Chapter 9
A golden apple holds the purest magic, but a cursed apple holds its opposite. A dark magic, stripped of light.
LEMPICKA
The pavilion revealed itself through the fog.
Red lanterns, strung from beams, cast dancing circles across the low tables.
Shattered benches ringed a counter overflowing with strange dishes, levitating on spinning trays, stacked in a moving cascade.
At the center, a spectral cook with a floating beard stirred the contents of a steaming cauldron.
I bent at a right angle—like a spoon dropped into too narrow a jar—to peer between two silhouettes.
My stomach clapped in applause at the sight of a pink mushroom-shaped burger, plump and glistening.
Behind it, and the mountain of empty dishes stacked high, Aignan was dozing, paw on his belly.
Ten empty plates, two half full, and one clearly stolen from éclair, given the sheer size of the salad.
Chouquette, meanwhile, swished her tails with mischief, stealing forgotten scraps and even going so far as to nibble on a plate.
“They’re shameless,” I muttered.
I straightened, ready to share my choice with Arawn. But he was already cutting through the line, the Spirits opening a path for him. I blinked. Great, he was my ticket to the buffet.
The Spirits, once his shadow passed, lunged at the trays, snatching up everything within reach, down to the last bun.
The platters emptied in a heartbeat, then the Spirits scattered across the tables.
I hurried closer. Arawn held in his hands a waterlily, used as a steaming bowl, crowned with black herbs, red fruit, and an egg of molten gold.
I swallowed hard. There remained only one solitary bowl, sitting there like it was crying over its own abandonment.
Artichoke and radish soup. The combination sounded just as dreadful as it looked.
I used radishes to color pastries (the purple was gorgeous), but I wasn’t sure about eating them.
That was another matter entirely. I lifted the bowl and stared at the brownish liquid sloshing sadly at the bottom.
A stiff smile pulled at my lips. “And… this is supposed to be… what, exactly—?”
Before I could finish, a heavy velvet curtain dropped before my eyes. In a blink, the pavilion vanished, leaving behind only the faint echo of mocking laughter among the Spirits. I held back a sigh. Lesson of the day: never hesitate at an enchanted buffet.
I followed Arawn to a table farther on and slid onto the bench across from him. My bowl clinked against the wood with far too much force. I laced my fingers together to keep them from trembling and forced a smile to fill the awkward silence of our tête-à-tête.
“So,” I said brightly, “do you like artichokes?”
The sorcerer slowly lifted his gaze to me. He clearly did not like artichokes. And likely liked my presence even less.
“You are unbearably loud,” he said flatly.
“And you are unbearably silent for someone who asked me to follow him. My mentor always said meals were meant to be shared.”
The sorcerer made a sound barely audible—somewhere between a skeptical sigh and an annoyed growl. My hands clenched on my knees. Then, with all the determination in the world, I locked my eyes on his.
“I need to know your preferences. To satisfy you. Are you more crystallized sugar, like me, or caramel?”
The clink of metal rang out as Arawn dropped his spoon, hardly touched. His gaze narrowed. “Are you always this forward?”
“Well… one of us has to be.” After all, he expected me to be his confectioner, didn’t he? Given his talent for communication, I would have to double my effort. “I need to know your tastes down to my fingertips.”
The sorcerer leaned back in his chair, balanced between amusement and disdain. “Trust me, you do not want to.”
I blinked. “And how exactly is this supposed to work between us, then?”
He shot me a pointed look, a burning edge flickering in his eyes. “Whatever you think you’re trying to draw from me won’t make your situation any less pitiful. I am neither as pathetic nor as weak as the men of your little village. And even less likely to be attracted to you.”
Weak? Attracted? I frowned before the truth struck me like lightning. My breath caught. My cheeks burned hot. Oh no. He thought—
“I WAS TALKING ABOUT BEING YOUR CONFECTIONER!” I shrieked, arms flailing like some sugarcoated scarecrow.
And the worst part was he hadn’t even considered that possibility!
“That’s all I’ve ever been! But of course, why bother remembering such an insignificant detail about the person who saved your miserable life?
The one who made you your Velvet Hearts even though she had no idea who they were really for!
