Magic Bitter, Magic Sweet Page 7

  “You’ll break a wheel,” I tell him. If that happens, I won’t be able to make the walk back to his home.

  “Hmm.” He thinks, looking up at the sky. “Can’t show you, no, no,” he murmurs to himself. “You have to learn, but you can’t learn that. Mine now.”

  He slips from the driver’s chair and unhitches the donkey. “We’ll go on foot.”

  I look down at my splint. Allemas sighs and says, “You ride Maire.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Maire,” he says, pointing to the donkey. “I named her Maire.”

  I stare but make my way toward the beast, swallowing the comment I wish to make. At least he’ll let me ride.

  “You can rename me,” he offers, but when I shake my head, his shoulders slump and he loads the donkey with a few supplies before wordlessly guiding us into the woods.

  We walk for a very long time. I don’t think the four-legged Maire would have made it if not for the enchanted biscuit I fed her. We walk for so long that the forest begins to look the same, as if we’re looping around and around, but the sun stays constant in the sky, above and slightly to the east. After a while, I realize it’s too constant. We’ve walked for hours, yet the sun hasn’t moved or crossed any closer to its western slumber . . . or its eastern rise. It merely stays where it is, watching.

  Shivers run up my arms, and I comfort myself by stroking the donkey’s coarse fur. Where has Allemas taken me? These woods are bespelled by a magic I cannot begin to understand. When I hold my breath, I can feel it tickling my exposed skin like glossy spiderwebs.

  Eventually the trees open into a wide grove in which sits an old well and a dilapidated house. It’s small and single story, made of weather-beaten wood. Half its roof has collapsed. Its windows have no glass, its chimney has fallen, and one side looks licked by fire, though the surrounding foliage is undamaged. I dismount Maire and limp toward it. The front door sags from its upper hinge. Inside the walls are mostly intact, though they’re splintering. There’s a large woodstove crafted from stone carved into the far wall, and rusted iron bent into an oversized birdcage hangs from the ceiling. An old bed lies to my left, but its mattress is moth eaten.

  There’s a cauldron, an empty chest lying open, a set of drawers missing a few handles. A home once lived in but long since forgotten.

  “You will build it.”

  I whirl around in the doorway, scraping my elbow against the jamb. “What?”

  Allemas gestures to the house as though I hadn’t understood. “This. She wants you to rebuild it. With cake.”

  My jaw hangs open for a long moment before I can muster words. “You want me to build a house out of cake?”

  “No. She does.”

  “Who on Raea is ‘she’?”

  “Oh, I cannot tell you that,” he says with a grin. “Specific instructions. But she loves children, you see, and so she wants a cake house. She was very excited when I told her about you.”

  I lean against the jamb, focusing on the buttons of Allemas’s vest to keep my mind from swirling. “It can’t be done. Cake doesn’t stand up like wood and brick. The mice and insects will devour it. The moment it rains, the entire house will dissolve!”

  “No, no, it will work,” he says with utmost confidence. “You will make it work. You will tell the cake to be strong.”

  “You expect me to wield miracles.”

  Allemas lifts an eyebrow, and I grit my teeth against the violent thoughts trying to worm their way up to my brain. This is not who I am.

  “You have become . . . fragile.”

  Memory of Fyel’s voice creeps up my neck like the light touch of fingernails. I reach back and touch the skin there and turn. There’s nothing behind me.

  Allemas is waiting.

  I grip the jamb with my cane-free hand. Sighing, I shake my head. “There aren’t even enough ingredients for me to do it.”

  “I’ll bring more,” he says, glancing at the few baking supplies the donkey still carries. “You will do it, or you will be punished. I’m a good master, see? I know how it works.”

  I stay upright thanks to my grip on the doorjamb, but inside I melt like hot frosting.

  Allemas glances at the donkey. Stares at her. Unloads her. “I’ll be back,” he says, heading back the way we came, dragging the beast with him. “Don’t try to escape,” he calls, but I can barely walk. Escape isn’t possible yet.

