Page 25 of Sugar & Sorcery
The Spirits, once his shadow passed, lunged at the trays, snatching up everything within reach, down to the last bun. The platters emptied in a heartbeat, then the Spirits scattered across the tables. I hurried closer. Arawn held in his hands a waterlily, used as a steaming bowl, crowned with black herbs, red fruit, and an egg of molten gold.
I swallowed hard. There remained only one solitary bowl, sitting there like it was crying over its own abandonment. Artichoke and radish soup. The combination sounded just as dreadful as it looked. I used radishes to color pastries (the purple was gorgeous), but I wasn’t sure about eating them. That was another matter entirely. I lifted the bowl and stared at the brownish liquid sloshing sadly at the bottom.
A stiff smile pulled at my lips. “And… this is supposed to be… what, exactly?—?”
Before I could finish, a heavy velvet curtain dropped before my eyes. In a blink, the pavilion vanished, leaving behind only the faint echo of mocking laughter among the Spirits. I held back a sigh. Lesson of the day: never hesitate at an enchanted buffet.
I followed Arawn to a table farther on and slid onto the bench across from him. My bowl clinked against the wood with far too much force. I laced my fingers together to keep them from trembling and forced a smile to fill the awkward silence of our tête-à-tête.
“So,” I said brightly, “do you like artichokes?”
The sorcerer slowly lifted his gaze to me. He clearly did not like artichokes. And likely liked my presence even less.
“You are unbearably loud,” he said flatly.
“And you are unbearably silent for someone who asked me to follow him. My mentor always said meals were meant to be shared.”
The sorcerer made a sound barely audible—somewhere between a skeptical sigh and an annoyed growl. My hands clenched on my knees. Then, with all the determination in the world, I locked my eyes on his.
“I need to know your preferences. To satisfy you. Are you more crystallized sugar, like me, or caramel?”
The clink of metal rang out as Arawn dropped his spoon, hardly touched. His gaze narrowed. “Are you always this forward?”
“Well… one of us has to be.” After all, he expected me to be his confectioner, didn’t he? Given his talent for communication, I would have to double my effort. “I need to know your tastes down to my fingertips.”
The sorcerer leaned back in his chair, balanced between amusement and disdain. “Trust me, you do not want to.”
I blinked. “And how exactly is this supposed to work between us, then?”
He shot me a pointed look, a burning edge flickering in his eyes. “Whatever you think you’re trying to draw from me won’t make your situation any less pitiful. I am neither as pathetic nor as weak as the men of your little village. And even less likely to be attracted to you.”
Weak? Attracted?I frowned before the truth struck me like lightning. My breath caught. My cheeks burned hot. Oh no. He thought?—
“I WAS TALKING ABOUT BEING YOUR CONFECTIONER!” I shrieked, arms flailing like some sugarcoated scarecrow. And the worst part was he hadn’t even considered that possibility! “That’s all I’ve ever been! But of course, why bother remembering such an insignificant detailabout the person who saved your miserable life? The one who made you your Velvet Hearts even though she had no idea who they were really for! And who, because of that, got cursed—by your fault!”
For an instant, the shadow of an admission hovered on his lips (an apology, maybe). Or at least a flicker of acknowledgment. Then, as though the moment had never existed, he lifted a brow.
“And you think you can help me,” said the sorcerer, his smile sharp and dark.
Everyone needs someone.But this time, I bit back the words.
“You haven’t touched any confections since our last encounter,” I pointed out, raising a spoon to my lips and choking down the hideous liquid with a spasm. “And you’ve already used your magic again. At this rate, you won’t last much longer. And I don’t see anyone lining up to become your confectioner. You’re not exactly in a position to be picky.”
I couldn’t say with certainty how often a sorcerer needed sucre d'or, but judging by the ashen pallor of his skin and the bruised shadows beneath his eyes, he was far from his best. Abruptly, I pushed to my feet, tapping the table with my fingertips.
“It’s because I’m a woman, isn’t it?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” He sighed. “Men are even more mediocre, with their oversized egos.”
He caught me off guard. I swallowed my insult and lifted my head. “I won’t disappear until I’ve become a great confectioner, like my mentor. So I’ll be your confectioner, even if you refuse to help me with my curse. After all, I know the sucre d'or better than you!”
Well. I could safely say that did not go at all the way I had planned.
“Have a good?—”
Before I could finish my sentence, his gloved hand closed around my wrist. The grip wasn’t painful, but it was firm. Heat rushed to my cheeks. With a silent gesture, Arawn pushed his untouched waterlily bowl toward me.
“Very well, then,” he murmured. “Even if you seem more eager to mend others than yourself.”