And who, because of that, got cursed—by your fault! ”
For an instant, the shadow of an admission hovered on his lips (an apology, maybe). Or at least a flicker of acknowledgment. Then, as though the moment had never existed, he lifted a brow.
“And you think you can help me,” said the sorcerer, his smile sharp and dark.
Everyone needs someone. But this time, I bit back the words.
“You haven’t touched any confections since our last encounter,” I pointed out, raising a spoon to my lips and choking down the hideous liquid with a spasm.
“And you’ve already used your magic again.
At this rate, you won’t last much longer.
And I don’t see anyone lining up to become your confectioner.
You’re not exactly in a position to be picky. ”
I couldn’t say with certainty how often a sorcerer needed sucre d'or, but judging by the ashen pallor of his skin and the bruised shadows beneath his eyes, he was far from his best. Abruptly, I pushed to my feet, tapping the table with my fingertips.
“It’s because I’m a woman, isn’t it?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” He sighed. “Men are even more mediocre, with their oversized egos.”
He caught me off guard. I swallowed my insult and lifted my head. “I won’t disappear until I’ve become a great confectioner, like my mentor. So I’ll be your confectioner, even if you refuse to help me with my curse. After all, I know the sucre d'or better than you!”
Well. I could safely say that did not go at all the way I had planned.
“Have a good—”
Before I could finish my sentence, his gloved hand closed around my wrist. The grip wasn’t painful, but it was firm. Heat rushed to my cheeks. With a silent gesture, Arawn pushed his untouched waterlily bowl toward me.
“Very well, then,” he murmured. “Even if you seem more eager to mend others than yourself.”
“You’re accepting? You admit you need me?” I gaped. I hadn’t expected such a quick victory.
“Don’t push it,” he said, his irises a hard violet, as if steeped in ice, while he released my wrist and cleared his throat. “You’ll have to prove your worth before I admit to anything. You’ll have to improve, until you’re able to create a recipe for me.”
I sat back down. “What kind of recipe?”
He tilted his head, just a fraction, as though measuring my reaction. “A recipe made with sucremort.”
I froze. I couldn’t breathe. My lungs refused air, and my sugar-skin bristled. Something cracked. Maybe me.
“No…” The word slipped out strangled. “That’s not possible. The sucremort is forbidden. It’s… it’s cursed. It doesn’t exist.”
Even speaking the word left a metallic tang on my tongue.
“It does exist,” the sorcerer cut in. “Every magic has its opposite. The sucremort was born from an apple rotted to its core and the cruelty of men.”
Nyla had told me about the sucremort. A sugar you don’t cook, you don’t tame. A sugar you shouldn’t even think about. Violet sugar that healed nothing. That fed nothing. A sugar that bred only suffering, evil, and destruction.
He leaned toward me, his smile as lethal as that sugar. “And with the sucremort, I want you to make the elixir that will kill me.”
My heart dropped out of my chest like a stone. “But…” I choked out, frowning. “I don’t want to do that.”
“And I don’t want you here. Yet here we are,” he pressed, tapping the table with his fingers. “Either I die or you die from your curse. And between the two of us, you seem far more attached to life than I am.”
“Why do you want this?”
“There’s that damned verb again, ‘want.’”
A knot seized my throat, locking my whole body still.
“Fine. Let me explain. I’m going to kill the Wish Witch. And to do that, I need to take back my human heart.”
My fingers fidgeted, fumbling to piece together the fragments piling up in my mind. “She… has your heart?”
The sorcerer rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Yes. She clings to it the way humans cling to their toys.”
“But… what does that have to do with your death and sugar?”
“If you’d stopped interrupting me every two seconds, I’d get there faster.”
I pressed my lips together.
“The more I use my magic, the further I damn myself. When I kill her, I’ll become a Cursed forever. So your elixir will kill me before I become a mindless creature, condemned to wander for eternity. You understand, don’t you? No one would want such a fate.”
I stared at him, mouth parted. The Cursed were born of black magic fused into them.
But for Arawn and me, it was different. We bore the curse from within.
Confectioner and sorcerer, hearts forged of magic and sugar.
The greater the heart, the more rot there was to consume.
Our very essence turned against us until nothing remained.
Suicidal. That was what it was.
