Page 86 of Sugar & Sorcery
“Thanks.” I blotted my face dry. “And you’re right, Éclair, water is sugar’s mortal enemy,” I hissed between my teeth, unfolding the paper.
It whimpered, black letters dancing across it, ringed with red burns as if seared by hot iron.
The Grand Harvest Ball will take place this Saturday, the first day of winter. Invitation for the Mist Sorcerer and a plus-one. Return the invitation by tomorrow evening. A simple signature will suffice. The Wish Witch.
The witch hadn’t even mentioned my name, as though I were nothing more than some cursed decorative accessory. I folded the letter neatly and held it out to the swarm of waiting papers. They fused again into a jittering ball.
I raised a brow. “You want me to sign?”
The mass bobbed. I sighed, pushed myself upright, and grabbed a tray of steaming madeleines.
“You came all this way… Might as well not leave on an empty stomach.”
The papers dove in, pecking greedily. I flipped absently through my grimoire, side-eyeing the mountain of dirty dishes beside me. As usual, I’d overcompensated for my frustration. Pastries piled haphazardly on every available surface.
The one good thing was that I’d created enough magical recipes to fill whole pages of the grimoire—one to soothe headaches, one for funerals, one for inner peace… But it remained desperately blank when it came to broken hearts. No more tasks to offer. No more recipes to write.
“Honestly, I think Arawn and this book have a lot in common. Silent when you need them to talk, cryptic, and infuriatingly masculine.”
I snapped the grimoire shut, a puff of dust shooting straight into Éclair’s face. He dropped his spatula, clearly realizing my mood was… let’s say, anything but sweet, and that suggesting another batch would be a death sentence.
I’d finally reached the page with the recipe for my essence, but I knew better than anyone not to attempt it now. I’d only end up baking something bitter and broken—just like my heart. I slammed my fists against the table, sugar blocks cracking beneath my palms.
“Love hurts sometimes, but I’d rather feel that than nothing at all! At least I have a reason to get up every morning. My heart beats. That’s proof of strength, isn’t it?”
They all stared at me as if I’d sprouted a second head. Even Éclair’s tiny mushrooms looked puzzled. Chouquette puffed up her tails in disapproval. Aignan, for once, didn’t even have the energy to mock Arawn. He simply curled into a ball in his basket.
“I just wish he’d stop avoiding me,” I muttered, twisting the ring around my finger mechanically.
We hadn’t spoken since the festival, where he’d oh-so-cowardly abandoned me on that turret. I only wanted things back the way they were, when I could hope in silence without feeling like a complete fool.
There was a knock on the window. Yeun, in his faerie form, huddled beneath the downy feathers of his ostrich. I opened it, letting him flutter inside.
“This storm is unbearable! Master really needs to learn to control his emotions. At this rate, we’re all going to drown. And will-o’-the-wisps hate the rain!” Yeun complained, shivering. “You don’t happen to have something comforting to nibble on?”
I waved vaguely toward the pastry mountain beside me, where the paper swarm was buzzing, sampling each one. If only I had an appetite too. Yeun lost a flicker of flame.
“Zelda must be starving them. They’re not really bad,” I told Yeun, seizing the chance to talk to someone who would actually answer me. “Arawn doesn’t need to take it so hard. I’m the one who should have the broken heart, not him.”
Aignan leaped to his hooves, nearly toppling a hanging cauldron. “That’s it! I told you not to get attached to that sorcerer! And now I’m sleep-deprived from all your lovesick whining. I’m going to challenge him to a duel, lamb-style.” He marched decisively toward the door. “Horn to horn, him and me. Even if I have no chance, pray that cursed stag dragon doesn’t fry me on the spot, or my ghost will haunt you till the end of time.”
“Aignan, I never?—”
Too late. He slammed the door behind him, muttering insults on his way out.
“Don’t worry.” Yeun perched on my shoulder. “Master won’t hurt him. He’s far too busy sinking into his own tragedy. You’re probably the first person to ever confess love to him.”
I sighed, cupping Yeun in my hands. His warmth was a small comfort against the storm raging in my chest.
“No one’s ever confessed to me, and I’m certain it wouldn’t make me want to unleash a hurricane. I’d have been flattered. Happy, even.”
“You’re the best thing that’s happened to him in a long time, and that’s the problem. Nobody wants to be forced to choose between loving someone and dooming them, or letting them go and dooming yourself.”
“I hate that I don’t hate him,” I whispered with a bitter smile. “I always knew Nyla was right. Men are a waste of time.”
“You just drew the worst card possible,” Yeun replied with a sly smile.
I burst into laughter. Strangely, badmouthing Arawn with Yeun made me feel better. But then I jumped when Aignan’s horn knocked against the window. He shoved his head inside, dripping wet.
