Chapter 13
It is said that the Cursed unconsciously cling to the memory of the first pastry they ever tasted or the last one they savored, as if a single confection could rekindle what they had lost.
LEMPICKA
The kitchen shuddered and turned toward the east.
Shards of stone broke loose from the manor’s ceiling, crumbling down in a fine dust. Under the milky pink of the sky, a new page of my grimoire wrote itself.
A brand-new recipe:
Snow Rings, or Friendship Rings (also known as Yeun’s Rousquilles).
Tender, sugared circles, golden and powdered, crafted to shield against the cold. They symbolize the warmth of friendship, a reminder that even in the heart of the harshest winter, we are never truly alone.
For the very first time, my grimoire was speaking to me.
“You saw that!” I cried, clutching the grimoire to my chest in a tiny euphoric dance.
I expected cheers, or at least a round of applause, from my companions. Instead, it was the dusty little mirror in the corner of the kitchen that answered.
“I did.”
That smooth, insufferably mocking voice was unmistakable. I turned slowly toward the enchanted mirror, while Chouquette and éclair crept toward it as if it might get up and walk away on its own two legs.
“Boo,” said the mirror with absolute boredom.
Chouquette squealed in panic and hid behind éclair, who immediately tripped over his own feet and collapsed in a puff of flour. Only Aignan remained unfazed, dragging his pillow a little farther from the chaos.
I jabbed an accusatory finger at the mirror. The features of Arawn appeared across its surface. Sharp edges, eyes of glacial lavender, hair like violet mist and wet night. He was the kind of cake too beautiful to eat, but that you suspected hid hemlock in its filling.
“I knew it was you! What do you think you’re doing?”
“I thought it was obvious,” he said. “I’m watching you.”
“Well, stop it! You’re distracting me,” I hissed, clutching the mirror’s edges as if I could strangle it. “Come show yourself in person instead of cheating with your magic.”
Arawn laughed softly—a deep, velvety sound, carefully designed to grate my nerves. “Oh, but then you’d burn something in your nervousness, and I’d have to endure the smell of carbonized sugar. Your anxiety at being seen has its own… disconcerting fragrance.”
I clenched my teeth. He was unbearable. Worse than caramel burned to the bottom of a pan.
Yet those eyes were always seeing everything, always knowing more than he let on about confections.
Behind him stretched a gray alley, dead and layered with dust. A village leeched of all color, without light or life.
“Did you do this?”
He shot me a look that froze me through the glass. “Don’t be ridiculous. They left on their own. Zelda promised them their wishes in exchange for their souls. This isn’t the first village to fall.”
If Arawn’s magical signature was mist, then Zelda’s was dust, judging by what I’d seen in my shop. I gripped the mirror tighter. If she kept this up, she’d have every soul in the kingdoms in her pocket. Behind Arawn, I narrowed my eyes on the poster plastered to the crumbling wall:
“WANTED – THE MIST SORCERER – CATEGORY 10 CURSED – DEADLY DANGER. TO BE DELIVERED TO THE WISH WITCH.”
Beneath it was a grotesque sketch of a horned beast spewing fog with bloodshot eyes. “Arawn… you’re wanted. Behind you, there’s—”
“Don’t speak to me of that atrocity. I should sue them for artistic defamation.”
A muffled growl answered him. In the depths of the alley, dark viscous masses slithered along the walls. A pile of glutinous bodies, ready to swallow the village whole.
“Arawn…”
He sighed. “No, you cannot come. Zelda would delight in sending her Cursed after you, and I have better things to do than play your knight. If you want something, I’ll go fetch it—”
“You’re about to be attacked from behind!”
He didn’t even turn. That arrogant icicle was about to get carved into slices, and still, he smiled as though he were sipping spiced wine. He couldn’t die, but I could—if I had to drag his carcass back here once his magic ran dry.
“Are you worried about me, Confectioner?”
I glanced at the mirror, then at the flower-shaped wood floor beneath me.
“Arawn,” I said with a smile, “what would happen if I smashed this mirror?”
“Hmm,” he mused, as if I’d asked him about the weather. “Seven years of bad luck, perhaps? And of course, my spell would break. A terrible waste, really.”
“I need currants,” I demanded.
He frowned.“What?”
“And I want you to stop wasting your magic uselessly!”
I dropped the mirror. The shards scattered like stars across the floorboards.
“There,” I declared, hands on hips. “Who’s afraid of bad luck in my situation, anyway?”
I turned back to my companions, who were staring at me as though I’d sprouted a second head.
