are a thankless species,” he sighed.
I stifled a laugh. Comments like that only confirmed my suspicions about what he really was. “Not all of them. My mentor used to say people need kindness most when they deserve it least. She cared as much for their souls as their stomachs. That’s why I keep filling the jar.”
He tilted his head. “And has it worked?”
“Not yet. But I’m stubborn. Come in before you freeze.”
My hand paused on the latch. There was a parchment stuck to the glass. Since when was this here? The ink had smudged from the damp, but I managed to read it.
“Sorcerer seeks confectioner. Unafraid and untemperamental. No pay. Requests to be heard in exchange for assuming risk. Incompetents need not apply. Should you attempt to kill me, note that my cemetery of souls is already full, and I will not be able to bury your remains with dignity. Ready to begin immediately. Signed, Mist Sorcerer.”
“This sorcerer… Isn’t that the one they say is behind the mist? The one from the Forbidden Forest?”
No one went there anymore, not since the blacksmith’s son came back screaming, raving about red eyes in the mist. Poor man. Bois-Joli had never had much patience for mysteries, or for the Cursed, like Aignan. They called him mad soon enough.
I narrowed my eyes at Yeun. He had to know since I was almost certain he worked for a sorcerer. “You know who it is, don’t you?”
His smile stretched, even more enigmatic. “That depends who you ask. Some say he creates the Cursed with his dark magic. Others say he’s a heartless sorcerer, or that he never had one. That he sold his soul to turn into a monster. In any case, he’s not someone you’d want to bake for.”
For all these years, I’d wondered what the Wish Witch looked like.
A benevolent figure with unmatched powers, capable of granting any wish.
Those lucky enough to sign a contract with her saw their lives transformed forever.
That was why so many people left Bois-Joli, left behind the kingdom of the new prince, to go to hers.
And never came back. Like Nyla. That had to mean she was happy there, didn’t it?
But Yeun stubbornly kept quiet about anything to do with sorcerers, no matter how much I pressed.
“No sane confectioner would accept such an offer.” Yet, I carefully put the notice back on the glass, securing it in place with a bit of candy. “But refusing this man a chance to find a confectioner... would be sentencing him to certain death.”
Nyla had repeated it enough: sorcerers need confectioners to extract and cook the magic from the sucre d'or.
I pushed the door open, and the bell answered with a weak chime. The shop stirred as we stepped in. The ovens creaked as if stretching after a nap. The jars shimmered under the lantern’s light. The scent of dried lavender floated through the air.
“Does your master have several confectioners, like the Wish Witch? I heard she has nine!”
He gave a quiet laugh. “Still as sharp as ever, miss. But I don’t see why you’re so set on claiming I serve a sorcerer.”
“You wouldn’t be ordering so many pastries if you didn’t,” I said, smoothing my cream-colored apron, tied over my chestnut-brown linen dress.
It stopped just above the knees, a little too short now.
The long sleeves were wrinkled at the elbows, the neckline opened into tired frills, like whipped cream trimmed with little ribbons.
The corset, once too big, now just barely closed.
It was my favorite because it was the only one that still fit since Nyla had been here.
I swept my hair up with a quick motion, pinning it into a frayed ribbon, then cleared a three-legged chair from a drift of flour and the crystallized sucre d'or to make space for him.
“Sit. I won’t be long.” I lit the old iron oven, my fingers still numb.
“You’re late,” grumbled Aignan from his patched-up cushion behind the counter that separated the kitchen from the shop. “I have better things to do than wait around for you. And my day’s been miserable, in case you care!”
I scratched behind his ear in passing. “Thanks for watching the shop. I’d be lost without you. But what happened with Martine?”
Despite all his complaining, he barked more than he bit (though he was currently licking the exact spot I’d just scratched).
“That old harpy, prowling around all day... always trying to snatch free pastries, pretending it’s her birthday. If we believe her, it’s been her final year for a decade!”
I hummed absentmindedly, slipping into the cold room to grab my dough while Aignan kept up his grumbling.
On my counter, the page in my grimoire was still just as blank.
That meant this morning’s recipe had (once again) failed.
The plate I’d left full, on the other hand, now held only a crust of sugar stuck to the bottom.
I grabbed the dough and came back to the kitchen. “Aignan, what did you do with the donuts?”
He puffed out his chest. “I devoured them along with the day’s leftovers right under Martine’s nose!”
I froze, piping bag in hand, mouth slightly open. “You didn’t.”
His yellow eyes sparkled, defiant and smug. “Oh, I did. Down to the very last crumb.”
No wonder the shop struggled to survive. But still, I had to look on the bright side. “Well? How were they? Creamy? Soft? Better than the last batch?”
“Meh.”
“Meh,” I grumbled under my breath, piping my little hearts, drop after drop.
