Page 33 of Fate's Sweetest Curse
How to zest the lemons without adding any bitter pith.
The duck egg she incorporated for richness.
As we dusted the cookies with sugar, Zina told me the recipe had been my mother’s favorite, too. It’d brought me joy to have something in common with the woman who’d given me life, but whom I’d never met. My aunt and uncle had raised me as their own, and therefore I rarely felt my mother’s absence, but those occasional reminders of her—a connection across time—still warmed my heart.
Besides, the cookies really were delicious.
Every year thereafter—until Zina retired—we made my birthday cookies together. There were few traditions I’d taken with me when I was forced to leave home—but that recipe was one of them.
I squared my shoulders at Cook Tillen. “What if I baked a batch for you, too?”
Two hours later, my basket laden with cookies, I made my way down Adept’s Walk—the wide road that bisected campus—to report for my first day as an apprentice on Phina Farkept’s research team.
The Walk was abustle with professors and students heading to and from classes, libraries, research buildings, and the many shops that lined the street: apothecaries, chandleries, bakeries, jewelers, saddleries, and more. Colorful flags hung on crisscrossing lines above the road, snapping in the wind; gangs of pigeons and crows patrolled for dropped morsels.
The street could’ve easily been one in Wynhaim City. The pollen-scented breeze reminded me of the winds that whipped up from the grasslands of my home territory. The taste of mineral grit and smoke in the air was reminiscent of the Maronan turnips I refused to eat as a child. I heard Raina’s laugh drifting through the clamor of clopping horseshoes.
Maybe it was because I’d spent the morning making lemon cookies, but nostalgia pulled through my heart like spun sugar, sweet at first, but quick to turn brittle. I shook my head, trying to clear it of the cloying memories. Wistfulness would only sadden me. Distract me from who I was now—who Icouldbe.
Someone who made a difference.An apothecary.
Lifting my chin, I picked up my pace.
The building containing Phina’s lab was just as magnificent as the rest of the Collegium’s campus—pointy spires, decorative carvings, regal archways—with one unique, standout feature: a massive rose window above the entrance. Colored glass had been fitted into the gaps of intricate stone tracery, forming a wheel of symmetrical loops resembling the most common knots used in alchemy. Because of the window, the building had been named the Alchemist’s Oculus, which everyone shortened to the Ocs.
Aside from the regal, arched entrance, the majority of the structure was surrounded by a forty-foot-high circumferential wall, guarded by knights. It was the most secure, secretive building at the Collegium; most apprentices would never step foot inside. So, as I walked through the heavy double doors, I felt an overwhelming sense of pride, curiosity, excitement, and nervousness. There was no turning back now—and in spite of my apprehensions, I didn’t want to.
A steward welcomed me as I stepped into the dark foyer. Beyond the tunnel-like entryway was a vaulted atrium, with doors and hallways on the far end leading deeper inside; sunlight streamed through the stained glass, casting patches of blue, green, and pink onto the white tile. Between here and there, strange symbols—arcane lettering—marked the wooden threshold.
“Name?” the steward asked, standing up from her small desk.
My voice came out squeakier than I intended. “Hattie Mund.”
“Oath?”
I lifted my arm, showing her my tattoo.
She jutted her chin at my satchel and basket. “Your things.”
I placed them on the desk, allowing her to rummage through every pocket, flip through my notebook, and examine the vials (including my monthly anti-pregnancy tincture—mostly pointless, as of late—plus a potion for headaches).
“I don’t have any weapons, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I said. A pair of knights loitered at the other end of the foyer, casual and at ease, making small talk with each other.
The steward wordlessly replaced the vials, then inspected the basket, lifting the tea towel to reveal the cookies. Their toasted yellow tops glittered with sugar.
“You can have one if you’d like,” I offered.
The steward dropped the towel, covering them again. “You can’t take these inside.”
“I can’t bring cookies with me?”
“No food in the labs.”
“Truly?”
Her lips pressed into a disapproving frown.
“They’re not all forme,” I insisted. “They’re for my professor. Her team. As a thank you.” They might’ve been birthday cookies, but I hadn’t planned on eating them all myself.
