All said and done, Boysen insisted that Lyra’s color songs were a huge help.

  “Just look at that green.” He pointed to each bowl in turn, highlighting the distinct shades. “And the red actually looks like red! I never got that close in class. Even at the end of lab day, my red was more… pink. Watered-down pink.”

  Lyra gazed at the bowls dejectedly. “They’re not bright enough. Cardamom’s purple was so much more vibrant when we practiced Thursday night.”

  “This was only our first run of the day,” Boysen reminded her. “We’ll try again after dinner.”

  “Maybe without thinking the songs?” Lyra suggested. “They didn’t give quite the kick I was expecting.”

  “What were you expecting, perfection?”

  She poked at the yellow, which fell several shades short of the warm marigold she had envisioned. “I guess.”

  “Any Presentation expert would call that a ridiculous expectation. Any baker, for that matter.” Boysen shook his head. “I’ll keep thinking the songs. They help me visualize the colors I’m going for, and keep them all distinct in my head.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I’m telling you, that is the most fun I have ever had on a Presentation task. Ever.” Boysen paused. “Of course, it would be even more fun if we could actually sing the songs…”

  “No way,” Lyra said firmly. “They are a mental tool only. For focusing.”

  “Just as an experiment,” Boysen wheedled.

  “On your own time, if you want. Or get Ginger. We have enough work to do as it is.”

  He sighed. “You wrote them, so you’re the boss. But I’m adding ‘Spoilsport’ to your official list of titles.”

  “I have a list?”

  “Everyone has a list. Whisk Whiz rule.”

  Lyra smiled. “You love your rules, don’t you?”

  “When they’re reasonable, sure” Boysen said. “I’m not crazy about all the academy rules, and Texture gets a little out of control sometimes, but the Whisk Whiz rules are great.”

  “You made all the Whisk Whiz rules,” Lyra pointed out.

  “Exactly.” He winked. “So you know they are both reasonable and good. For example, it is getting dangerously close to lunchtime, and Whisk Whizzes never miss a meal. We should get a move on with the sugar cookies so all this frosting has a home.”

  “The sugar cookies!” Lyra groaned. “We should have made those first and worked on the frosting while they cooled. And doesn’t the dough have to chill for a while?”

  “No trouble at all, Treble.” Swinging open the fridge door, he presented her with a roll of sugar cookie dough. “Made it this morning while the scones were baking. It’s only enough for this first round, but we can whip up some more after lunch and leave it to chill until our second round after dinner.”

  Lyra threw her arms around him. “I am adding ‘Savior’ and ‘First-Rate Forward Thinker’ to your official list of titles.”

  He waved her aside with a laugh, but his grin was genuine as they prepped the cookie sheets. “We’ll have to run those by the council for approval. Don’t want to give me too much to live up to.”

  The sugar cookies only took ten minutes to bake. While they cooled, Lyra helped Boysen clean up from the morning’s work. By the time they had finished frosting the cookies, the academy’s lunch hour was nearly over. They rushed down to the dining hall, entering just as Ginger and Mac were exiting.

  “Have you seen Caramelle?” That was Mac’s only greeting as he scanned anxiously behind them for signs of auburn hair.

  “Hello to you too,” Boysen said dryly. “How was the morning in Zester?”

  Ginger nudged her project partner. “Productive, once I got this one to stop listening for sounds of life in Pestle.”

  “Academy walls are enchanted,” Boysen pointed out. “They’re not entirely soundproof, but they do limit the spread of noise.”

  “That’s what I told him.” Ginger smiled at Lyra. “How’s it going in Whisk?”

  “Wonderfully.” Lyra looked around the dining room. “You haven’t seen Caramelle at all? What about breakfast?”

  “No.” Mac pushed his glasses up his nose. “That’s what worries me. No breakfast, no lunch…”

  “Maybe she’s eating in her room,” Boysen suggested. “That’s what Treble and I did for breakfast.”

  “She already has so much baking to do on her own,” Mac protested. He turned to Lyra. “Do you really think Caramelle would ‘waste’ time on making something for herself to eat?”

  Lyra’s heart sank. “No.”

  “Exactly.” Mac turned towards the teachers’ table. “I’m going to say something to Professor Puff.”

  “Before that.” Boysen placed a hand on his roommate’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go check on Caramelle first if you’re so worried? I doubt she would thank you for reporting her to the teachers.”

  “Especially without verifying the facts,” Ginger agreed. “Though I don’t know what you’re so whipped up about, Fondant. The Meringue is a big girl. She can take care of herself.”

  Again, Mac turned to Lyra. “Can she? When she’s under stress?”

