Chapter 12
Sorcerers have long perfected the art of enchanting the mundane, weaving spells into the fabric of everyday objects.
LEMPICKA
All I did was ask nicely (fine, I may have shouted a bit) for my grimoire, and Chouquette vanished with it—slinking away with a cat’s grace and a thief’s audacity. Since then, she and my grimoire had been untraceable.
“I was literally in the middle of a nap,” Aignan grumbled, tapping the window with the tip of his paw. Spirits clung to it like gargoyles of mist. “And here I am, wandering around this place more miserable than the bottom of a burnt pot.”
But I had no intention of giving up, not after hours of searching. éclair came barreling down the corridor. He lifted a finger covered in moss, inhaled noisily, tucked his belly in, then puffed it out again like a balloon while flapping his arms.
“An octopus?” Aignan guessed, one brow raised.
éclair shook his head.
Offended, Aignan growled. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”
That was when the Maudit fluttered his lashes with grotesque elegance. Then unleashed a roar so piercing it made the back of my neck prickle, before plunging his whole hand down his own throat. The Spirits pressed against the windows scattered instantly.
“Chouquette!” Aignan and I cried at the same time, then slapped palm to paw in a triumphant high-five. “You found her?”
He nodded, puffed out his chest, threw an imaginary cape over his shoulder, and began pacing the room with slow, calculated steps, chin lifted, face grave.
“The sorcerer!” Aignan clapped his paws together. “What a performance! Though, if I may, you could emphasize the smirk just a bit—”
“Chouquette’s with Arawn. But where?” I shoot him a deadly glare.
éclair beckoned us. He dashed down the stairs. I followed at once, Aignan on my heels, casting suspicious looks at the walls that groaned and stretched with the passing wind. Empty frames lined the corridors.
“That damned sorcerer must have done something to Chouquette!” he snarled, half baring his fangs.
My heart clenched. “Aignan… why do you hate sorcerers so much?”
He looked away. “There’s nothing to say.”
He never wanted to speak of the sorcerer who had experimented on him. The floor turned to stone, vibrating beneath our feet as if the structure were floating, barely tethered to the rest of the manor. The walls rose higher, curving toward a pointed ceiling. At the end of the hall was a single door.
éclair hid behind me and gently pushed me forward. I opened it. A wave of hot air enveloped us, heavy with ancient paper and ash. We were inside a turret. Twisted shelves lined the walls, sagging under the weight of dusty grimoires.
A muffled moan broke the silence, like a sigh torn from the manor’s very entrails.
Chouquette!
My heart raced. I traded a panicked look with my companions and crept forward. “We need to find where it’s coming from.”
My fingers brushed the curled edges of confectioners’ grimoires, centuries old.
I had never seen a collection like this.
Some spoke of regrets dissolved in sugar pearls.
Others of sweets that could restore youth.
Most had missing pages. None held Nyla’s gift.
But one thing was certain: the sorcerer was utterly devoted to finding that recipe—the one that could kill him.
A sharp odor stung my nose. I turned. Aignan, looking very pleased with himself, had just lifted a hind leg and soiled the reading sofa.
“Aignan!”
He offered me a crooked smile. “I’m a beast, Lempicka. And when a beast is displeased, it marks its territory.”
With one negligent swipe, he scattered loose pages.
“That excuses nothing! Clean it up right now or—”
A sinister rustle rose behind a little door, wedged between shelves at the foot of the stairway leading to the higher tomes.
“This may hurt,” the sorcerer’s voice echoed from the shadows.
Another wrenching cry from Chouquette.
Aignan stiffened, his fur bristling like a broom of twigs. “Lempicka, don’t go!”
But I was already moving, fists clenched.
He grabbed my skirt, growling between his teeth, “You don’t understand! He’s experimenting on her. He wants to make her a weapon. If you go in there, he’ll—”
Another moan. I tore free of his grip and flung the door open. I froze.
Chouquette sat in the center of the room, her ear tails lifted high, looking as guilty as a child caught stealing cookies. Before her, a mountain of mismatched objects was sprawled… which she had clearly just spat out. She hiccuped and let out a tiny burp.
I opened my mouth, but no sound came. Arawn was there, a few steps away, impassive, as if I had interrupted the most mundane of rituals.
He crossed his arms. “What are you doing here?”
I blinked, waving vaguely at the scene in front of me. “Chouquette vanished, and… I thought—”
Arawn raised a brow. “That I was torturing her? Your lack of faith is almost endearing.”
“I was worried about her.”
“Worried about a Cursed? How charming.”
Chouquette rolled onto her side and let out another small burp, looking thoroughly pleased with herself. I couldn’t help but smile. Arawn crouched and pulled something from the pile.
“She came to fetch this for you.”
He tossed a grimoire into the air. I caught it just in time. That worn cover, its dog-eared pages. My grimoire! My heart leaped.
I looked down at Chouquette. “You knew how much this meant to me? Thank you, Chouquette!”
The little creature chirped, her cheeks flushing the faintest pink. I hugged her tight.
Arawn cleared his throat. “You’re welcome.”
“Oh, um… yes, thank you,” I stammered, only then realizing he had partly returned it to me. “You’re not as terrible as I thought.”
Silence. I bit my lip, realizing my mistake a second too late. The shadow of his monstrous past flickered in the room, but he only stared at me, amused.
“Not as terrible? How flattering. I don’t know what’s worse: your pitiful opinion of me, or how quickly I managed to raise it.”
I swallowed hard, desperate to change the subject. My eyes darted around the room. A dark wooden desk with an inkwell black as night. A window without glass. Ordinary objects piled into clutter that still seemed to pulse with magic.
“Is this your study? I saw you had confectioners’ grimoires. I could borrow one to—”
“They’re useless. You shouldn’t compare yourself. I hope you’re not afraid of heights.”
“What? Why would I be—”
“Because this might be… unpleasant.”
“Wait, I don’t think—”
Arawn snapped his fingers. A broom, harmless until then in a corner of the room, sprang to life and shot straight at me like a missile. I had no time to scream. In a blink, I was yanked off the floor and hurled through the window, clinging to the broom handle for dear life.
My companions latched onto me. The wind shrieked in my ears, whipping my face, while my hair tangled into a wild storm. We tore through the mist, and with a violent jolt, the broom dove straight for the ground.
Our screams were swallowed by the wind, and then we crashed into the kitchen.
I rolled across the floorboards, leaving behind a sugary trail.
I had Nyla’s grimoire clutched against me like a makeshift shield.
The broom, meanwhile, settled calmly into a corner, upright and proud, as if it had done absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.
It was official. I hated flying.