I swept a hand dramatically at the culinary apocalypse around me, just as I dodged another drop falling from the ceiling like poison. He, of course, didn’t budge an inch. Refusing to be intimidated, I grabbed a bucket and a rag. But my spirits sank immediately when a crucial detail struck me.
“Uh. It’s facing north…” I muttered, a shiver running through me. “No light. It’s depressing.” I spun toward my Cursed, finger stabbing the air at them. “Chouquette, Éclair, to work!”
The two of them stared at me from the doorway, shaking their heads in perfect synchronization. Apparently, they had standards.
“Fine, no problem, I’ll just—” A revolting squelch sounded under my shoe. I froze and slowly looked down. Some unidentifiable slime stretched beneath my foot. My stomach flipped. “I will not lose hope.”
I yanked open the closed cupboards, determined not to give him the satisfaction of mocking me. I expected rats to bolt or carnivorous mushrooms. Instead, fruits, flours, and flowersgleamed inside, preserved by a spell, along with new leather cauldrons and all the tools a confectioner could want.
I turned, but Arawn was already gone.
“Looks like this kitchen hides more than a few treasures, after all… for anyone brave enough to uncover them.”
It was as if someone, once upon a time, had cared for this place—but never known how.
As if the kitchen were waiting to be treated with tenderness, for the very first time.
My recipe for an efficient overnight cleaning—ending with a spine crumbling into tiny sugar crystals—boiled down to three steps:
Stuff the mess and all things unsalvageable into a cupboard I would never, ever open again.
Scrub with the determination of a restless soul, holding my breath the entire time.
Ignore the attic that wouldn’t stop creaking. Its little black crack let out a glacial draft, giving me the distinct impression that someone was watching from up there. And most importantly, reward myself afterward. A well-earned treat. Which, of course, I had already planned, cooking the golden apples I’d hidden under a cloth. Each one carefully wiped clean, its core and seeds meticulously removed.
“There are dozens of ways to prepare the sucre d'or,” I began, lighthearted, carried by the pleasure of sharing a well-kept secret. “Caramel, syrup, jelly… But my favorite is crystallized. It goes with everything.”
My words hung in the air like a spell cast into emptiness. No one seemed the least bit interested—except Éclair, watching mewide-eyed from the window outside. Aignan snored peacefully in his bush, utterly indifferent, while Chouquette, perched on a branch, stared at me with an expression that could only be described as pity.
I poured a thin stream of pure water into the cauldron and added the finely sliced apples. The mixture simmered, a gentle crackle filling the room with a comforting warmth.
“It’s the very first thing I ever learned,” I whispered to Éclair.
Once the apples softened perfectly, I mashed them into a silky puree. I strained the mixture through a cloth, gathering a clear golden juice that I returned to the cauldron. The liquid thickened slowly, catching the light like a shooting star, its sweet, caramel scent wrapping around me like a veil of softness.
Beads of sweat rolled down my temples, sliding like drops of honey. In my early years, I always burned myself at this stage, swept away by impatience. Now, my movements were sure, precise. With sugar, patience was key.
Until then, I had ignored the small voice bubbling in my head. But it returned, more insistent, like a pressure squeezing from within.
You don’t even know your favorite dessert. You’re empty. No one will miss you when you’re gone.
My heartbeat quickened, frustration seeping into my veins. I gripped the ladle tight to scoop the sucre d'or, but it suddenly felt heavier. I staggered back and, to my horror, spotted a faint violet stain snaking along my hand. An icy stain, spreading like a shard of frost. Had I done that myself? I tried to steady my breathing. I spread the melted sugar across parchment paper in a golden wave. All that was left was to wait until it hardened.
“Mademoiselle Lempicka, I knew I’d find you here!”
“Yeun!” I spun around with something close to hysteria. I needed to makesomethingother than Velvet Hearts. And sinceI couldn’t answer my own questions, maybe he could. “Tell me! What’s your favorite dessert?”
The little will-o’-the-wisp nearly lost his blue flames. “I adore rousquilles.”
I threw open the apothecary cupboard, rummaging furiously. Anise, flour, butter, lemon… and my sucre d'or, waiting to be folded into eggs. “I’ve never made them before, but I’ll try.”
I rushed past him, sending him spinning in the wind with my abrupt momentum.
“Wonderful! My family adored them. In winter, when it was too cold for fairies to venture out, we stockpiled mountains of them. We called themAnise Flakes. They warmed us. I haven’t tasted one since…” His glow dimmed slightly.
“I’m sorry,” I breathed.
“Don’t be. I’ll taste them again now. That’s a joyful moment.”