  I step outside, watching until Allemas and Maire disappear. Then, leaning against the house’s failing walls, I limp around its perimeter, trying to estimate just how much flour, sugar, and eggs it will take to coat the thing. Lots of eggs. Eggs are the glue of baking, and this building will need to be soaked in them.

  As I make my way to the side with the broken chimney—the one that connects to the stove I’ll be using—I see a glimmer just past the edge of the grove, near the roots of an aspen. For a fleeting moment I think it’s Fyel, and my chest surges with a mint-like sensation. The glimmer, however, doesn’t take shape. It sparkles as I move, reflecting the sunlight.

  I glance back at Allemas’s path and see nothing, so I limp toward it and stoop down to part the long grasses surrounding it.

  It’s a crystal.

  Leaning against a tree, I bend down, pick it up, and brush dirt from its surface. It’s about the length of my hand and clear, almost like an enormous grain of sugar. It’s been cut, but not symmetrically, and not in any way a wearer might find beautiful. It’s long, jagged, and iridescent, and I marvel at its colors as I roll it between my hands.

  I hear hooves entering the grove, so I shove the crystal under my shirt, hooking it under the bindings around my breasts. I limp back into the grove just as Allemas runs past the house, his face pale and panicked.

  When he sees me, he relaxes. “I brought more. You should start.”

  I eye the house again, then the sun. It’s finally begun to move again.

  While Allemas allowed me to rest on the way here, now that the real work has begun, he resumes his usual post off to the side, watching me. I trudge to the supplies—startled by how much he was able to bring in just one trip, and so quickly—and aimlessly pick through them. I grab firewood and haul it back to the house, favoring my right leg.

  The door creaks on its single hinge. After setting my cane and the firewood down, I grab the door with both hands, pull it off the house, and toss it to one side. Allemas blubbers through loose lips behind me.

  The oven is immense, large enough for me to fit inside three times over. I push the wood to the back and fetch more. I’m sweating by the time I coax smoke and sparks from the logs and crawl out of the oven before I bake myself.

  My heartbeat thuds against the walls of my ankle and down into my foot. I wipe sweat from my forehead and sit on the edge of the cauldron. I suppose I can quadruple my batter recipe if I use the cauldron for mixing. I’m still not convinced this plan will work, but I focus on the task anyway. I need something to distract me from my injury, and from Allemas.

  Gingerbread would work best; it’s hearty, which means it will hold up even better once it becomes stale. Maybe I can shingle the roof with biscotti.

  A laugh bubbles up inside me and erupts from my lips. A biscotti roof! Absurd. I try to settle myself, but the long-held laughter won’t be capped, so I keep laughing until tears touch my eyes and I need to bend over to alleviate the strain on my stomach muscles. Arrice and Franc would be laughing with me were they here. I wonder if Fyel would have, too.

  By the time I bring the rest of the supplies inside, my ankle is so swollen I can barely place weight on it. The oven is almost hot enough. I crack eggs and measure molasses, dumping them into the cauldron. While I work, I imagine mountains standing against wind and blizzards. I think of a ship’s bowsprit cutting through waves. I think of steel and obsidian and—

  I drop my spoon. It sinks into the batter. I stare at the warm brown mixture that reflects my shadow.

  Steel. What is . . . steel?

  My pul
se crawls up to my skull and beats against it like the head of a mace. I press both palms to my forehead, smearing flour there.

  Steel. Steel. I know what steel is. It’s an alloy of iron and carbon. A strong metal used for swords and bridges and buildings.

  I open my eyes, look at the iron cauldron, and realize, We don’t have steel. Arrice and Franc don’t have steel. Allemas doesn’t have steel. The blacksmith down the road from my bakeshop doesn’t have steel.

  So how do I know what it is?

  “Are you going to bake it?”

  I spin around, nearly losing my balance, and see Allemas in the doorway. He’s studying me through narrowed eyelids.

  “I . . . yes.” Where was I? Steel. Steel. “I need . . . baking powder. Cloves.”

  I root through the supplies to find them.

  “I am going.”

  That grabs my attention.

