by Claire Luana
Wren nodded, understanding his words exactly despite the vagueness of them. She had felt it, those moments where her talent took over and she was one with her confections. She measured and added while Hale spoke. The butter and cream, melted together and set aside. The sugar and water, turned on high to begin caramelizing.
“It’s easiest to use your Gift when you’re alone, and when you’re in a familiar kitchen. It’s innate in you, but the more you consciously practice, the more quickly you’ll learn how to slip into the mindset, the better you’ll get at summoning it by will. Make sense?”
“It does,” she said, looking at Hale with a new respect. He was more than muscled forearms and a trim waist in his apron. From the tenderness in his words… she could see that he loved confections as much as she did, felt this in his blood. She was unprepared for the sudden fondness that swept over her, awakened by her recognition of his kindred spirit.
“I’m going to leave you now,” he said. “To let you finish. I wish you good luck in discovering your Gift.”
Wren watched the caramel bubble as the thermometer crept higher, entranced by the luscious golden color that deepened and browned. The smell of toasting sugar frosted the air, swirling about her senses. Her soul felt at rest for the first time since Callidus had seized her arm in Master Oldrick’s shop. Her vision—her very consciousness—narrowed to the spinning sugar, the chemical reactions, the flickering blue flame of the gas burner beneath the pot. As she added the cream and butter, whisking the swirls of golden brown and milky white, she felt the power of creation within her, the giving of her life to create this joyful sustenance for others. She felt a trickle of self winding into the bubbling pot, infusing and binding until the caramel became something more than mere sugar and cream. She had felt this before and had thought it love and care and pride in her work. Now, she saw it for something more.
Once the creamy caramel reached the right temperature, she seized the pot and heaved it, deftly pouring the contents out onto the waiting parchment-covered tray. She shook the tray gently until the candy settled to the bottom, as soft as silk and as smooth as glass. She sank onto the waiting stool before her creation.
She had done it. Magic.
Chapter 12
Wren’s elation over her success was short-lived. While cleaning up the kitchen, she managed to whack her kneecap on the kitchen island, close her fingertips in a cabinet door, and trip over the stool, which seemed to manifest out of nowhere directly between her feet. Wren had been lanky and uncoordinated all her life, but had usually managed to keep it together in the kitchen. But now that she knew how cooking spent her magic, it seemed her luck had run out on that front as well.
Wren left her confections to cool, and found herself in the hallway with an entirely unknown commodity on her hands: free time. Her growling stomach informed her of her first order of business, and since it was well past lunch time, she made her way to the real kitchens, where she managed to beg a bowl of cool cucumber gazpacho soup with a dollop of minted cream and triangles of buttered toast. She wolfed it down, the crisp tastes of the cucumber and mint silky on her tongue. Returning the licked-clean bowl with a murmur of thanks, Wren headed for the Guildhall’s library. It seemed as good a place as any to solve a mystery.
Wren hadn’t been in many libraries, but she imagined this library was unique. First was the fact that it was brimming with cookbooks—some published, some hand-lettered in cramped scrawls and butter smears. It was evident that the collection was the result of years of study and collection by the guild members. Books on other subjects seemed an afterthought, relegated to a lone set of shelves in the far corner of the room. Second was the fact that it was really more kitchen than library. Bright and airy, rather than dark and forbidding, full of white and gray-veined tile rather than dark wood panels, this alternate rendition suited Wren just fine. Rather than a fireplace, a kitchen stove stood sentinel in the room, and coffee and delectables were laid out for the taking along the long countertop. Third were the mismatched sofas and armchairs that dotted the room like they had blown in from a squall. Cracking studded leather couches, velvety divans, and brocade wingbacks sat about the room in a potpourri of furnishings. The library felt worn and real, like catching a glimpse of the guild waking up in the morning before it had washed and put its face on. She loved it at once.
