“The atrocity of the taste made the Spirit cough it up. You succeeded.”
“You twist the knife,” she muttered, tapping the paper with the tip of her spatula as if it might bite. “But I suppose you’re right. Confectioners’ magic is emotional after all. Unlike yours, which rests in conviction and… brute force.”
She shot me a dark glare, heavy with judgment.
“A spell only has the strength we give it. It is imposed on reality. But for both, it’s a question of faith. Belief. If the intent falters, the magic fails.”
She blinked and turned away as quickly as someone who couldn’t bear their own reflection. She pinched the paper between two fingers. “What’s this?”
“An invitation. And a reminder of your deadline.”
I stepped toward her, each move measured, forcing her back until her spine pressed against the counter. She flinched slightly. Then, without breaking eye contact, I set my hands on either side of the wood, giving her no escape. I leaned close enough that my shadow drowned hers, close enough to hear her heart pound in distress.
“I asked you to make me your favorite pastry.”
“I don’t know which one it is.” She gulped, eyes darting away again.
“Then I won’t eat any other until you know, or at least make the effort to find out.”
She lifted her head, stunned, as if I’d just declared I intended to set fire to the kitchen for sheer amusement. “But… your magic won’t regenerate.”
I stepped back, breaking my hold on the counter. “Console yourself with the thought that it will be entirely your fault.”
I pivoted sharply on my heel and slammed the door behind me. Outside, dawn brushed the manor with a pale glow, and I cursed myself inwardly for what I was about to do, my gloved hand hesitating against the wood.
The roots of the kitchen shuddered, then stretched. With a low murmur, the little house rotated on itself, obeying the curse I had just bound to it. A sunflower curse. Now it would follow the light: east in the morning, west at dusk, and north at noon.
A whim. A gesture I had no excuse to justify.
“YES! I FINALLY HAVE A KITCHEN FACING EAST!” the confectioner shouted from inside.
Perhaps it wasn’t food I truly craved in the end. But something far more elusive.
12
Sorcerers have long perfected the art of enchanting the mundane, weaving spells into the fabric of everyday objects.
LEMPICKA
All I did was ask nicely (fine, I may have shouted a bit) for my grimoire, and Chouquette vanished with it—slinking away with a cat’s grace and a thief’s audacity. Since then, she and my grimoire had been untraceable.
“I was literally in the middle of a nap,” Aignan grumbled, tapping the window with the tip of his paw. Spirits clung to it like gargoyles of mist. “And here I am, wandering around this place more miserable than the bottom of a burnt pot.”
But I had no intention of giving up, not after hours of searching. Éclair came barreling down the corridor. He lifted a finger covered in moss, inhaled noisily, tucked his belly in, then puffed it out again like a balloon while flapping his arms.
“An octopus?” Aignan guessed, one brow raised.
Éclair shook his head.
Offended, Aignan growled. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”
That was when the Maudit fluttered his lashes with grotesque elegance. Then unleashed a roar so piercing it made the back of my neck prickle, before plunging his whole hand down his own throat. The Spirits pressed against the windows scattered instantly.
“Chouquette!” Aignan and I cried at the same time, then slapped palm to paw in a triumphant high-five. “You found her?”
He nodded, puffed out his chest, threw an imaginary cape over his shoulder, and began pacing the room with slow, calculated steps, chin lifted, face grave.
“The sorcerer!” Aignan clapped his paws together. “What a performance! Though, if I may, you could emphasize the smirk just a bit?—”