Ten years, and only four measly recipes unlocked: Velvet Hearts, to warm the heart; Amber Syrup with wildflower honey and dandelion-nettle root for colds and rainy days; Hibiscus and Blackthorn Tartlets for Aignan’s nightmares; and Rainbow Cupcakes, a balm for the soul.
Plus a grimoire still as silent and infuriating as ever—one I often dreamed of hurling out the window.
I slid the hearts into the preheated oven, and the sugary ballet resumed. My hands found their refuge. The white chocolate melted in a bain-marie. The crushed raspberries folded into it. A pinch of angelica. A dash of prepared crystallized sucre d'or.
A soft pink ganache, like a sigh.
“Meanwhile, I’m still sleeping on this ratty cushion I call a bed. Do you hear me complaining?”
I climbed onto a flour sack to reach the rose petals, a faint smile on my lips. “You? Complain? Never.”
He bristled. “I’m a magical creature, just like sorcerers!” (He much preferred that term to Category One Cursed.) “I need the sucre d'or to keep my strength up! But we, beasts, we have to do backflips just to get a crumb, while you humans gobble down pastries like it’s nothing.”
“Oh yeah? Since when do you do backflips? I’ve never seen you lift more than a hoof.”
Sulky silence. I took the little heart-shaped macarons out of the oven—golden and slightly crisp. Once they cooled, I filled them with ganache and pressed them together, heart to heart.
“Your Velvet Hearts are ready!” I called from the back, placing them in a little box. “The usual ones…”
“One day, when you finally get a new recipe right, I’ll be the first to order it.” Yeun was forever the optimist.
Aignan leaped onto the counter to glare at him. “What are you staring at, butler? You reek of sorcerer and burnt magic.”
I smiled. “Ah. Aignan’s nose never lies.”
“You really do have a strange creature,” Yeun said.
“We balance each other out.” I handed Aignan a macaron I’d saved just for him. “He’s the guardian of this shop. He’s scared off more than a few.”
Aignan puffed his chest, whiskers dusted in crumbs.
Yeun took the neatly wrapped package and cleared his throat. “I don’t doubt it. Your sweets are always appreciated.”
“For you… or for the sorcerer you serve?” I asked, leaning over the counter.
Before he could utter a word, a furious gust slammed the door shut. The bell gave a crooked ring, off-key. Two shadows crawled inside, slipping under the flickering glow of the lanterns and leaving behind them sticky trails that gleamed like melted soot.
My stomach twisted. Their eyes, sickly yellow, were fixed on me.
One clung to the wall, its skin a deep, black-purple hue, its wide mouth lined with rows of sharp teeth.
Behind it, too many tails to count slashed through the air, knocking over jars and sending herbs and spices flying like a storm of confetti.
The other was enormous, hunched, its body made of dark green clay.
A mass of stone bristling with uneven ridges, like an earth golem.
Each of its steps made the floorboards shudder.
“What do you want?” My voice was tighter than I would’ve liked. I instinctively reached for the copper ladle hanging near the oven, sliding one foot in front of Aignan. “Go. Out the back door. Now.”
Aignan bared his fangs, fur bristling all down his spine. “What are these Cursed doing here?”
The Cursed—those damned souls, born or twisted by dark magic—were in my shop.
The village had never seen any before, other than Aignan. But I doubted these were Category One.
The golem let out a deep, guttural growl, its massive hand slamming against the floorboards. The other, its tail stretching out like a tentacle, cracked through the air before suddenly coiling around my customer’s ankle.
“Yeun!” I screamed.
I took a step toward him, but it was too late. Yeun’s body wavered, his outline trembling as if caught in invisible flames. Then, in an instant, his human shape dissolved. A bluish light rose in a swirl.
It was the first time I wished I’d been wrong. But Yeun… Yeun was a flame. A will-o’-the-wisp. His glow flickered, turning a sickly green. The Velvet Hearts slipped from his hands, scorched by fire, and fell to the floor.
“My apologies…” he whispered. “For dragging you into this.”
His voice was no longer a voice. It was a crackle. A spark. He slipped toward the door, weaving through the mist like a firefly.
“No! Wait!” I cried out, reaching for him, but no one was there to take my hand.
He vanished into the night. And I was alone. Alone with those things.
The golem’s roar shattered the glass in the windows. The other Category One Cursed sent utensils flying with a lash of its tail. My sucre d'or—my precious supply for the year—spilled across the floor like falling stars gone cold.
I dove under the counter, pulling Aignan with me. My arms wrapped around him, my heart thudding so loud it felt like it echoed through the whole shop. The Cursed swelled, as if they were feeding on the chaos. The air was heavy. The walls seemed to be trembling too.
They were looking for something.
Or someone.
My shop. My world. It was all falling apart. And I couldn’t do anything. Nothing but hold Aignan tight against me.