“I’ll succeed!”
10
Magic, much like an improperly measured cake, can rise or collapse—it all depends on the hand that mixes the ingredients.
LEMPICKA
“It’s the kitchen, isn’t it?”
I clasped my hands, practically skipping behind Arawn’s long strides. He turned back to me with that crushed expression that screamed,Why me?He didn’t even need to speak. His eyes alone said I’d guessed where he was taking me. Maybe I’d even impressed him a little… though, honestly, he mostly looked like he regretted every choice that had led him to this precise moment.
Through the twisted moss-covered branches, the silhouette of the towering manor finally rose toward the sky.
“What kind of kitchen do you have?” The thought alone made my mouth water. A new oven, new utensils… a little comfort. Maybe even copper molds? “Is your oven temperamental? Ours took an eternity to heat, and when it overheated, it made this sound like a skeleton about to collapse! And orientation, haveyou thought about that? I’ve always dreamed of a kitchen facing east, for the golden morning light, or west, for sunsets! Ours was facing north and?—”
He stopped dead. I barely managed to brake before crashing into him, my hands landing instinctively against his chest. My gaze followed his, lifted toward the stars, then dropped back to his exhausted look pinning me in place.
“Are you always this talkative?”
“Only when I’m excited.” And clearly, he had no idea how one could get excited over an oven. His loss. “But you can talk too. For example, your favorite color? I’m betting on violet.”
That kind of violet, like velvet shadow that caresses before it strangles. Violet of belladonna and wolfsbane, toxic in its beauty. Or an arctic violet, almost metallic, like the cold that seemed to run through his veins. Violet. Like his clothes. This forest. His hair. The cut of his eyes. Violet. Like the sucremort elixir he so desired.
“Well guessed.”
I squinted at him, suspicious. Too easy. Still, a win was a win. I was about to fire back when a rustling caught my ear. Aignan burst out with Chouquette and Éclair, his fur bristling. They had followed us, or rather, spied on us. At the sight of the sorcerer, he bolted into a bush, while the other two scampered to my side.
Arawn didn’t even seem to notice. He continued walking, unbothered, even as stones flew toward us. I opened my mouth to scream, but he lifted his arm and froze the projectiles midair. They dropped limply to our feet as red eyes vanished into the fog.
“They don’t seem to like me much.”
“Why should that matter? Being liked is a waste of time,” he said, lifting his chin toward a small outbuilding attached to the manor. “Here.”
My heart thumped. The little cottage house looked as though it had grown there on its own, like an old, stubborn stump refusing to vanish. Its domed roof sagged slightly under the weight of thick moss and ivy, as if the forest were trying to claim it back. The brick walls were veined with clinging roots. A large arched window took up nearly an entire facade, its glass dulled by dust. The wide ledge begged for a cushion and a mug of hot chocolate with guimauves.
It was crooked and a little forgotten, but I could already see its potential. My fingers itched with impatience. It was far more welcoming than the rest of the manor, with its chaotic spires and towers stacked into a looming fortress of shadows.
He turned the wrought-iron latch of the rounded door. It creaked open like it was waking from a long sleep. The ceiling beams were far too low for him. He had to stoop to pass the threshold, annoyance tugging at his lips. I snickered. The kitchen already despised him. We’d get along just fine.
But once inside, my enthusiasm deflated like a meringue left too long in the oven. “This is a disaster!”
I wrinkled my nose. The stench of damp and stale air smacked me full in the face. I rushed to the window, shoved it open, and let a breath of fresh air sweep away part of the pestilential odor. Behind me, my companions retreated, clearly unwilling to set a single paw in this cursed room.
The dishes, tinted with dubious stains, festered in the sink. Cauldrons were fossilized under a thick crust of scorched sucre d'or. Shriveling herbs spilled from their jars like captives breaking free. Nothing sweet, nothing inviting—nothing but the urge to torch the place and start from zero. Even the spiders had abandoned this horror.
Arawn, meanwhile, leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, utterly unconcerned by the catastrophe unfolding before him. “If you’re not up to it, you can always give up.”
I rolled up my sleeves. A fine dust of light shimmered briefly over my skin, shards of blown sugar catching the air. “Absolutely not! If you thinkthisis going to scare me?—”
A cold drop fell from a hole in the ceiling and splattered on my shoulder. The damp seeped straight into my bones. Arawn tilted his head slightly, a mocking glint in his gaze.
“I would’ve thought a confectioner knew that humidity is sugar’s enemy.”
I shot him a glare sharp enough to slice through steel. “Thank you for your sudden concern for my art, really. But I’m sure you have far more important evil sorcerer things to do than standing here, watching me in silence like a bad omen crow.”
He shrugged, looking perfectly at ease. “Oh, plenty. But I’m making sure you don’t destroy my kitchen.”
“How could I possibly make it worse?”