Wren had the library to herself, and she set to work putting a kettle on the stove, filling the glass press with fragrant coffee grounds. She explored the room while she waited, peering at a fox and geese board left abandoned on one of the tables, its carved white geese and red foxes frozen in form. On a threadbare marigold armchair sat the front page of the day’s Maradis Morning, the city’s newspaper. She snagged it and returned to the stove, where the kettle was cheerfully boiling. Coffee in hand, she settled into an enveloping gray-blue sofa facing the far window. She closed her eyes and blew out a breath. Her days at the Guildhall had thus far been filled with people, navigating the treacherous water of human interaction. It was a far cry from her days with Master Oldrick, where the only conversation she might have had in a day had been with an unruly batch of nougat.
She tried to categorize what she had learned so far but found her thoughts drifting to Hale and Lucas. Both had gone out of their way to help her. But why? For what purpose?
Footsteps sounded down the hall and Callidus swept into the library, one of Marina’s lackeys in orbit behind him. What was the black-haired boy’s name? Lennon.
Wren scooted down on the couch so her head wasn’t visible over its back, peering around the edge to watch the two men.
“If you sponsored me, I could be useful to you. Assist with your duties, look out for your interests among the guild. I’m a trained journeyman; you wouldn’t even have to take much time to finish my education.”
Callidus, in a gray velvet jacket that had all the summer cheer of a funeral, was rooting around the library while the boy made his case, lifting up cushions and searching under chairs.
“If you told me what you were looking for,” Lennon said, “ I could help you find it. See how helpful it would be to have a sponsored?”
Callidus scoffed, his black hair shaking above his brow. “I’m looking for my damnable notebook,” he said. “It’s a black moleskin.”
Wren’s eyes widened as she spotted the notebook on the far cushion. Fool! She had been on the same couch as all of Callidus’s secret thoughts and she hadn’t even seen it!
Callidus’s search grew closer and her heart fluttered into her chest. If he found her here, he would never believe that she hadn’t been reading it. She grabbed the notebook, snuck another peek around the corner of the sofa, and slid it across the tiled floor in one silent movement.
“Here it is!” Lennon said, retrieving it with a victory cry. “You have to sponsor me now.” The boy wore a sheepish grin as Callidus snatched the notebook from him.
“Thank you,” Callidus said. “I would have found it myself in a moment.”
Wren rolled her eyes. It must have been a physical impossibility for Callidus to be nice to another human being.
“I’m not sponsoring anyone. I work better alone, and I don’t need to draw Grandmaster Beckett’s ire by stealing away his journeyman. Why do you want to move?”
Lennon looked anywhere but Callidus’s eye. “I just… I can’t be there anymore. I need a change. I admire your skills as a confectioner, and you aren’t sponsoring anyone. I’d stay out of your hair…”
“Like you’re doing right now?” Callidus arched an impressive eyebrow.
“Please, sir. If you’re going to be guildmaster, you’ll need someone to help you, an ally…”
Guildmaster? Wren thought, her blood chilling in her veins. So it was true what Hale had said. Callidus would likely be leading the guild, and her life would be that much more difficult.
“We all have burdens to bear,” Callidus said, his dark eyes shrewd. “Now I have errands to run and a meeting with the Grand Insp
ector. Make yourself scarce.”
“Yes, sir,” Lennon said glumly.
Wren let out a whooshing breath as Callidus left the room, leaving a conspicuous vacuum in his absence. How had she missed the notebook? She’d had a critical piece of evidence within inches of her, and she’d completely missed it. Stupid, stupid. She would never prove her innocence with that kind of crack detective work. She bit her lip. Why was Callidus going to see the Grand Inspector? What “errands” was he running? She had missed one chance to learn more about Callidus; she wouldn’t miss another.
She sprang to her feet, her decision made. She grabbed the newspaper in case she needed cover for her spying and hurried through the hallways of the Guildhall. She caught a glimpse of Callidus’s bleak gray coat in the distance, passing through the front doors out into the bright afternoon.
A smile ghosted across her face when she saw that Callidus was walking, not taking a carriage or horse. She slipped into the crowd after him.
