His words chilled my skin.
“Either way,” he concluded, “you now have the privilege of being either my damnation or my only chance.”
How could anyone be so detached from their own existence? I exhaled slowly. Then, with a softness I didn’t even recognize in myself, I whispered, “Maybe you don’t remember what it is to be human, but that doesn’t make your life any less precious.”
Arawn’s gaze darkened, nearly swallowed by the shadow cast by the violet strands falling across his forehead. He gave a joyless smile, then leaned slowly back against the bench.
“I see. Yeun really doesn’t know when to hold his tongue. Maybe the person I used to be didn’t deserve to exist.”
“On the contrary,” I retorted, a hand pressed against my chest. “The witch always takes what is most precious. You said it yourself: ‘I will lose what I love the most.’ What you sacrificed had to matter.”
He swallowed hard. “It doesn’t matter. One day, I will become a Cursed for good. Better to choose when and why. As for your fate, what you should really be worrying about, a confectioner is supposed to have a heart so pure and strong that no curse can ever enter it… and clearly, that’s not your case.”
I shook my head, a bitter laugh slipping out. “I know about my weak heart.”
“Curses are born from our fears, our cracks, our unconscious. Creating the pastry of your essence is the final step for a confectioner. According to the grimoire you apparently no longer have in your possession.”
My cheeks flamed. “I’m going to get it back.”
“Glad to see you know your priorities. It was probably empty anyway.”
I took the insult straight to the gut. He wasn’t wrong. Almost empty. And in the claws of a thieving Cursed. “If I find the recipe for my essence, I’ll be freed from my curse on the day of the harvest?”
He nodded. “That’s my theory, at least,” he said wearily, hand pressed to his forehead. “You should know that sorcerers, like confectioners, each have their own magic, with their peculiarities and limits. I suppose you have no idea of yours?”
I bit my lip, shaking my head. He must think me a complete failure. “How do you know all this?”
“I worked with confectioners before you.” His tone made it obvious he had no intention to elaborate.
“And so you can read my soul through a confection? But reading someone’s soul, that’s… intimate.”
“And tearing out your heart to end your life if your curse consumes you, is that not intimate?”
My eyes lit up, and his brow furrowed. “You’d do that for me, if I fail?”
“Consider it the only form of intimacy I’ll allow us to share. Most people would dream of having the chance to end the existence of a Cursed sorcerer surpassing Category Ten if that makes you feel special.”
“Not really,” I shot back.
He rose, gesturing to my bowl. “Eat. Your bones are fragile. I could break them without effort.”
“Arawn, wait!”
He turned sharply. The air grew heavier. The Spirits, seated at the tables moments earlier, dissolved into mist. The wind rose violently. The sorcerer’s hand clenched, his throat shifting with an almost imperceptible swallow.
“What… pastry do you want me to make?” I whispered after him.
“Make the one you prefer. Your conviction should be strong enough to heal a sick Spirit.”
My favorite? A sick Spirit?
I lowered my gaze to the bowl, heart racing. I had no idea. No one had ever asked me that before. Not even myself. Nyla had taught me to copy, not… not what comes from me. And now the survival of a Spirit depended on me?
“At this rate, we’ll both die,” he muttered. “Or rather, all three of us.”
He rubbed salt into the wound, a thin smile curling his lips. A smile I very much disliked. As if he was mocking me. Or worse, as if I posed no threat to him at all.
My fist slammed against the table. I seized the bowl, the spoon, and started swallowing as though bravery were hiding at the bottom. No time to savor, I needed strength.
