Friendly Caramelle was a nonstop flurry of pleasant conversation.

  “I hope you don’t mind I took this bed,” she said anxiously. “It’s close to the door, and I’ll probably be staying out late in the practice kitchens most nights, so I thought it would help me not disturb you.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Lyra assured her. “That’s really kind.”

  Caramelle beamed. “And feel free to borrow any of my books.” She indicated the bottom row of her bookcase, which was already packed tight with recipe tomes and baking spell scrolls. “I know they’ll be giving us our textbooks, but Master Chiffon curated a list of supplemental materials for me to bring. Just let me know when you need one. Oh, you brought your guitar!”

  She pointed at the instrument case slung across Lyra’s back. Lyra flushed.

  “My mom made me,” she admitted. “But I guess it’s a good idea. Music helps me relax.”

  “Hobbies are very important,” Caramelle said solemnly. “Master Chiffon was insistent that I keep a hobby. I took dancing lessons twice a week.”

  Lyra’s eyes brightened. “I love dancing! Maybe I could join you sometime? Do they let guests sit in?”

  “Oh, I doubt I’ll be going much this term,” Caramelle laughed. “This term is all about preparing for the first exam. I’m afraid I’ll be a very boring roommate. But we can be boring together, right? Hold each other accountable, share study tips…”

  “Late night practice sessions in the kitchen,” Lyra offered.

  Caramelle clapped her hands. “That’s the spirit!”

  Once Lyra’s few belongings were unpacked, she ducked into the bathroom to freshen up. She had been standing at the sink only a few moments when a tentative knock sounded from the adjoining room.

  “Come in,” Lyra called.

  The door opened, and Ginger’s copper-colored face peeked inside. When she saw Lyra, her eyes widened in relief.

  “I am so glad to see you!” Quickly, she stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. “I wish I could have roomed with you, Lyra.”

  Lyra glanced at her own door, making sure it was closed. “Me too,” she confessed. “What’s Aniseed like?”

  Ginger grimaced. “Aniseed Mint, of the royal Mints,” she chanted. “I’ve been in school with her for years. Just because her great-great-great-grand-uncle or something was the first Royal Chef of Flavor, she thinks we’re all just flour beneath her fingernails.” Ginger rolled her eyes. “Of course, I shouldn’t be complaining to you. You got stuck with The Meringue.”

  “Caramelle doesn’t seem so bad, actually,” Lyra said.

  Ginger’s eyebrows rose.

  “No, really,” Lyra went on. “I mean, she was pretty awful this morning, but just now… she’s been nice. Really nice. Wants us to stick together and help each other.”

  Ginger’s eyebrows rose even higher, disappearing into her dark wavy hair.

  “The Meringue doesn’t mix with mere mortals,” she said. “The Meringue must always be first and best.”

  “Why do you keep calling her ‘The Meringue?’”

  “The Meringue is not a person,” Ginger explained. “The Meringue is a force of nature, and as such, ought to be treated with the same reasonable fear.”

  “Fear?”

  “Healthy sense of self-preservation.” Ginger put a hand on Lyra’s shoulder. “Tangle with The Meringue, and you end up with egg on your face,” she said gravely. “And all over your clothes, and in your hair, most likely.”

  Lyra laughed. It was impossible not to like Ginger, but she also didn’t want to discount her new roommate so quickly.

  “Caramelle doesn’t seem so bad,” she repeated. “I want to give her a chance, anyway.”

  Ginger pondered a moment. “It’s true, I’ve never heard of The Meringue using phrases like ‘stick together and help each other.’ Perhaps she got hit by a runaway rolling pin and was transformed into a decent human being. If you’re game to try, may salt season your path.” She linked her arm through Lyra’s. “But if The Meringue explodes on you… I’m right across the bathroom.”

  Giving Lyra’s arm a quick squeeze, Ginger released her and turned to the mirror. She ran a brush through her hair and splashed some water on her face. Then, with a cheery wave, she was gone, leaving Lyra alone with her reflection.

  Lyra stared into the mirror. Her brown hair was tied into a loose bun, held out of her face by a red headband. She was still wearing her traditional bardic clothes, a warm yellow tunic over black leggings. Her brown eyes looked wide and, suddenly, very scared.

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  She could practically hear her mother’s voice, echoing like a discordant jangle of notes:

  “I’m not sure about this, Lyra.”

  “Neither am I, Mom,” she whispered. “But, by all the sharps and flats, I’m surely going to try.”

  She smoothed a few stray hairs under the headband, then turned to go.

  Whether she was dealing with ‘Caramelle’ or ‘The Meringue’, she didn’t want to make either late to the welcome feast.

  —

  “Lyra! Caramelle!”

  Boysen’s jubilant voice greeted the two of them as soon as they opened the door to the main hall. He bounded across the foyer, lifting both hands for a high five with each girl.

  “First to arrive at the exam this morning, first to arrive at the welcome feast. How’re you settling in? Which rooms are you?”

  “Pestle,” Lyra and Caramelle said at once.

  Boysen looked from Lyra to Caramelle, then back again. His quick eyes seemed to be making some sort of assessment. Then he broke into his own broad grin.

  “Good for you, say I. Good for you both.” He waved to a young man with coffee-colored skin hovering by a set of double doors to the right. “Mac and I haven’t quite reached your level yet, but I’m sure we’ll get there. Mac! Macaron Fondant! Come and say hello to the girls!”

