Page 4 of Sugar & Sorcery
“Humans are a thankless species,” he sighed.
I stifled a laugh. Comments like that only confirmed my suspicions about what he really was. “Not all of them. My mentor used to say people need kindness most when they deserve it least. She cared as much for their souls as their stomachs. That’s why I keep filling the jar.”
He tilted his head. “And has it worked?”
“Not yet. But I’m stubborn. Come in before you freeze.”
My hand paused on the latch. There was a parchment stuck to the glass.Since when was this here?The ink had smudged from the damp, but I managed to read it.
“Sorcerer seeks confectioner. Unafraid and untemperamental. No pay. Requests to be heard in exchange for assuming risk. Incompetents need not apply. Should you attempt to kill me, note that my cemetery of souls is already full, and I will not be able to bury your remains with dignity. Ready to begin immediately. Signed, Mist Sorcerer.”
“This sorcerer… Isn’t that the one they say is behind the mist? The one from the Forbidden Forest?”
No one went there anymore, not since the blacksmith’s son came back screaming, raving about red eyes in the mist. Poor man. Bois-Joli had never had much patience for mysteries, or for the Cursed, like Aignan. They called him mad soon enough.
I narrowed my eyes at Yeun. He had to know since I was almost certain he worked for a sorcerer. “You know who it is, don’t you?”
His smile stretched, even more enigmatic. “That depends who you ask. Some say he creates the Cursed with his dark magic. Others say he’s a heartless sorcerer, or that he never had one. That he sold his soul to turn into a monster. In any case, he’s not someone you’d want to bake for.”
For all these years, I’d wondered what the Wish Witch looked like. A benevolent figure with unmatched powers, capable of granting any wish. Those lucky enough to sign a contract with her saw their lives transformed forever. That was why so many people left Bois-Joli, left behind the kingdom of the new prince, to go to hers. And never came back. Like Nyla. That had to mean she was happy there, didn’t it?
But Yeun stubbornly kept quiet about anything to do with sorcerers, no matter how much I pressed.
“No sane confectioner would accept such an offer.” Yet, I carefully put the notice back on the glass, securing it in place with a bit of candy. “But refusing this man a chance to find a confectioner... would be sentencing him to certain death.”
Nyla had repeated it enough: sorcerers need confectioners to extract and cook the magic from the sucre d'or.
I pushed the door open, and the bell answered with a weak chime. The shop stirred as we stepped in. The ovens creaked as if stretching after a nap. The jars shimmered under the lantern’s light. The scent of dried lavender floated through the air.
“Does your master have several confectioners, like the Wish Witch? I heard she has nine!”
He gave a quiet laugh. “Still as sharp as ever, miss. But I don’t see why you’re so set on claiming I serve a sorcerer.”
“You wouldn’t be ordering so many pastries if you didn’t,” I said, smoothing my cream-colored apron, tied over my chestnut-brown linen dress.
It stopped just above the knees, a little too short now. The long sleeves were wrinkled at the elbows, the neckline openedinto tired frills, like whipped cream trimmed with little ribbons. The corset, once too big, now just barely closed. It was my favorite because it was the only one that still fit since Nyla had been here.
I swept my hair up with a quick motion, pinning it into a frayed ribbon, then cleared a three-legged chair from a drift of flour and the crystallized sucre d'or to make space for him.
“Sit. I won’t be long.” I lit the old iron oven, my fingers still numb.
“You’re late,” grumbled Aignan from his patched-up cushion behind the counter that separated the kitchen from the shop. “I have better things to do than wait around for you. And my day’s been miserable, in case you care!”
I scratched behind his ear in passing. “Thanks for watching the shop. I’d be lost without you. But what happened with Martine?”
Despite all his complaining, he barked more than he bit (though he was currently licking the exact spot I’d just scratched).
“That old harpy, prowling around all day... always trying to snatch free pastries, pretending it’s her birthday. If we believe her, it’s been her final year for a decade!”
I hummed absentmindedly, slipping into the cold room to grab my dough while Aignan kept up his grumbling. On my counter, the page in my grimoire was still just as blank. That meant this morning’s recipe had (once again) failed. The plate I’d left full, on the other hand, now held only a crust of sugar stuck to the bottom.
I grabbed the dough and came back to the kitchen. “Aignan, what did you do with the donuts?”
He puffed out his chest. “I devoured them along with the day’s leftovers right under Martine’s nose!”
I froze, piping bag in hand, mouth slightly open. “You didn’t.”
His yellow eyes sparkled, defiant and smug. “Oh, I did. Down to the very last crumb.”