  “Do not try to run,” he says, looking pointedly at my broken leg. “I will find you, wherever you go, and I will have to hurt you. Because I’m a good master. We will finish this house. I will come back at sunset, and I will see you working.”

  I nod.

  He lingers a moment longer, then retreats, taking the donkey with him.

  I will find her. I will find her. I will find her.

  CHAPTER 8

  I’ve never made a batch of gingerbread this large, and yet once it has baked and cooled, it’s barely enough to coat a windowsill. This gingerbread is especially sturdy, which encourages me to measure and cut it before it cools so that I don’t have to ask Allemas for a saw. I’m beginning to think the task Allemas set before me may not be impossible, but it will take me a long, long time.

  The gingerbread is too hard to eat, so I snack on one of my hearty biscuits after drizzling it in honey. You’ll rot those teeth with all the sugar you eat, Franc told me once. Fortunately, all my teeth are still intact. The sweetness of my meager supper lifts my spirits, and when Allemas returns, as promised, I tell him I’ll need larger pans, more wood, and more flour than he can possibly carry.

  My demands do not dissuade him. He leaves after repeating his earlier threat, and I sleep in the bug-eaten bed, warmed by the cooling embers of the oven. My find of the day—the long, jagged crystal—prods me as I slumber, but I dare not remove it from my shirt for fear of Allemas taking it. It is the one thing I can call mine.

  Allemas returns at dawn with large sheet pans: the same kind I used at my bakeshop to make jelly rolls. Jelly rolls are Franc’s favorite, despite all his goading about sugar and hygiene. The thought termites through my chest and makes me miss him terribly.

  Allemas inspects my simple gingerbread work and nods. “Good, good. Do the outside only. No one can live in a house of cake, silly girl.”

  I shove a spoon of almond paste into my mouth to keep from retorting. Allemas leaves with another threat and a promise—he’ll return at sunset.

  I sort out the newest shipment of ingredients and determine how much of each I can fit into that cauldron to save myself the time of mixing and measuring. I pull the string that holds together a parcel of butter and wrap it around the top of the crystal to create a necklace. It’s a silly thing, really, but I like the strange gem. I like how it shimmers when the sun kisses its crystalline surface. The collar of my shirt is high enough to hide the string, and this way I won’t have to keep it tucked so close to my chest.

  I dump flour into the cauldron, wet it with water from the nearby well, and scrape out jars of molasses until my hands are sticky and sore. I infuse batter with thoughts of mortar and stone and steel, and bake them into great sheets to fit around the house’s foundation. After lunch, I whip up the biggest vat of cookie icing I’ve ever made to glue the absurd construction together. I’m relieved when it holds.

  Sweaty and worn out, I lie in the grass beside the house and plan my escape.

  I can’t run. That is a fact, and my aching leg punctuates it. But if I can hide my tracks, Allemas won’t know in which direction to search for me. If he guesses incorrectly enough times, I might be able to slip away. I could stash enough pieces of cake to keep from starving, maybe find a stream to follow for water . . . granted Allemas, dunce though he is, probably knows enough to search for me near water first.

  I eye my splint and wonder what Allemas will do if he catches me again. Shuddering a little, I stare up at the sky. The high boughs of the surrounding trees shape it like an uneven star, not too dissimilar from my crystal. I realize that even if I muster the courage to escape, I might be thwarted before I make the attempt. I remember the way the sun froze in the sky as we traveled through the forest. I remember the sameness of the trees and rocks, and the tickle of unseen magic on my skin. What if I can’t break past the magic that penetrates this place, and find myself caught in an endless loop? What if it nets me for Allemas like a fish?

  Exhaustion drags on me. The grass tickles my cheeks and arms, willing me to sleep, but I force myself upright, my ankle throbbing once blood rushes into it. The sooner I finish this house, the sooner I can leave this enchanted place. The sooner I can reformulate and forge the path to freedom.

  Just as the sun begins to sink beyond the forest, Allemas approaches the house and studies the tiling of gingerbread on its eastern side. He knocks a knuckle against it and grins.

  “I think she’ll like this,” he says.

