Chapter 18
Matthias did not continue grinding his cocoa paste. He still went to the bakehouse every evening, knowing that she would not come, but unable to be anywhere else in case she did.
His notebook lay unopened on his desk where he had dropped it three days ago, after she had slammed it into his chest. You are just like all the rest of them.
Her words rang in his ears. She had been right.
He had not opened it since. He could not think about flavors, or recipes, or cocoa while her judgment of him sat heavy and true on his chest.
He had written those words about her.
Every morning, he went to the bakehouse before dawn and weighed flour for Master Cabot, watching the door to see if she might come through, perhaps to grab a bite for Sable if for nothing else.
But she did not.
He visited the garden as soon as he was able to step away from his counter.
Of course she was not there either.
But Sable had been. Waiting in a nook of the apple tree. The bird had cawed at him, an angry, demanding sound. So Matthias had returned to the bakehouse and collected some crusts of bread to feed the crow.
Sable had eaten the crumbs—not from Matthias' hand—but he had eaten them.
So Matthias had brought some stale bread with him to the garden every morning. If Una was not visiting her favorite place because of him, the least he could do was feed her bird.
During the few moments when his mind was not consumed by thoughts of her, he found himself waiting for a solemn summons from the Royal Flourier, or the Headmaster at the Academy.
She had uncovered a means to end him, and had no reason not to do so.
She had every right to do so. But the summons had not come. Yet.
There would be no title of Codex Master for him.
But it was not the lost title that kept him awake at night, as painful as that was.
It was the sight of Una's face as she read his own words back to him. He had not only cracked her, he had completely broken her.
And somewhere between her laughing at the crow, and her crunching on a nib of cocoa, her trust had become more precious to him than the title he pursued.
On the fourth night, he waited in the bakehouse for hours. Then lay in bed, tossing and turning. Dawn would not break for a few more hours, but he knew he would get no sleep.
So, finally, he got out of bed, grabbed his notebook, and went down to the cellar to retrieve his jar of cocoa paste.
The paste was thick and cold inside the jar, too stiff to spoon out.
He placed it near the oven to warm while he filled the stone mortar with hot water from the kettle.
He let it sit for several minutes before he emptied the water and dried the bowl.
Then, he worked the loosened paste into the warm mortar and began to grind.
The small repetitive motions were oddly soothing. He hoped that by keeping the natural oils warm and moving, the grit of the cocoa would yield.
And just when his arm was getting too sore to continue moving, the sandy sludge began to turn. It caught the lantern light, reflecting it back with a smooth and glossy sheen. Just as the translated letters had promised.
He had finally done it.
He stopped, breathing hard. He could imagine that his forehead was reflecting the lantern light as well, with a light sheen of hard-earned sweat.
He had wanted to perfect the cocoa since he was twelve years old at his father's elbow, but in this moment, the triumph felt empty.
Now, he was the one who was lonely. The one person in the palace he wanted to share this excitement with would rather starve than taste his work.
But she could eat it. They had proved that.
So he would make it for her anyway. Not to win her back. Not to win the title—cocoa would not gain him any favors in the codex—but because she deserved to eat something and enjoy it.
Only then did he reach for the notebook, opening it to the final list he and Una had made together.
But light was growing outside the window and the first of the flouriers would be arriving soon to start the day's baking.
So he read the list and tasted the dripping, melted cocoa, imagining what he could create with it.
What he could create that she could taste.
A few hours later, when the evening loaves were measured, kneaded, and beginning to rise, he found a crust from yesterday's loaves and went out into the garden.
He stopped halfway through the overgrown beds.
She was there! Sitting on the far bench, her palm outstretched. Sable, head tilted, was hopping along the back of the bench, his glassy eye fixated on the ripped bread in her hand.
Matthias froze in place, not wanting to disturb Sable and take this moment away from her. He lowered himself behind the bushy lemon balm, dropping slowly so as not to attract attention.
But he had not been slow enough. Sable, his head hovering over Una's hand, must have sensed him. The bird instantly stood up straight, stretching his neck and turning his head to peer at Matthias.
Matthias stared back, afraid to breathe, afraid to scare Sable and anger Una.
The bird stared back at him for a long moment, then ruffled his feathers. Relaxing his head, he dropped his beak back into Una's hand and grabbed a chunk of bread. Then, making a happy, guttural noise without dropping his tasty treat, Sable took off over the hedge.
Una deposited the rest of the bread crumbs into the nook of the apple tree before she gave Matthias her attention. "What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice neither warm nor cold. Just flat and distant.
Matthias stepped forward, holding up the crust in his hand. "I've been feeding Sable."
"Ah." Una meticulously wiped the crumbs from her palm. "That was why he was not afraid of you."
"Since you are here," Matthias said, speaking quickly before she left. "I would like to apologize for the things that I wrote."
Her eyes flicked up to him. "Then do it," she said. "Apologize."
Matthias raised his eyebrows, then quickly dropped them again. "I am so sorry. I was studying you. I was acting like all the others. I was trying to crack the girl who judges without taking a bite. But, Una, please believe me, that my motivations changed as I got to know you—"
"Stop." The sharply spoken word cut him off.
Her shoulders slumped. "It doesn't matter.
Everything you wrote was true. I shouldn't have made you apologize .
. . I'm sorry." She lifted her chin, pointing her nose to the sky.
"There is no need to apologize, apprentice.
" She looked over his shoulder and stepped forward.
"Una," he pleaded. "It does matter. I was judging you like a thing, not a person. And you didn't deserve that."
She exhaled, her chin dropping just a touch. "I was also judging you, by your presentation, the way that I always judge the flouriers."
"But you were supposed to do that," Matthias said.
"Only during the presentation," she replied. "Not at all the times afterward. I'm sorry, too."
Matthias nodded, his next breath felt like it filled his lungs fully for the first time in days.
"Una," he said, taking a step forward. "The cocoa.
Last night, I ground it so smooth it looks like butter.
And the very first thought I had, before I had even tried it, was that I wanted you to taste it.
" He looked at her, hopefully. "Not for your verdict.
Not for the title. Not even for myself. Even if you still hate me.
You should get to taste something wonderful, Una.
For yourself. At your own choosing. In front of no one. "
Her eyes had narrowed. But in a thoughtful way, that said she was considering his words, not judging them.
"I won't make you decide here," he said, taking a step back.
"Come to the bakehouse tonight if you would like to see it.
You can decide then. Even then, you don't have to eat it.
" The corner of his mouth twitched into a small half-smile.
"You did say that you would never taste a thing created by my hands. "
For the smallest fraction of a moment—there and gone—the corner of her mouth moved too.
That was all Matthias needed. "Tonight," he repeated. "If you would like." Then he turned and left the garden, giving her back the space that she loved.