Magic Bitter, Magic Sweet by Charlie N. Holmberg Page A

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 pulse 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