  Mac crossed the floor timidly. Lyra recognized him as the terrified student she and Boysen had talked down from a figurative ledge of nervous puking that morning.

  “Hello to the girls,” he said, his voice barely audible.

  Boysen laughed. “That’s the spirit, Mac.” He leaned in, speaking to Lyra in a loud conspiratorial whisper. “Macaron’s got an excellent sense of humor. Regular wit, this one. Just needs a bit of encouragement.”

  Lyra took Mac’s hand, shaking it warmly. “Pleased to see you again, Macaron Fondant. I didn’t get a proper look at your cake this morning. What did you do?”

  “C-coffee,” Mac stammered. He cleared his throat and tried again with a bit more confidence. “Coffee genoise sponge, with marzipan filling.”

  “And fondant on top?” Lyra guessed.

  Mac groaned, but gave her a tiny smile. “Only because my parents would have killed me otherwise. I actually don’t like fondant all that much. I prefer buttercream.” His eyes, wide behind a pair of glasses, drifted to Caramelle and settled there. “There’s a special kind of buttercream, made with meringue… that’s my favorite.”

  Caramelle didn’t appear to be listening. She hadn’t even glanced at Mac. Her gaze was fixed on the double doors to the right.

  “Aren’t they letting us in yet?”

  She didn’t seem to be asking anyone in particular, but Boysen supplied the answer.

  “Afraid not. Apparently, there’s some great formal to-do.” He winked at Lyra. “Wouldn’t be the Royal Academy of Magical Baking without a bit of ceremony, right?”

  Before she could answer, the front door opened behind them, letting in Ginger.

  “Made it!” she sang out gaily. “My dad made me promise I’d be on time to the welcome feast. It’s his favorite memory from this place.”

  “Your dad came to the academy?” Lyra asked.

  “For one year,” Caramelle said sweetly.

  Ginger ignored her. “He came so close,” she said to Lyra. “Made it all the way through the third term. He was the last one cut that year.”

  “My dad didn’t even make it that far,” Boysen said. “Second term final was his downfall.”

  Lyra hummed a low note. “That must’ve been hard.”

  “Sure, but it wasn’t devastating. Baking never is. At the end of the day, we’re just making things for people to eat, right?” Boysen smiled. “Besides, he’d already met my mom by then. He says that was better than any Stellar Enchantment Pin or baking certification.”

  “How precious.” Caramelle was also smiling, but her gaze was fixed on the front door, where the sixth new student had just entered. “I see Aniseed has finally decided to grace us with her presence.”

  Aniseed’s emerald eyes swept the foyer. Apparently dissatisfied with what she saw, she tossed her sheet of raven-black hair and strode to the double doors on the right. She pulled one open without hesitation and entered the dining commons.

  “Can — can she do that?” Mac asked.

  Boysen whistled. “Looks like she just did.”

  Seconds later, the door opened again, and Aniseed was escorted back into the foyer by a rather irate-looking Professor Puff.

  “Half a moment, all of you,” the professor called across the foyer. Then she disappeared into the dining hall, closing the door firmly behind her.

  Awkward silence reigned in the foyer. Resisting the habitual urge to fill that silence with song, Lyra tried to focus on the room itself. Just like the exam hall and the dormitory, the foyer to the main hall was paneled in rich mahogany, shining warmly in the evening sun streaming through large windows. Staircases on the left and right led up to the three upper levels, where the classrooms and practice kitchens were. Directly across the foyer was another set of particularly magnificent double doors, leading to a fancy reception hall reserved for special events like graduation.

  “Ever been inside?” Boysen asked.

  Lyra jumped, realizing she had been staring at the reception hall doors.

  “No,” she said longingly. “But I imagine it’s pretty grand. The welcome scroll told me the Royal Family always attends the graduation ceremony.”

  Boysen nodded. “They do indeed. They’re a pretty grand sight themselves, but the room is even better.”

  “You’ve been?” she squeaked.

  “Twice,” Boysen replied. “For Cran and Straw, my older brothers.”

  “Sharps and flats,” Lyra breathed. She gazed longingly at the doors. “I wonder if I’ll get to see inside?”

  Boysen nudged her shoulder with his. “I’m sure you will. Anyone who can get the professors to break their famous ‘silent judging’ rule is bound for greatness, I’d say.”

  Lyra was saved from having to come up with a response by the opening of the dining hall doors.

  “New students of the Royal Academy of Magical Baking,” Professor Puff announced, “you may enter.”

  Caramelle linked her arm firmly through Lyra’s. “Ready, roomie?”

  Lyra took a deep breath. “Guess I’ll have to be.”

  Aniseed had already flounced inside as soon as Professor Puff cleared the doorway. The rest of the first year students crossed the foyer in a tight group, huddled together as if for safety. But as soon as they crossed the threshold, Lyra felt her muscles relaxing. The dining commons had the same high ceiling, mahogany panels, and large windows as every other academy building she’d seen thus far, but it just felt so… normal.

  There was a small round table in the center of the room for the professors and any visiting dignitaries. Three of the room’s corners contained a similar round table, one for each year of students. The back right corner was filled with a small platform, with another set of double doors leading into the academy kitchens.

  Looking around, Lyra felt the knot of anxiety begin to loosen in her stomach. What was it Boysen had said? At the end of the day, we’re just making things for people to eat.

  Despite the prestige and pressure of the academy, this was just a room where people gathered around the table and ate. She needed to keep remembering that.