Chapter 10
Magic, much like an improperly measured cake, can rise or collapse—it all depends on the hand that mixes the ingredients.
LEMPICKA
“It’s the kitchen, isn’t it?”
I clasped my hands, practically skipping behind Arawn’s long strides.
He turned back to me with that crushed expression that screamed, Why me?
He didn’t even need to speak. His eyes alone said I’d guessed where he was taking me.
Maybe I’d even impressed him a little… though, honestly, he mostly looked like he regretted every choice that had led him to this precise moment.
Through the twisted moss-covered branches, the silhouette of the towering manor finally rose toward the sky.
“What kind of kitchen do you have?” The thought alone made my mouth water.
A new oven, new utensils… a little comfort.
Maybe even copper molds? “Is your oven temperamental? Ours took an eternity to heat, and when it overheated, it made this sound like a skeleton about to collapse! And orientation, have you thought about that? I’ve always dreamed of a kitchen facing east, for the golden morning light, or west, for sunsets! Ours was facing north and—”
He stopped dead. I barely managed to brake before crashing into him, my hands landing instinctively against his chest. My gaze followed his, lifted toward the stars, then dropped back to his exhausted look pinning me in place.
“Are you always this talkative?”
“Only when I’m excited.” And clearly, he had no idea how one could get excited over an oven. His loss. “But you can talk too. For example, your favorite color? I’m betting on violet.”
That kind of violet, like velvet shadow that caresses before it strangles.
Violet of belladonna and wolfsbane, toxic in its beauty.
Or an arctic violet, almost metallic, like the cold that seemed to run through his veins.
Violet. Like his clothes. This forest. His hair.
The cut of his eyes. Violet. Like the sucremort elixir he so desired.
“Well guessed.”
I squinted at him, suspicious. Too easy.
Still, a win was a win. I was about to fire back when a rustling caught my ear.
Aignan burst out with Chouquette and éclair, his fur bristling.
They had followed us, or rather, spied on us.
At the sight of the sorcerer, he bolted into a bush, while the other two scampered to my side.
Arawn didn’t even seem to notice. He continued walking, unbothered, even as stones flew toward us. I opened my mouth to scream, but he lifted his arm and froze the projectiles midair. They dropped limply to our feet as red eyes vanished into the fog.
“They don’t seem to like me much.”
“Why should that matter? Being liked is a waste of time,” he said, lifting his chin toward a small outbuilding attached to the manor. “Here.”
My heart thumped. The little cottage house looked as though it had grown there on its own, like an old, stubborn stump refusing to vanish.
Its domed roof sagged slightly under the weight of thick moss and ivy, as if the forest were trying to claim it back.
The brick walls were veined with clinging roots.
A large arched window took up nearly an entire facade, its glass dulled by dust. The wide ledge begged for a cushion and a mug of hot chocolate with guimauves.
It was crooked and a little forgotten, but I could already see its potential. My fingers itched with impatience. It was far more welcoming than the rest of the manor, with its chaotic spires and towers stacked into a looming fortress of shadows.
He turned the wrought-iron latch of the rounded door. It creaked open like it was waking from a long sleep. The ceiling beams were far too low for him. He had to stoop to pass the threshold, annoyance tugging at his lips. I snickered. The kitchen already despised him. We’d get along just fine.
But once inside, my enthusiasm deflated like a meringue left too long in the oven. “This is a disaster!”
I wrinkled my nose. The stench of damp and stale air smacked me full in the face. I rushed to the window, shoved it open, and let a breath of fresh air sweep away part of the pestilential odor. Behind me, my companions retreated, clearly unwilling to set a single paw in this cursed room.
The dishes, tinted with dubious stains, festered in the sink.
Cauldrons were fossilized under a thick crust of scorched sucre d'or.
Shriveling herbs spilled from their jars like captives breaking free.
Nothing sweet, nothing inviting—nothing but the urge to torch the place and start from zero.
Even the spiders had abandoned this horror.
Arawn, meanwhile, leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, utterly unconcerned by the catastrophe unfolding before him. “If you’re not up to it, you can always give up.”
