Magic Bitter, Magic Sweet (16 page)

But, like Franc, she recognizes me. Thank the gods, she recognizes me, and she wails and ignores the cup and runs to me and hugs me harder and longer than Franc had. Our tears mix until I don’t know which are hers and which are mine, and I don’t care. I hold on to the feeling of her, the softness and the warmth, trying to store as much of it as I can into my memory and into my skin. She smells like bread and paprika and sweat.

I spy Allemas through the corner of my eye. He’s grown tense, and his hands form fists. He inches closer, confused and scared, paler than usual. I can hear his teeth grinding together.

I pull back from Arrice and face him. “It’s okay, Allemas. They’re just happy, see? They’re happy that I’ll bake for them.”

Arrice blinks several times, confused. Franc grasps her arm and pulls her back, speaking before she has the chance to gather her wits. “Yes, yes, we’ll pay. I have several things I want made. Cinnamon rounds, for a start.”

I hold my breath and bite down a smile. Cinnamon rounds have to settle overnight in order to gather the yeast needed to form. They take a long time to make.

Franc hates cinnamon.

Allemas eyes me, then Franc. His brows take on a life of their own, crossing and raising and dropping, dancing over his forehead, sometimes separate from each other. “Cinnamon rounds?”

To Franc I say, “I can make those. I can make them lucky, too. To help with . . . your situation. Which will help Allemas with his.”

“Sounds perfect,” Franc says. His grip on Arrice’s arm tightens. She remains quiet, but her stare is wild, dashing around the room from Allemas to me to Franc, never staying in one place for too long.

Allemas rubs his head. Taking a chance, I move closer to him. “This is your customer, right? And he’ll be nice to us because he knows me. It’s perfect.”

“No, no,” he mutters to the floor. “They kept you away. They made it harder to find you.”

A chill churns in my gut. How long, exactly, did Allemas spend looking for me?

Has Fyel?

Allemas scowls and glances over my shoulder. “I don’t like them. I want them to go away.”

“You will
not touch them
,” I growl, surprised at my own boldness. Allemas is, too. His gaze returns to mine, and he leans back. I recall that horrible moment on his back doorstep, when his fists slammed into me over and over and I told him to
stop
, and he did, but not due to mercy. Again I wonder if I truly have some sort of sway over him. Is there something more to this one-sided attachment?

I repeat myself: “You
will not touch them
, and you will not hurt them. We’re going to stay here because they are our customers and you can make money. We’ll all be happy. Understand?”

His lips saw together, back and forth, but he nods.

I am made of feathers, of bubble soap, of wind and dandelion seeds. Masking my smile, I turn around and run back into Franc’s and Arrice’s arms. It’s temporary, I know it’s temporary, but for this moment, I am home.

“Maire!” Arrice exclaims mid-embrace, her face ashen. “Maire, what’s happened to your eyes?”

I blink and turn to Franc, who gawks at me. Something has changed. Something . . . just now. Did Allemas see it, too?

Keeping my back to him, I search the kitchen until I see a saucepan resting on a drying rack by the sink. I hurry over and examine my face in it, seeing my red skin, ruffled hair, and a few lumps from my recent beating.

But what stands out is my eyes. They’re a color I can’t describe—a color I’ve only seen once before. In the warped reflection of the pan, it’s as if Fyel is looking back at me.

Gamre
, I think. Lighter than his, yes, but they are the same.

Franc clears his throat. “Well, those rounds aren’t going to cook themselves. Get to work. You can use this kitchen, can’t she, Arrice?”

“I . . . Y-Yes,” Arrice says. “Of course. I’ll clear you a space.”

I swallow. Turn to Allemas. Yes, he sees. Frowning, he crosses his arms tightly over his chest. But this time he doesn’t panic, doesn’t drag me to the sink in an attempt to wash the color away.