As it turned out, Wren rather enjoyed tailing a suspect. Her palms were sweaty and her heart galloped in her chest, but she hadn’t felt so alive… well, since she had roamed the streets as a member of Ansel’s gang of orphans. She stiffened when she passed a pair of puffed-chest Guards in their ruddy-brown uniforms—Cedars, as the population called them—but they just nodded to her, one even flashing an appraising smile. Back then, she had to be invisible to the world, sink beneath the notice of marks, rival gangs, and Cedars alike. Now, there was only one set of eyes she had to avoid.
After an hour of following Callidus, her enthusiasm faltered. So far he had visited a barbershop (no doubt to pick up more of whatever magical concoction kept his hair so well-coiffed) and a music shop with a fiddle on its sign. A music shop? Perhaps he was really just… running errands.
She found herself a park bench while he went in the shop and sat under the shade of a magnolia tree, reading the paper. The front page story told of a fire that had enveloped a building on the edge of the Guild and Central Quarters. The building had been a specialty foods market owned by the Spicer’s Guild. The fire appeared to be arson, but there were no suspects. She scrunched her lips, pondering. From what Hale had said, anything involving the Spicer’s Guild was suspect. But she didn’t have the foggiest idea what it could mean, or if it had any connection to Kasper’s killing.
As she turned the page, keeping a keen eye for Callidus exiting the music shop, she grew still. The next article told of King Imbris’s efforts in Tamros, their neighbor to the north, to arrange peace terms with the Apricans. Wren remembered the precise moment Master Oldrick had shared that Aprica had invaded Tamros—his solemn face, his hands covered in powdered sugar. There was no question that Aprica’s superior resources and army would crush the Tamrosi, especially when the Tamrosi royal family and ruling class had been decimated by the Red Plague. There was only the lingering question of whether the Aprican king would be satisfied with Tamros or set his sights on more juicy prey to the south. Alesia. As it turned out, the Aprican king had paused, content to enjoy his spoils for a few years. But no one in Alesia was comfortable having the might of Aprica’s army next door, especially with the “border exercises” the army had been performing as of late. It was all troubling and worrisome. But that wasn’t what set Wren’s teeth on edge. It was the final line of the article. The king’s delegation had completed the current phase of negotiations and was returning. In two weeks’ time.
Wren let the newspaper fall, the breath stolen from her lungs. She had only two weeks, if that. She had thought she had a month. A month at least, to feel the sunshine on her face, savor loganberry jam on her biscuits, and enjoy laughter with Olivia and Hale. Did she truly believe she could solve this mystery—understand this spiderweb of guilds and royal interests—in less than fourteen days? She felt tears of panic sting her eyes and blinked them away. There was no way.
Callidus chose that moment to exit the store, a storm cloud of gray and black amongst the bright colors of the passersby. She struggled to her feet and followed on numb legs, feeling the weight of this new information settle upon her.
She navigated the crowds in a daze, only coming back to herself when she realized Callidus had stopped, and she had practically run into the back of him. She spun in a desperate circle and slipped behind a stand of flowers, peeking through peonies and primroses. The scene before her swam into sudden focus. Callidus stood before the charred remains of a building, the massive blackened skeleton that had once been the Spicer’s Guild market.
“You’re acting very suspicious, miss,” said a wizened voice behind her. She whirled to find the proprietor of the flower stand, a wrinkled man with a dandelion puff of downy hair. “Perhaps I should call the Grand Inspector over?”
Wren looked back and realized that Callidus was now shaking hands with a tall, vigorous man in a rust-brown uniform.
Her mind whirled for an excuse as she turned back to the man. “You’ve caught me,” she said. “I’m… following that fellow. I’m… in love with him… and I was hoping to gain some insight that will help me win his heart.” She smiled weakly, trying not to retch at the thought of being in love with Callidus.
The man softened. “I imagine a lovely young lady like yourself only need tell the fellow. No need for all this cloak and dagger.”
“You’re right, of course. But I’m… shy,” she said lamely, her mind struggling for an excuse. “I need to do things in my own way. I don’t suppose, for the price of… one of these bouquets of peonies, you’d let me stand here and read my newspaper for a few minutes?”
