“Are you sure, Lempicka?” the lamb trembled, his voice shaking. “What if… you don’t come back?”
She knelt before him, sliding a hand into his fur. “Don’t worry about me. After this, we can begin a new life. All of us together.” She rose and cast a glance toward the kitchen. “Chouquette, watch over my belongings. Éclair, I name you apprentice chef. And you two… keep an eye on Aignan.”
“It’s always me keeping an eye on them,” muttered the lamb.
She smiled, then turned back toward me, the glass jar still clenched in her hands. “Let’s go.”
I let out an exaggerated sigh. She wore her worn brown dress, frayed at the seams, and that yellow apron stained with flour. A personal affront. I had literally bought her an entire wardrobe. She folded her arms defensively.
“What?! I don’t have a ball gown. I’m here as your confectioner, it would be inappropriate if I wore?—”
I snapped my fingers. Enough. She would never see herself as I had seen her since the first day, so I would impose it upon her.
The apron, the worn fabric, the coarse stitching—all melted away like sugar. Tiny diamonds and icy sparks bloomed into a strapless gown, as if moonlight itself had been spun into thread.Frost pearls embroidered along the sleeves branched delicately across her skin, as though winter itself claimed her.
Her corset wound tight around her, fitting each breath without ever constricting, before the skirt unfurled into a vaporous train, sweeping the ground like a drifting cloud. Her hair, swept up, was crowned with crystal thorns that caught every glimmer of light.
I swallowed hard. Every muscle in me tensed. She stole the air from my lungs.
Divine. She was divine.
And for a fleeting instant, she was silent. Then, inevitably?—
“A little ostentatious, don’t you think?” she muttered, though her cheeks flushed pink.
Her fingers brushed the fabric, and she spun lightly on her heel.
“Appropriate,” I corrected, a smirk tugging at my lips. “The most talented confectioner in the realms must make a strong impression.”
I extended a gloved hand toward her. My own attire had shifted: silver-lined fabrics draped over my frame, a perfect balance between nobility and menace, matched to hers. She hesitated only a heartbeat before slipping her hand into mine.
“Thank you. No flying broom this time?” she asked with a mischievous glint in her eye.
“It will always come if you call it.”
Just as I would.
I bent to lift her gown and helped her step into the turret. Together, we rose into the sky. The manor shuddered, as though expelling one last sigh. Cracks split down the walls, rooms crumbled, dissolving into dust before they even struck the ground. The fog that had smothered it peeled away.
I tilted my head slightly, watching the slow disintegration of my kingdom.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
I wanted to throw back a careless, sarcastic remark. But my gaze slid to the ring she was turning on her finger. She had kept it, after everything.
She didn’t even realize. Not for a single moment did she understand how completely and easily she brought me to my knees without the faintest effort. Without even trying.
I ached for her. I would kill for her. Worse still—I had even considered living for her. She tortured the pitiful scraps left of my heart. I had never been so powerless… yet a laugh escaped me.
And finally, under her insistent gaze, I yielded.
I always yielded when it came to her.
“You,” I whispered. “I think only of you, Sugarplum.”
32
What one pours into a heart, poison or honey, always blooms in the end. A heart obeys only the strongest emotion. And sometimes, a single drop of love is enough to flood an entire sea of suffering.