No, he sits on an overturned bucket, guarding the back door and watching me as he is wont to do. Forcing thoughts of luck and good fortune into my brain, I start to mix the cinnamon rounds. I picture the prayer rounds at the shrines in Carmine, funnel-shaped things surrounded by narrow cushions for kneeling, where believers can clap their hands together and offer pleas and thanks to the unseen gods above, then cast in a coin. Cleric Tuck has told me that, more often than not, the prayers are answered. Arrice did this sort of prayer once, though it was to a goddess of fertility whose name I can’t remember, not to Strellis. Luck favored her. She discovered she was pregnant only a week later, and the babe survived and flourished. My thoughts linger on children, on Arrice’s and others’. They are good fortune, indeed.

But beyond the ponderings of luck and fortune and silent prayers of gratitude, the image of my changed eyes burns in my mind.

Fyel . . . what does this mean . . . for us?

It hurts. Money doesn’t make it better. I want to find her. It stops hurting when I find her.

CHAPTER 17

I find the energy to bake.

I close my eyes as I knead and think of the feel of the slaver’s key in my hands, my blind throw to Cleric Tuck, and his fortunate escape. I replay in my mind walking into this kitchen and into Franc’s arms, Arrice’s. I think of the paper charms that hung outside the shrine to Strellis and the hearty rains that nearly flooded Carmine two years ago after a bad drought, quenching our thirst and saving most of the crops. I think of the cockroach on the floor of my bakeshop and how it had managed to scuttle in just the right places to avoid being stepped on, the lucky bug.

At some point during my mixing and rolling, Franc takes Arrice aside and explains to her what little he knows about my situation, though he does a poor job of hiding his own staring at my eyes. The dinner hour arrives, and demands from the hotel push Arrice into working until we both fill the kitchen with havoc, but neither Franc nor Allemas leaves. Between opening the oven door and plating, Arrice glances in Allemas’s direction with palpable unease, but he doesn’t notice; he watches only me.

Arrice and I talk little, only exchanging an occasional whisper when our separate work brings us close. She murmurs things like, “What happened to you?” “You’re so tired.” “I’ve missed you.” “I don’t trust him.” Most of these things I can only respond to with a nod, for I don’t have time to explain. Some of it I still
can’t
explain, and for the fourth time that day Fyel fills my thoughts. I find myself yearning for his company, even if he won’t answer any of my questions.

The dinner hour ends. My cinnamon rounds go into the cold cellar for the night, and the muffins I made pass between hands. Even Allemas takes one. I baked them with patience and long-suffering, for I believe all of us will need it.

My heart sinks to my belly when the dishes are washed and the ingredients are put away. The sun has long since set, and we finished our work by candlelight.

I do not want to leave.

Franc hands Allemas a few coins, and Allemas seems pleased enough to take them—the muffin he ate may have helped. Guilt claws at me as I watch my dear friend give up his meager profits for me, and yet I don’t stop him. I’ll sell whatever I have to repay him, someday.

“You should stay here,” Arrice says, grasping my hands. “We can make up a bed for you in the corner.”

Allemas stands and folds his arms. He’s taller than the lot of us. He looms.

Arrice eyes him, then Franc. “Both of you, of course. I-It’s a small room, but we can make do.”

“Maybe . . . ,” Franc starts, and he flushes. “Maybe take them up the back stairs.”

Clasping my fingers together, I look to Allemas and say, “Wouldn’t that be nice, to stay here, Allemas? To take a break for a while? You look tired.”

He doesn’t. He looks as he always does, but I’m trying.

Allemas saws his lips back and forth again before giving a curt nod. Another small victory, then.

Arrice takes off her apron and lays it on the counter, and Franc picks up one of the candles and guides the way upstairs. Arrice climbs beside him. I’m slow, my limp heavier after the day’s stress, and Allemas’s feet are almost under mine, he walks so close to me. The image of him slamming that slave owner’s head against the stove door over and over flashes behind my eyes, and I shudder. Arrice—my sweet, beautiful friend—notices and reaches back to take my hand.

It
is
a small room, barely large enough to fit Arrice, Franc, and the few meager possessions they brought with them from Carmine, namely clothes and Franc’s mandolin. But Arrice strips a blanket off the bed, folds it into thirds, and lays it out on the floor for me. Allemas, after walking around the room and giving it close inspection, sits on the sill of the single window, silent.

And despite the whirlwind this day has been for me, I fall asleep before the candle is blown out.

