Page 95 of Sugar & Sorcery
“No pressure, just… my entire soul exposed to the world,” I muttered, the urge to tell them they were stressing me out burning on my tongue.
But their fate was tied to mine. This trial belonged to them as much as it did to me. So I drew a breath, and tried to ignore the sugary sweat sticking to my neck despite the chill of approaching winter. I thought back to the letter Nyla had hidden in the grimoire. If I succeeded, maybe it would reveal itself.
The cauldrons on the hearth murmured softly, a melody of bubbles and crackles that sounded almost like encouragement. I bent over my task, closed my eyes for a moment, and let my heart guide the recipe.
“A delicate, translucent shell, spun from sucre d'or. A spoonful of wild raspberry syrup infused with rose petals.”
“Because my heart is passionate, but also far too sensitive and fragile for its own good,” I murmured as I noted the proportions. “But it holds a treasure.”
The grimoire added an annotation.“It is strong when it needs to be.”
I arched a brow. “Flattery will get you everywhere, you know?”
Inside the shell, I imagined a mousse. An airy cloud of elderflower and moon-honey with jasmine, Aignan’s favorite. I let the gelatin petals soften and heated the cream with the other ingredients. The mousse rose in soft peaks beneath my whisk before I set it aside to cool. My mind was already racing toward the next step.
“Once broken delicately, the shell will reveal a liquid heart,”I wrote.
A compote of golden apples, infused with cinnamon and cardamom, with caramelized chestnut cream. The taste of home. Of a Forbidden Forest turned into a refuge. Of the family I never thought I’d have, yet had found.
Some people love like a storm: burning, sudden, impossible to ignore. But me? I loved like the rain and the moon. In a way that offers comfort and gentle light.
I assembled the shells, layering the mousse before placing the liquid heart in the center. My fingers trembled slightly as I sealed the confection and dusted it with shimmering sugar crystals and powdered violet petals—a nod to Arawn’s favorite sugarplums, and to the boy he once was.
“It isn’t perfect,” I whispered. “Not technically. But, it’s me, I suppose.”
My heart was strong (in its own way). I had never known how to read it, and that was surely what had led to my curse.
The grimoire replied:“It is in accepting one’s scars that the deepest power is released.”
A small laugh escaped me, and I brushed away a tear with my sleeve. “You’re starting to sound like me, you realize that?”
“I am a part of you,”wrote the grimoire.
I picked up my quill and beside my name, I wrote:“Lempicka Nyla.”Nyla had no family name. Neither did I. Or if I once had one, it had been lost with everything else. But this one, I chose.
I would never be Nyla, but she had inspired me to reveal who I truly was.
I cast a last look at my recipe, then wrote at the top of the page:“Flavors of My Heart.”No sooner had I lifted my quill than the grimoire awoke, tracing golden letters in elegant curves:
This pastry contains fragments of a soul in search of light.
Its fragile shell recalls that what seems breakable may hide unexpected treasures.
Its cloud of mousse whispers tales of sweetness and comfort, while its warm liquid heart is a love that grows in silence.
Whoever tastes this golden tear will glimpse, for an instant, the promise of brighter tomorrows. It grants the gift of awakening precious memories and the strength to believe in one’s own light.
My gaze drifted to the frosted window, and a smile slipped from me. On the other side, Aignan struggled to find a patch of glass unclouded by breath. Éclair wiped the marks left behind, while Chouquette’s tails still scratched frantically at the pane, hoping to tunnel through to me.
Somehow, I knew that at the first harvest of winter, I would regain my human form. And then, part of me would return to my former life. But another part would always belong to this place, this kitchen, to them, and to the magic that had given me the time where I had felt more alive than ever.
It was here that my grimoire had finally spoken to me. Where each recipe had been born, shaped by what the hearts of those around me silently craved.
“I understand now, grimoire. Nyla breathed strength into others. That was her gift. But me, I can read the hearts of others.”
It wasn’t a sudden revelation, but rather a certainty that had always been there, waiting in a corner of my soul for me to finally acknowledge it. The grimoire quivered under my fingers and turned a new page by itself. I frowned. It wasn’t a recipe. The letters traced themselves slowly, in familiar curls, a handwriting I would have recognized anywhere.
My breath caught. The letter. Nyla’s letter.