But a second later, they were already back to their business.
éclair, wrestling with his apron, trying to tie it exactly like mine.
Chouquette, wagging her tails, each one clutching a rousquille like a tiny trophy.
And Aignan, his back turned on the chaos.
Authority was clearly not my strong suit.
I bit my lip. Maybe I shouldn’t have dismissed him like that? What if he got hurt? What if he had drained too much of his magic just to talk to me? No, he’d be fine. He was the Mist Sorcerer, after all.
“I’m taking these to Yeun,” I muttered, grabbing the tray of still warm rousquilles. “At least he always says thank you.”
I climbed out the window, striding toward the will-o’-wisp’s cabin, determined to be back before nightfall.
As long as daylight lingered, I could avoid the Spirits.
My boots sank into the spongy moss, and I cast an uncertain glance at the lake.
Its surface trembled faintly, as if troubled by invisible drops, breaking the silence with a whisper.
I placed the rousquilles carefully inside the little wooden cabin, but instead of heading back, I turned toward the lake.
When I finally reached the water’s edge, a chill crept along my nape.
I froze, whipping around, breath short. I wanted to be certain I hadn’t been followed (especially not by Aignan, who’d no doubt leap straight into the lake without a second thought).
Crouching, I leaned over the glassy surface, my heart hammering in its cage.
The water was dark, unfathomable. The Lake of Lost Things.
What would I find there? What if I could see Nyla again?
My curiosity won. With the tips of my fingers, I brushed the water.
Fine ripples spread out in circles. My reflection blurred at once, and another image took shape.
A little girl with round cheeks, a sulky pout, and hair in a tangled mess. Me. Younger. A tray of tarts in my arms, my furious glare pinned on Aignan, guilty of having devoured half already. The smell of warm caramel and golden pastry seemed to rise from the memory, so vivid it made my chest ache.
Behind me, Nyla was carefully tying a ribbon into my unruly hair, but I was too busy chasing the lamb, undoing the knot the moment she tightened it. And still, Nyla smiled. A gentle smile. Bright. A smile I didn’t remember her ever giving me.
A tear slid down my cheek. I hadn’t even felt it fall. Distant voices, like whispers, called me to reach out my hand. The vision was fading. This was my last chance to return to a life where Nyla still smiled in our confectionery.
I plunged my hand deeper, trying to cling just a little longer to Nyla. This time, she was scrubbing our bakery’s kitchen with meticulous care, while the younger me shouted at her. My heart clenched. I had only good memories of her, yet this one was far from joyful.
“You don’t even want to teach me!” I screamed, tugging and twisting at my apron with bandaged fingers. “It’s because I’m not your daughter, isn’t it? You’ve ignored me all day!”
“Because you failed,” Nyla answered, setting down her cloth with icy calm. “We had customers, and you couldn’t manage the Velvet Hearts. I had to redo every one of them while you wallowed in self-pity.”
The little heart-shaped biscuits were swept straight into the trash. Rejected. Judged too childish and not good enough. How had I forgotten that? And more importantly, why was the lake showing me this memory?
“You didn’t even give me the recipe,” my younger self shrieked. “I was doomed to fail. You’re a terrible mentor!”
Nyla turned her back. “Your heart is too fragile. It can’t even handle a critique. You’re so afraid of failure, you can’t even keep your head in what you’re doing. If you keep this up, you’ll never be a confectioner.”
“You mean I’ll never measure up to you, don’t you?” I cried, cheeks burning, biting my lip to dam the tears.
“A good confectioner doesn’t need words to enchant because her sugar speaks for her. Look at yours… grainy, sticky, burned.”
“So that’s it? You’re going to abandon me too?”
Nyla pointed at the door, her brows furrowed. “Get out of my shop.”
“Gladly!” I spun on my heels and slammed the door behind me, only to collapse on the bakery steps under a beating rain. “Everything I do is never enough for you anyway…”
“No, that’s not true,” I cried at my child self, shattering the memory into a thousand new ripples.
I refused to let go. I plunged my whole hand into the water, clinging to the vision as if I could hold it, as if I could slip inside and grab that stubborn girl by the shoulders, shake her, scream at her that she didn’t know what she was saying.
That she would regret every word.
It was true that Nyla never handed out compliments easily, that she was severe—but that was because she loved me, wasn’t it? Because she believed in me.
In the memory, Nyla lifted a hand toward me, then faltered, collapsing behind the counter. Aignan curled against her. “Kids… they’re not easy to raise.”