I rolled up my sleeves. A fine dust of light shimmered briefly over my skin, shards of blown sugar catching the air. “Absolutely not! If you think this is going to scare me—”
A cold drop fell from a hole in the ceiling and splattered on my shoulder. The damp seeped straight into my bones. Arawn tilted his head slightly, a mocking glint in his gaze.
“I would’ve thought a confectioner knew that humidity is sugar’s enemy.”
I shot him a glare sharp enough to slice through steel. “Thank you for your sudden concern for my art, really. But I’m sure you have far more important evil sorcerer things to do than standing here, watching me in silence like a bad omen crow.”
He shrugged, looking perfectly at ease. “Oh, plenty. But I’m making sure you don’t destroy my kitchen.”
“How could I possibly make it worse?”
I swept a hand dramatically at the culinary apocalypse around me, just as I dodged another drop falling from the ceiling like poison. He, of course, didn’t budge an inch. Refusing to be intimidated, I grabbed a bucket and a rag. But my spirits sank immediately when a crucial detail struck me.
“Uh. It’s facing north…” I muttered, a shiver running through me. “No light. It’s depressing.” I spun toward my Cursed, finger stabbing the air at them. “Chouquette, éclair, to work!”
The two of them stared at me from the doorway, shaking their heads in perfect synchronization. Apparently, they had standards.
“Fine, no problem, I’ll just—” A revolting squelch sounded under my shoe. I froze and slowly looked down. Some unidentifiable slime stretched beneath my foot. My stomach flipped. “I will not lose hope.”
I yanked open the closed cupboards, determined not to give him the satisfaction of mocking me. I expected rats to bolt or carnivorous mushrooms. Instead, fruits, flours, and flowers gleamed inside, preserved by a spell, along with new leather cauldrons and all the tools a confectioner could want.
I turned, but Arawn was already gone.
“Looks like this kitchen hides more than a few treasures, after all… for anyone brave enough to uncover them.”
It was as if someone, once upon a time, had cared for this place—but never known how.
As if the kitchen were waiting to be treated with tenderness, for the very first time.
My recipe for an efficient overnight cleaning—ending with a spine crumbling into tiny sugar crystals—boiled down to three steps:
Stuff the mess and all things unsalvageable into a cupboard I would never, ever open again.
Scrub with the determination of a restless soul, holding my breath the entire time.
Ignore the attic that wouldn’t stop creaking.
Its little black crack let out a glacial draft, giving me the distinct impression that someone was watching from up there.
And most importantly, reward myself afterward.
A well-earned treat. Which, of course, I had already planned, cooking the golden apples I’d hidden under a cloth.
Each one carefully wiped clean, its core and seeds meticulously removed.
“There are dozens of ways to prepare the sucre d'or,” I began, lighthearted, carried by the pleasure of sharing a well-kept secret. “Caramel, syrup, jelly… But my favorite is crystallized. It goes with everything.”
My words hung in the air like a spell cast into emptiness.
No one seemed the least bit interested—except éclair, watching me wide-eyed from the window outside.
Aignan snored peacefully in his bush, utterly indifferent, while Chouquette, perched on a branch, stared at me with an expression that could only be described as pity.
I poured a thin stream of pure water into the cauldron and added the finely sliced apples. The mixture simmered, a gentle crackle filling the room with a comforting warmth.
“It’s the very first thing I ever learned,” I whispered to éclair.
Once the apples softened perfectly, I mashed them into a silky puree.
I strained the mixture through a cloth, gathering a clear golden juice that I returned to the cauldron.
The liquid thickened slowly, catching the light like a shooting star, its sweet, caramel scent wrapping around me like a veil of softness.
Beads of sweat rolled down my temples, sliding like drops of honey. In my early years, I always burned myself at this stage, swept away by impatience. Now, my movements were sure, precise. With sugar, patience was key.
Until then, I had ignored the small voice bubbling in my head. But it returned, more insistent, like a pressure squeezing from within.
You don’t even know your favorite dessert. You’re empty. No one will miss you when you’re gone.