Suicidal… yet, somehow heroic, for a sorcerer I had judged selfish until now.
“And with my heart,” he said, “Zelda will be able to control me in my monstrous form. That’s what she wants. That’s why I must destroy that useless thing.”
I nearly choked. This sorcerer was even more insane than I thought. “You want… to destroy your own heart?”
“It’s useless to me.” He shrugged. “I refuse to be anyone’s puppet.”
“And what if you tried to get it back to lift your curse?”
He burst into a harsh laugh, drawing every Spirit’s eyes to us. “It wouldn’t work. Only a monster can defeat another monster. And besides, who would want to become weak again, like your kind?”
His words chilled my skin.
“Either way,” he concluded, “you now have the privilege of being either my damnation or my only chance.”
How could anyone be so detached from their own existence? I exhaled slowly. Then, with a softness I didn’t even recognize in myself, I whispered, “Maybe you don’t remember what it is to be human, but that doesn’t make your life any less precious.”
Arawn’s gaze darkened, nearly swallowed by the shadow cast by the violet strands falling across his forehead. He gave a joyless smile, then leaned slowly back against the bench.
“I see. Yeun really doesn’t know when to hold his tongue. Maybe the person I used to be didn’t deserve to exist.”
“On the contrary,” I retorted, a hand pressed against my chest. “The witch always takes what is most precious. You said it yourself: ‘I will lose what I love the most.’ What you sacrificed had to matter.”
He swallowed hard. “It doesn’t matter. One day, I will become a Cursed for good.
Better to choose when and why. As for your fate, what you should really be worrying about, a confectioner is supposed to have a heart so pure and strong that no curse can ever enter it… and clearly, that’s not your case.”
I shook my head, a bitter laugh slipping out. “I know about my weak heart.”
“Curses are born from our fears, our cracks, our unconscious. Creating the pastry of your essence is the final step for a confectioner. According to the grimoire you apparently no longer have in your possession.”
My cheeks flamed. “I’m going to get it back.”
“Glad to see you know your priorities. It was probably empty anyway.”
I took the insult straight to the gut. He wasn’t wrong. Almost empty. And in the claws of a thieving Cursed. “If I find the recipe for my essence, I’ll be freed from my curse on the day of the harvest?”
He nodded. “That’s my theory, at least,” he said wearily, hand pressed to his forehead. “You should know that sorcerers, like confectioners, each have their own magic, with their peculiarities and limits. I suppose you have no idea of yours?”
I bit my lip, shaking my head. He must think me a complete failure. “How do you know all this?”
“I worked with confectioners before you.” His tone made it obvious he had no intention to elaborate.
“And so you can read my soul through a confection? But reading someone’s soul, that’s… intimate.”
“And tearing out your heart to end your life if your curse consumes you, is that not intimate?”
My eyes lit up, and his brow furrowed. “You’d do that for me, if I fail?”
“Consider it the only form of intimacy I’ll allow us to share. Most people would dream of having the chance to end the existence of a Cursed sorcerer surpassing Category Ten if that makes you feel special.”
“Not really,” I shot back.
He rose, gesturing to my bowl. “Eat. Your bones are fragile. I could break them without effort.”
“Arawn, wait!”
He turned sharply. The air grew heavier. The Spirits, seated at the tables moments earlier, dissolved into mist. The wind rose violently. The sorcerer’s hand clenched, his throat shifting with an almost imperceptible swallow.
“What… pastry do you want me to make?” I whispered after him.
“Make the one you prefer. Your conviction should be strong enough to heal a sick Spirit.”
My favorite? A sick Spirit?
I lowered my gaze to the bowl, heart racing. I had no idea. No one had ever asked me that before. Not even myself. Nyla had taught me to copy, not… not what comes from me. And now the survival of a Spirit depended on me?
“At this rate, we’ll both die,” he muttered. “Or rather, all three of us.”
He rubbed salt into the wound, a thin smile curling his lips. A smile I very much disliked. As if he was mocking me. Or worse, as if I posed no threat to him at all.
My fist slammed against the table. I seized the bowl, the spoon, and started swallowing as though bravery were hiding at the bottom. No time to savor, I needed strength.
“I’ll succeed!”