6
Every curse demands a price from its caster. Each spell draws slowly upon the fears and sorrows dormant in the heart of its bearer.
LEMPICKA
When I opened my eyes, it felt as if my eyelids had frozen under a layer of frost.
I tried to sit up, but my body cracked against the dark sheets, as if shards of glass were lodging themselves into my veins. Even the air tasted of spent incense and dead rain.
Click. Clack.
The sound split the silence. My gaze slowly climbed.
The Mist Sorcerer sat upright in a green velvet armchair. The light from the vine-shaped chandelier hanging from the ceiling didn’t even dare touch the sharp edges of his face. In his hands, he turned over a lighter, black as liquid ink, with a worn charm dangling from its beak like a scrap of rag. With each turn between his fingers, a wisp of mist coiled around his wrist before vanishing at once.
“You’re awake at last,” he murmured, his voice both soft and cruel. “They say sleep is restorative. It would seem it wasn’t enough.”
I had barely managed to half sit when my breath caught hard in my throat, like biting down on a lump of hard caramel too fast. Behind him, the windows wept with a haze of breath, and pressed against the glass were black shapes—shadows drawn long like nightmares, their red eyes locked into the glass.
Chouquette bristled, leaped onto the windowsill, and hissed, held back by Éclair. Beneath the bed, a rustle followed by a sheepish cough. Aignan, no doubt.
“They’re the Spirits, mademoiselle.” The voice came without warning. A blue flame floated near the bed. “Normally, they’re nocturnal and hide under the lake during the day. But it seems your arrival has disrupted their habits. Do not be afraid, the master has ordered them not to devour you.”
“If they obey,” the sorcerer added.
“Pardon me, I haven’t even introduced myself properly. Yeun, butler to the not-so-terrible Mist Sorcerer, will-o’-the-wisp, and descendant of the Fae.”
I blinked as the will-o’-the-wisp bowed. “Of the Fae?”
“Indeed.” Yeun shimmered faintly, shifting from one form to the other. His floating flame form briefly gave way to a smaller, winged version of his human self. “Tell me, which form do you prefer I take?”
“I—I don’t mind. They’re all fine.”
He immediately transformed back into his human appearance and nodded. I swallowed, glancing down at my fingers. They glimmered faintly, like the sucre d'or beginning to crystallize. Beneath my skin, fine golden veins pulsed.
“What am I… exactly?”
Yeun sighed. The kind of sigh you reserve for truths too long to explain. “In a way, you’re like sugar extracted from golden apples.”
Sucre d'or.
A smile brushed my lips. It wasn’t the worst fate. After all, being a confectioner had always been my whole life.
“I know it can be frightening…” Yeun began, only to cut himself short. “Mademoiselle? Are you all right?”
“This is excellent news!”
For once, I didn’t feel so pitiful, but full of hope. I would not let the Wish Witch steal Nyla, my shop, and now my heart. I’d show her what I was made of.
“Excellent?” Yeun squawked.
“If you don’t break free of it, you’ll lose your soul by the first harvest of winter,” the sorcerer said, rising from his chair like a knife slowly drawn from its sheath. His steps were silent, his shadow swallowing the room. “You’ll lose what you love most. Your heart will freeze, piece by piece. The cracks in your soul will widen with every failure, and those breaches will fester. You’ll wander without end, rotting everything in your wake, until you become pure malice. Cursed for eternity.”
No words of comfort. No softness. Just a sentence delivered with implacable detachment, without a glimmer of hope.
“It’s true I’m not good at much. I’m rather ordinary, and I know nothing about magic.”
The sorcerer gave a muffled laugh. “And that’s a good thing because…?”