  Lyra sighed. “Caramelle does have a tendency to… lose track of things when she’s on a deadline. Food, sleep —”

  “Morals, conscience —”

  Lyra gave her new roommate a look. “Not helping, Ginger.”

  “Okay, okay.” Ginger looped an arm through Mac’s. “We’ll swing by Pestle on our way back. You can even take her this.” She held up a piece of spice cake wrapped carefully in a napkin. “I was saving it for an afternoon treat, but I guess The Meringue might need it more than I do. Deal?”

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  Mac took the piece of cake reverently. “Deal.”

  Boysen and Lyra wished him luck, then sat down just long enough to gobble up toasted cheese sandwiches and bowls of creamy tomato bisque. Taking their own pieces of cake to-go, they returned to the dorm in time to see a dejected Mac entering Zester.

  “No answer,” he said glumly. “I’ve been knocking and calling… Ginger gave up and went in here to prep. I left the cake outside.” He pointed back to the closed door of Pestle. “I can hear sounds through the door. She’s definitely baking. But I still don’t know if she’s eaten anything today.”

  “We’ll check on our way down to dinner,” Lyra assured him. “If the cake’s still there, maybe we can let one of the teachers know.”

  “Or the older students,” Boysen suggested. “I bet she’d answer the door if the Coulis was calling.”

  Lyra’s jaw tensed. “Hyacinth’s the Texture assistant. She could relate to Caramelle better on that level.”

  “We’ll figure it out.” Boysen slapped Mac’s shoulder encouragingly. “In the meantime, you’ve done all you can, Macaron. Go help Crumble.”

  Mac shrugged, disappearing into Zester without another word.

  “Sharps and flats.” Lyra shook her head. “He has got it bad, hasn’t he?”

  “Try living with him,” Boysen sighed. “But, as I said, he’s done all he can. And so have we.” He strode across the common area towards Whisk. “C’mon, Treble. Time for some more repetition.”

  Following their strategy from that morning, they kicked off the afternoon with the second round of the proofing spell for Texture. Boysen complained all the way up to starting the long spell, but afterwards, he had to admit it was growing on him.

  “It can be soothing,” he said as they prepped their loaves for the oven. “You were right.”

  “See?” Lyra grinned. “Did you think of it as a story?”

  “A little. It’s still a really boring story. I was focusing more on the breathing, and the silence.” He kept his eyes on the rising oven temperature. “I still think it’s a waste of time if you’re alone, but with the right company, it can be… nice. Just to be quiet together, for a while.”

  “Absolutely,” she agreed. “Though I think most bakers might cherish the quiet alone time. I’m still going to ask your mom the next time I see her.”

  He flashed her a quick smile in response, then they settled into easy silence again. Only when they each had placed their loaf of bread carefully in the oven did he clap his hands. “Right! That’s Texture done for the day. You know what that means?”

  Lyra bowed. “All hail the Flavor King?”

  “That’s right.” Boysen handed her a bowl. “Three batches of scones. Plain, sweet, and savory. We can do the plain version together. Would you rather handle the sweet or savory this afternoon?”

  “I’ll start with sweet,” Lyra decided. “You can handle savory. Garlic is tricky.”

  “You’ll still have to tackle it some time,” Boysen warned.

  “Of course. We’ll switch for round two, after dinner.” She gave him her most winning smile. “I just want to observe and take notes for now. Learn from the master and all that.”

  “The Flavor King is immune to flattery,” Boysen replied loftily. “Though musical tributes have been known to earn his good graces.”

  Lyra bonked him with her wooden spoon. “Let’s see the royal instincts in action first, shall we?”

  They started by whipping up a batch of plain scones. As the dough was coming together, Boysen demonstrated how to make the most effective use of Madame Hazelnut’s Deepening Spell.

  “It’s a lot like the proofing spell, actually,” he said, using his fingers to work bits of butter through the mixture of flour and sugar. “The words do matter with this one, but silence is equally important. You have to listen for the Flavor.”

  “Listen?” Lyra repeated. “Like listening to your gut?”

  “That’s part of it. But you also have to listen to the ingredients themselves.”

  Lyra crinkled her eyebrows. “How does that work?”

  “The spell actually helps. It deepens the Flavor, which makes it louder. Easier to hear.” Without taking his eyes off the dough, Boysen took Lyra’s hands and placed them in the bowl, burying them in the floury mixture before covering them with his own. “Now recite the spell, then listen.”

  Lyra complied. After ten seconds, she felt a slight tingle in her fingertips, as if the dough were coughing. She jumped, knocking into Boysen and scattering a cloud of flour into the air.