  I look up from the pile of trash I’ve accumulated during the day: paper and burlap folded and shoved just off the porch. “Is she going to eat it?” I ask, tasting sarcasm. It’s tart and sour against my tongue, and that resolute gingerbread suddenly becomes very appetizing to me.

  “Of course not. Not her, at least. So she says.” He takes off his hat, scrubs it against his sleeve as though it’s an eyeglass, and replaces it on his head. “You stayed. Good. I will bring you more things in the morning.”

  “Vegetables would be nice.” They’re for me, not the house, but he doesn’t need to know that. Even I know a woman can’t survive on sugar alone.

  He nods and departs, going a different direction than before. I try not to ponder on it. I’d like to go to sleep tonight without a headache.

  After I shut the oven door and wipe out the cauldron, I drag myself to the filthy bed and sit on it, letting out a long sigh. Rub a knuckle into a sore muscle running along the side of my neck. I should have stretched before baking like this.

  “Perhaps you should stay.”

  The voice shoots my heart into my throat, and I leap off the bed, wincing when I put weight on my right leg. There, near the oven, hovers Fyel, his translucent body illuminated by the orange sunlight gleaming through a glassless window.

  “You.” My voice is breathy and threatens to hitch on a knob in my throat. “You came back.”

  He nods, but his other-color eyes focus on my right foot and the wooden boards to which it’s bound. His white eyebrows lower into a frown. The gesture might have creased his forehead, but the rays of sunlight distort him too much for me to tell.

  I clear my throat and ask, “Stay where?”

  Now he looks at me. “Here. With him. Allemas.”

  I shake my head and put a hand to the wall to steady myself. I feel like I’ve swallowed blazeweed. “Stay with him? He’s mad! And you”—I point a finger at his hovering self—“you told me to escape!”

  “I know,” he says, his calmness like a smothering blanket to my fire. “But that seems unlikely, does it not?”

  I grit my teeth, feeling the brokenness of my leg. I’m too scared to even wiggle my toes to test it.

  “Study him,” he continues. “Watch him, observe him, learn about him. It might help you.”

  “How will that help me?” I ask, pleading. “How could that possibly help me, other than to learn how to avoid tipping his temper? He’s like a child in a grown body, but his brain is sewn in backwards.”

  “Yes,” the ghost says. “That is a reasonable assessment.”

  “How would you know?” I snap. “You’re n
ever here. You won’t tell me what I need to know!”

  Balling my hands into fists, I drop down to the bed in a huff. Its frame creaks under my weight, threatening to collapse. I cradle my head in my hands. I hate feeling like this. Angry. I’m angry more than ever lately, and it’s burning me up from the inside out. One morning I’ll wake up as ash, and it won’t matter where I am or what I don’t remember.

  “Please,” Fyel says, and when I look up, he’s much closer. Almost close enough to touch were he tangible. “Please listen. Please let me help you.”

  I don’t know what it is—the way he looks at me, his words, maybe the way his voice sounds when he says the words—but something small clicks in the back of my skull. I squint at him, as though doing so will make him solid to my eyes.

  “Do I know you?” I half whisper.

  He seems startled by this; he flaps his strange wings once. Pauses. “Yes.”

  “I mean, before that day in—”

  “Yes,” he repeats, a little stronger, and the confirmation buzzes inside my belly.

  Groping at the wall, I stand again and limp toward him, studying him from head to toe. “How do I know you?”

  But he shakes his head.

  “Why won’t you tell me?” I ask. I physically swallow to force down my irritation, my building fury, but it’s hot and bitter and leaves a thick residue in its wake. “There’s a big—a huge—chunk of history missing in here”—I tap the side of my head—“and if you’re part of it, why won’t you tell me? How can you expect me to trust you if you won’t give me answers?”

  His retort is quick and firm. “Because if you deny it, you will be lost.”

  I blink a few times, trying to refocus on his ethereal image. The sunlight is slowly pulling away from the windows. “What do you mean?”

  He sinks a little, though his feet don’t contact the floor. “If you deny who and what you are, you will fully incorporate into this world, and I will no longer be able to help you.”