I awake later; it feels like I’ve slept an entire day, but the room is still dark. I listen to the quiet breathing around me through the cricket song humming against the window. Arrice turns over, sighs. Franc fidgets. The melody of their breath is uneven. Have they slept at all?

Craning in my makeshift bed, I look up at Allemas, who still sits on the windowsill, watching. Watching everyone. Who would sleep with this man, this slaver, hovering over them? And if they knew what he had done . . .

Burning hair, burning skin.

No, I won’t be able to sleep any more tonight, either.

Rolling over—my back and hip pop as I do—I grasp the end of a small dresser to pull myself up. My wooden boot is loud against the floorboards as I shuffle over to Allemas.

“We’ll need more supplies for tomorrow,” I whisper.

He frowns. “There is a lot down. Down there.” He points with a finger. Toward the kitchen, I presume.

“Those aren’t ours,” I say, then realize the idea of theft is unlikely to bother him. “We
can
use those, but we’ll have to pay for them, and then there will be no money left.”

I wonder if Allemas has ever tried to steal money. He must have. Surely he’s run into trouble before yesterday’s events. Is that the source of this unknown injury that flares up in his chest from time to time?

I add, “You could get what you have at your house.”

He shakes his head from side to side. “No. You have to come.”

My throat shrinks. I glance back at Arrice and Franc. I try, “I can’t carry very much. I won’t be helpful. You’re so good at getting supplies, Allemas.”

He frowns. “No. They want to keep you. You will come.”

I let out a slow, strained breath and try my hand at my influence one more time. “I will come, but we will come back here to finish the job.”

I’m trying to be direct. I check my words for loopholes.

Allemas agrees. Clasping my wrist, he leads me out of the room. Franc sits up as he goes, but I wave to him to tell him it’s fine. We head back down the stairs and outside, to an alleyway between the hotel and a laundry shop. Allemas grips me around my chest, and the nausea hits.

When we settle, we’re pelted with rain.

A flash of lightning highlights the shape of the house, and thunder echoes off its shingles. Rainwater flows with the slope of the road, licking at my bare feet. Allemas still hasn’t allowed me to wear shoes, and the toes of my good foot start to sink into the mud.

He ushers me inside. I shake rain from my hair as he pilfers the cupboards, frowning. He hasn’t stocked these recently. Another tearing of lightning highlights a few ants on the counter, searching for scraps left out. I try to will them into hiding to spare their tiny lives before Allemas finds them.

Allemas rubs his chin. “I can get more. I know where.” Snatching my wrist, he drags me upstairs to my room and sits me on the bed. He peers through the small, unbricked space of the window. Leaves and shuts the door behind him. A few seconds pass before he opens it again and looks around.

Fyel. He’s looking for him. I don’t say a word. I don’t want Allemas to decide I must come on this errand, too.

He crosses the room and gestures for me to stand. When I do, he pulls the single blanket off the bed and drapes it over my head, blocking out what little light is cast by the storm-choked moon and occasional flash of lightning.

“Stay like this. Don’t move. Close your eyes. Stay.” Each word is sharp on his tongue. I nod through the blanket.

He hesitates for a moment. “I will be fast.
Very
fast.” He leaves, shuts the door. I barely hear him fastening all the locks over the simultaneous hammering of thunder.

I wait until the next boom of thunder before pulling off the blanket.

Then I wait for him.

It takes longer than I would like—I listen to the rain strike the window, watch lightning illuminate the night—but he comes.

He is beautiful.

The lightning pulses through him, shaping his wings into shadows against the bolted door. Perhaps feeling it, he flaps them once, gently, repositioning himself so that he hovers safely between the roof and floor.

He sees me in the flash of light, and the smile that blooms on his face makes my heart beat quicker.

“Your eyes,” he says.

I’d nearly forgotten. I wilt a little, thinking of my eyes. I touch the corner of one, just above a bruise that surely the darkness hides. “Not long ago,” I answer, moving closer so he can hear me over the rain. I stop with two paces’ length between us. “I found them. The people I lived with in Carmine—Arrice and her husband, Franc. Franc had met Allemas—”

“Is he calling himself that again?” Fyel asks.