  “I heard it!” she squealed. “I mean, I felt it. The dough! It was talking to me!”

  Boysen laughed. “Of course it was. And what did it say?”

  “I — I’m not sure,” Lyra confessed. “I got so excited, I didn’t quite catch the details.”

  “Let’s try again.” Boysen took her hands again, returning them to the bowl. “This time, don’t just listen for the dough. Listen to your gut, like we’ve practiced in class. Recite the spell first.”

  Lyra repeated the short spell mentally, then closed her eyes. Only five seconds later, she felt that jolt of life in her fingers again. Keeping them steady, she strained her inner ear, listening for a response from her inherent Flavor instincts.

  “What do you hear?” Boysen asked.

  “Something’s off.” Lyra stayed perfectly still, grateful for the stabilizing pressure of Boysen’s hands on hers. “I hear the dough, and I hear my gut, but they’re not… in tune. It’s like they’re trying to play in the same key, but one is just a half-step off.”

  “That’s great!” Even with her eyes closed, she could hear the smile in Boysen’s voice. “That’s how Flavor works. You keep doing the spell until the dough and your instincts are singing the same song.”

  “What if I go too far?” she asked. “What if I say the spell too many times, and the Flavor gets too intense? Is there a de-Flavoring spell I don’t know about?”

  “Afraid not.” He nudged her shoulder. “But that’s what practice is for. Go ahead. Recite, listen, repeat. Until it’s right.”

  After three more recitations of Madame Hazelnut’s Deepening Spell, both Lyra’s and Boysen’s instincts declared the plain scones ready to go. Lyra then watched carefully as Boysen mixed up another batch. He added fresh garlic minced fine, one pinch at a time, taking long pauses to recite the spell and listen. Once he deemed it had reached peak garlic Flavor, he stepped back, inviting Lyra to confirm his assessment.

  She buried her hands in the dough and waited.

  “That’s weird,” she said after a few moments.

  “What?”

  “I can hear the dough, but… it’s super faint. Much less clear than it was with the plain batch.” Opening her eyes, she looked first at her hands, then at him. “Are you, perchance, some sort of Flavor instinct superconductor?”

  He blinked. “Beg pardon?”

  “I could hear so clearly when your hands were in the bowl too. Maybe you were accidentally sharing your Flavor royalty superpowers with me, by osmosis or something?”

  “I don’t think it’s a superpower —”

  “Well, I can’t imagine garlic is just a quieter flavor than plain butter.”

  “Garlic isn’t ‘quiet’ at all,” Boysen confirmed. “It’s one of the loudest flavors imaginable.”

  “Then I’m just not at your level yet.” Lyra nodded towards the bowl, where her hands were still buried in flour. “Let’s test the theory, anyway.”

  Slowly, Boysen placed his hands over Lyra’s. “Any better?”

  “GAAAAAARLIC!!!”

  Lyra didn’t just say the word; the Flavor wasn’t just speaking to her. She sang out the word at such a volume that both she and Boysen jumped back from the bowl in alarm.

  “Salts, Lyra!” Boysen reached a shaky hand to poke her shoulder. “What the hollandaise was that?”

  For a moment, Lyra was laughing too hard to answer.

  “It’s your own fault!” she gasped finally, still doubled over with merriment. “You are a superconductor!”

  Boysen stared at his own hands. “I — It made that big a difference?”

  “You can bet your ballads, it did.” Lyra straightened up and tried to swallow the last of her giggles. “And you were right. Garlic is plenty loud, not to mention showy. It’s what we in the music business call a diva.”

  “I believe you.” Boysen’s awed gaze drifted from his hands to Lyra. “And… it sings? Like that? You heard it sing?”

  She felt a flush creeping over her cheeks, but it was as much from delight as embarrassment. “You did say you wanted a spontaneous musical moment,” she reminded him.

  He nodded, his eyes still resting on her in wonder. “Consider your breakfast debt paid. Over-paid, really. I’ll have to make something much fancier tomorrow to pay you back.”

  “I’m making breakfast tomorrow,” she protested. “That was the deal.”

  “That was before the garlic sang the song of its people. Through you.” Boysen nodded again. “Yep. Eggs Benedict, at the very least. I’ll swing by Queen Penelope’s first thing in the morning.”

  “Boysen —”

  He held up a hand. “The Flavor Superconductor King has spoken. Besides, I have a feeling I’m going to have quite a debt to work off by the end of the day.” Grinning, he handed her the third and final bowl of scone dough.

  “If you think garlic is loud… I can’t wait to hear what kind of song cinnamon has to sing.”