A crinkled smile touched the man’s blue eyes. “I suppose that won’t hurt anyone.”
Wren paid the man as he wrapped up her flowers in brown paper and twine, and she turned her newspaper over, all the while keeping a keen eye on Callidus and the inspector. She couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but there was no way she could get closer, as she would be completely exposed in the streets surrounding the charred block of building. She sighed, watching Callidus gesticulate towards the building. What could he be saying?
An image on the back page of the newspaper caught her eye, a fine portrait of a handsome young man and woman in old-fashioned clothing. When she saw the headline, the ground tilted. It was Kasper’s obituary. The caption on the portrait read Francis and Iris Kasper. Her heart twisted at the sight of them, so young and full to the brim with dreams. Had Kasper gotten to live the life he had hoped for? Had anyone?
“Wren,” a voice hissed.
She started.
Lucas loomed before her, standing tall in a chestnut houndstooth suit. “What’re you doing here?” he asked, his voice low.
“Buying flowers,” Wren said lamely, retrieving the bouquet of pink blooms from the little man, who was looking from her to Lucas with more than a little suspicion.
Lucas looked over his shoulder and took her arm, gently but firmly steering her into the shadow of an alley.
Wren stilled herself, ignoring the way her skin warmed beneath his touch.
He turned to face her. “You can’t be here, Wren. Callidus is already trying to get me thrown off your case. He’s telling the inspector I’m too involved.” He made air quotes around the last word.
“Is that what they’re talking about?” She peered around the corner, fear rising within her.
“Yes, and the fire. But you really can’t take these risks. Let me do my job.”
Wren bristled and brandished the newspaper at him like a weapon. “Two weeks, Lucas. The king will be back in two weeks. I know you vouched for me, but I don’t even know you! Not really. I can’t just sit back and do nothing.”
He grimaced and took one of her hands in his own. His was warm, calloused. It was hard to focus on his words, with his touch filling her senses. “Trust me. I will do everything in my power to find Kasper’s killer. As if… my own life depended on it. And I’m not asking you to do nothing. Just don’t take stupid risks. Callidus could have turned around at an
y moment and spotted you.”
“I know,” she said, suitably chastised. “There was this notebook…” She sighed. Though a voice in her head still cried that she couldn’t trust him, it was growing softer. She found she wanted to trust Lucas. Being able to count on him… truly… it would go far to calm the ever-present sense of dread that coiled within her. She searched his slate-gray eyes for any hint of guile and found none. But what if he betrayed her? Ansel had. Brax. Her father. But what if he doesn’t, the other part of her whispered. “I’ll be more careful,” she managed.
“That’s all I ask. Have you learned anything at the guild?”
“Not really,” she admitted. “My sponsor, Sable, doesn’t think it’s Callidus. Though I’m not convinced. Obviously.”
Lucas frowned, his wide mouth turning down in thought. “Did she say why?”
“She’s more the ‘sweep in, make a broad pronouncement, sweep out’ type of person. Light on the explanation.”
“Helpful. Did she have any alternate theories?”
“Other guildheads? It looks like something might be going on with the Spicer’s Guild?” Wren motioned to the burnt wreckage of the building.
“The timing is suspicious, but I haven’t seen any other links between the arson and Kasper’s killing.” Lucas glanced over his shoulder and saw that Callidus and the Grand Inspector had parted. “I have to go. Don’t hang around here. Please. You remember the signal, if you have something to tell me?”
“I remember.”
“That’s my girl.”
And then he was gone, leaving her alone with an armful of flowers and a stomach full of butterflies.
Chapter 13
The Grand Assembly of the Confectioner’s Guild took place the next day.
Even before dawn, when Wren found herself inexplicably wide-eyed and awake, the Guildhall was buzzing like a beehive, filled to bursting with drones flitting every which way. She managed to navigate through the busy halls to the library to make herself a cup of coffee before retreating back up the stairs.