I nod. “It was so strange. He’s mad. Wanted
me
to name him. I don’t know why. I told him I like Allemas the best.”

Fyel frowns. “Please continue.”

“Franc heard about me through Allemas, and now he’s a customer. I found them in Cerise, living in a hotel. Arrice works the kitchens there. They’re stuck until they can save the funds to move north. But they’re
alive
.” I smile. Lightning flashes. Hugging myself, I say, “I can’t believe it. So far Allemas is willing to give them the work. He . . .”

I glance toward the door and shiver. Then I tell Fyel about the last customer. His demise, and our desperate escape.

Fyel scowls. “He is not sound. He is deteriorating.”

“Deteriorating?”

He shifts his wings. The scowl wipes clean. Ah. This is something else he’s not going to tell me.

“Who is he?” I ask, taking a step closer. “You know him. He knows you. How?”

Fyel shakes his head. “It is too much . . . Do not trust him, Maire.”

I snort. “Of course I don’t trust him.” I back away and fall onto the mattress, sitting at its edge. Nearly whispering, I say, “He’ll be back soon. He promised. What if he kills me, too?”

“I . . . do not think he will.”

“That isn’t comforting.”

“No, but he will be angry if you run, and your friends may not run with you.” He eyes my foot. “If you
can
run.” He hovers closer, only stopping when he’s in front of me. “You are remembering, Maire. Your skin, your eyes, you are becoming what you were. Push yourself; it will not be long now.”

He sounds so hopeful, so happy. I look at his face, the contours of his cheeks and jaw, the bizarre color of his eyes, and I give voice to the thought that has been itching the back of my skull since I saw my reflection in the side of that saucepan.

“You never clarified,” I began, carefully ordering my words. “Fyel, our eyes . . .”

He waits.

“The monochromatic color, the eyes . . . I’d think I were a crafter if I had wings.”

That is not what bothers me.

“If you had them, yes,” he says. Then, changing the subject, he says, “Do you still have the crystal?”

The moment he names it, I become aware of the pressure in my boot, its edges half embedded into my skin. “Yes.” I pat the wood. “It’s safe.”

He nods.

“Fyel, what I mean to ask . . . Are we . . . related?”

Lightning flashes over his face. His expression is more amused than anything.

“No,” he says, and a knot between my shoulders uncoils. “Crafters are made as individuals by the gods; they have no family units, no siblings.”

“Then what are we?” I try. “You never answered my question.”

I think of my dream, of the warmth of Fyel’s body beside mine. I wish it had lasted longer. I wanted to see more.

He hovers backward half a pace. I’ve made him uncomfortable, but I won’t back down. I need a few more answers to sort out my thousands of questions.

He waits for thunder to pass before answering, “I am your lahst.”

I blink. “Lahst?”

He adjusts his clothes; there’s something familiar about the movement. “It is . . . hard to explain in Raean terms.”

“Please try,” I say, standing. Eyeing the door. When will Allemas return? “I won’t deny any of it. I won’t say a word if you want.”

The corner of his lip quirks, an uncomfortable smile. “It is . . . similar to these caretakers of yours.”

I deflate. “You were my caretaker?”

He shakes his head. “No.” He studies me. I clap a hand over my mouth to illustrate my promise. He gives me that smile again.

He lets out a breath and says, “It is like a ‘husband.’”

My hand drops from my mouth, and I forget how to blink until lightning flashes through my narrow window and burns my eyes. My heart feels like it weighs twice as much, and it beats twice as hard in its cage of bone. I had fancied us lovers, yes, but . . .
husband
?

Like Arrice and Franc.

“I am sorry,” he murmurs, but I shake my head.

“No, I’m just surprised.” I swallow, look at him. His white hair, the way half of it wisps over his forehead and the rest sweeps back like ocean waves. The shape of his eyes, his pale eyelashes. The bow curve of his mouth.

The length from shoulder to shoulder, the strange cut of his clothes, his hips.

Husband. No,
lahst
. The term sounds so . . . infinite.

That’s why he keeps coming back for me, even though the very air of this world eats away at him.