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

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