My heartbeat quickened, frustration seeping into my veins.
I gripped the ladle tight to scoop the sucre d'or, but it suddenly felt heavier.
I staggered back and, to my horror, spotted a faint violet stain snaking along my hand.
An icy stain, spreading like a shard of frost. Had I done that myself?
I tried to steady my breathing. I spread the melted sugar across parchment paper in a golden wave.
All that was left was to wait until it hardened.
“Mademoiselle Lempicka, I knew I’d find you here!”
“Yeun!” I spun around with something close to hysteria. I needed to make something other than Velvet Hearts. And since I couldn’t answer my own questions, maybe he could. “Tell me! What’s your favorite dessert?”
The little will-o’-the-wisp nearly lost his blue flames. “I adore rousquilles.”
I threw open the apothecary cupboard, rummaging furiously. Anise, flour, butter, lemon… and my sucre d'or, waiting to be folded into eggs. “I’ve never made them before, but I’ll try.”
I rushed past him, sending him spinning in the wind with my abrupt momentum.
“Wonderful! My family adored them. In winter, when it was too cold for fairies to venture out, we stockpiled mountains of them. We called them Anise Flakes. They warmed us. I haven’t tasted one since…” His glow dimmed slightly.
“I’m sorry,” I breathed.
“Don’t be. I’ll taste them again now. That’s a joyful moment.”
I nodded. In the little kitchen, I preheated the old oven, which groaned in protest, exhaling reluctant warmth after moons of disuse. Ovens were peculiar creatures, temperamental—especially when woken from long sleep.
I shaped the dough into little hearts, while Yeun continued, “Did Master tell you about the winter ceremony?”
“The ceremony? No, never.”
He only talked when it was to push me away. Though if he had truly wanted to, he would have already chased me off.
“You humans celebrate winter with the harvest of golden apples. For us fairies, there is a ceremony a week earlier. We honor the forest, so it won’t darken, and so it blesses the new golden apples.
I still honor it every year, though Master and most Spirits don’t join anymore. Perhaps this year, you could—”
A stone struck Yeun full force, sending him flying into a cauldron. Aignan burst into laughter from his bush.
“Aignan,” I shouted.
“Not me,” he protested. “I don’t have that kind of aim.”
A second projectile whistled past, grazing Aignan.
“Filthy Spirits!” he roared, leaping after them through the mist. “You’ll feel my horn!”
Red eyes glimmered in the distance. One, in the middle, lay collapsed on the ground, more translucent than the rest. It coughed up mist, its wavering form like a crushed flower. I tightened my apron. They were counting on me.
They shouldn’t.
Yeun! He was still in the cauldron. I plunged my hand into the boiling water, my fingers numbing from the heat shock.
“I’m fine!” he assured me, shaking himself like a drenched cat. “Heat doesn’t hurt me.”
I wrapped my hand in a cloth. If I wasn’t careful, I’d end up melting myself. A tingling spread. A strange dampness lingered on my skin, as though cracks were forming inside. For a moment, I struggled to move my fingers.
“Sorry, Yeun, but I can’t come. I have work.”
So much work. The will-o’-the-wisp dimmed. I crushed the sucre d'or under my mortar, reducing the crystals into fine sparkling powder.
“Oh… I understand. I won’t bother you anymore then.”
I beat the egg whites too hard. A splash hit my cheek. I ignored it. The dough was drier than expected. I kneaded it anyway. Nyla would have known the right texture. Me—I couldn’t tell if it was too sticky or not enough. Couldn’t decide.
That voice in my head wouldn’t stop. An insidious whisper, sliding like burnt sugar, infiltrated every corner of me.
A dull ache coiled under my ribs. My hand trembled as I spread the glaze over the rousquilles.
And the voice, still there, merciless. Whispering that maybe the Wish Witch had turned me into what I knew best because deep down, I would never measure up.
Nyla would have known what to do.
But me… all I’d ever known how to do was fail.
And I’d had enough.
The ceiling creaked again. I spun around in a rush. “Is someone there?”
No one answered.
And finally, that cursed voice went silent.