A More Powerful Magic

By Katie S. Williams

“Trish, that’s amazing,” my best friend cooed as I drizzled the final icing whisker over the last ginger cat cookie. “You’ll win the scholarship tomorrow for sure!”

Still clutching the blue-handled frosting knife, I swiped the back of my arm across my forehead. “I wish I had your confidence, Bri.”

“Come on, girl,” she insisted. “You have fantastic flavors, and your decorations are adorable.” She held up a cardamom pup with a wide icing grin. “Who cares if you don’t make them by magic?”

I snorted. “From what I’ve heard, the judges care quite a bit.” Straightening my spine and pretending to peer over a set of spectacles, I trilled in a wavering falsetto, “The Confectioner’s Academy is the most honorable magical institution in all of Socaria, with a rich history of producing only the finest confectioneers.”

“That’s Duchess Grella, all right.” Bri snickered. “But she’s only one advisor. The professors get the final say.”

“Maybe on paper,” I muttered, gripping the knife handle until my knuckles paled.

On paper, my grandmother had been welcome to establish her non-magical bakery in Socaria’s famed culinary quarter, too, but the reactions of Socaria’s elite had proven that paper and magic didn’t mix.

I dropped the knife into the icing bowl, the ceramic handle clacking against the glass.

“Hey.” Bri reached over and grabbed my wrist. Her hazel eyes sparked with fire. “Don’t let that bitterness win again.”

A soft chime announced a customer in the bakery shop, sparing me the trouble of responding. I tugged my arm free and stepped through the kitchen door.

My jaw clenched at the sight of the dapper figure framed in the shop’s entryway.

“What will it be today, Greggory?” I asked, painting on the politest smile I could muster.

Greggory didn’t return the gesture. Or perhaps he did; his sneer and his smile were impossible to differentiate.

He glanced at the baskets of bread behind the counter. “Oh, I just came to scope out the competition,” he drawled. “Tell me, are you planning to serve these to the judges tomorrow?”

He gave a sharp whistle, and a baguette soared to him like an obedient pet. He hefted it disdainfully, then raised both eyebrows. “I know! Perhaps you could stack your little batons” —he mimicked the motion— “like a child, playing with sticks in the mud.”

My phony smile flickered over clenched teeth, but my voice held firm. “It’ll be two pennies for the baguette, Greggory.”

“Hmmm… I’ll have to pass.” Whistling again, he sent the bread spiraling through the air. I lunged and snatched it before it could touch the floor.

Greggory sniggered. “You bake a decent loaf, Trishara.” He dipped his chin in a mocking bow. “But I’m afraid confections call for a lighter touch.”

At his singsong tweet, every bread in the store levitated from its basket. I covered my face as a barrage of baguettes, boules, and braided loaves pelted my body and thumped dejectedly to the floor, the rise and crackle beaten out of them.

“Have fun with your sticks, little girl!” Greggory called as he departed, leaving me shaking with helpless rage among my soiled creations.

After Bri helped me clean up the bread and close the shop, I turned to the towering pile of dishes. My fingers found the icing bowl and knife.

Suddenly I was a little girl again, crawling into my grandmother’s lap and watching in awe as she dipped that blue-handled blade into the bowl and brought cookies to life with a few deft flicks of her wrist.

Fwip! Fwip! Two eyes.

Fwap! A nose.

Fwooooop! A smile.

“Want to try, little one?” Nanoo would ask, offering the handle to me. Then she’d whisper it slow, like a secret: “What shall we make today?”

That was her favorite question, though it had been more than four months since I’d heard her ask it. Socarian magic could do many things, but in the end, only grief had proven strong enough to slow the flow of time.

Turning off the faucet, I hunched over the grime-stained sink. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I let my hands float under the dish bubbles, cradling a cracked ceramic knife handle and the still-warm memory of Nanoo’s fingers over mine.

The morning of the competition passed in a cocoa-swirled, caramel-scented blur. Soon I was standing on stage with Greggory and a girl named Yvesse as a man in a burgundy suit asked us to present our final desserts to the judges.

When Yvesse unveiled her color-changing pastries, the audience gasped. When Greggory made his chocolate figurines dance across the tabletop to his whistled tune, the audience cheered.

I watched as a young girl in the front row stood to get a better peek, but was promptly pinned back into her chair by Duchess Grella’s cool stare.

Then the burgundy-suited man called my name.

As I approached the judges’ table, Bri flashed me a grin and thumbs-up. I smiled as I tugged the blanket off my basket of cookies, revealing a menagerie of iced ginger cats, cardamom pups, and cinnamon roses. The judges simply stared, and the audience had gone silent.

But I was no longer focused on the crowd’s reaction. My gaze had fallen on the curly-headed figure in the front row, scooting shyly to the edge of her seat.

I pulled a stack of unfrosted cookies and a small bowl of icing from my basket. Then, locking eyes with the young girl, I held out a blue ceramic handle.

“Want to try, little one?”

Beaming, the child scampered onto the stage beside me and took Nanoo’s knife gently between her tiny fingers. She looked up at me with eager eyes, and the waiting world around us faded to a shimmering, expectant hush.

Perhaps grief wasn’t the only force in Socaria more powerful than the flow of time.

Curling my fingers over the girl’s, I smiled and whispered it slow, like a secret:

“What shall we make today?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Katie S. Williams is a fantasy author and editor who loves bold coffee, epic battles, and ordinary miracles. When she isn’t wrangling words or shepherding stories, you might find her crafting bookish latte art, engaging in deep conversations about creativity and faith, or adventuring in nature with her camera by her side.

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