It took Lyra a few moments of silence to realize that Boysen was genuinely waiting for an answer.

  “Of course,” Lyra said. “Though maybe we should go somewhere else. Don’t want to bother Bumble.”

  The flying squirrel chattered something in an amiable tone, then leapt across the room and vanished through the greenhouse door.

  “He needs more nutmeg,” Boysen interpreted. “Though I think he’s really just making an excuse to visit Sprinkle.”

  Lyra stared at him. “You speak squirrel now?”

  “Just a few phrases. I’m trying to learn the Flavor terms. Nutmeg, salt… cinnamon…”

  He trailed off, his eyes scanning the room as if searching for inspiration amidst the various baking implements.

  “You’ll have to teach me sometime,” Lyra said, eager to avoid any prolonged silences. “During our Saturday sessions, maybe.”

  His gaze snapped back to her. “Our Saturday sessions? You still want to work with me?”

  “Of course,” she repeated. After a day to cool off and get her thoughts in order, Lyra was glad for the chance to clear the air. “I just… want to lay down some ground rules, if that’s okay.”

  He nodded fervently. “That’s what I wanted to talk about. I’m sorry for pulling that trick. Really, really sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Lyra said.

  “No, it’s not.” Boysen hands fidgeted, apparently at a loss for what they should do without some kind of dough in front of him. “I just wanted you to see how it could work. How amazing those songs are. I wanted you to know…” He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever I wanted, it was a low, lousy thing to do, and I’m sorry. I won’t do anything like it again, I promise.”

  “Apology accepted,” Lyra assured him. “And thanks. For the promise.”

  “Least I could do.” Boysen suddenly gave his arms a vigorous shake, as though trying to rid them of some unpleasantly clinging odor. “Salts, that’s better. Let’s not fight again, deal? It’s been hanging over my head all day. I thought for sure you were going to ditch me and go solo like Caramelle.”

  “Not a chance.” Lyra shuddered. “I don’t want to end up like Caramelle. She’s going to hurt herself one of these days.”

  Boysen arced one eyebrow. “Really? I mean, I’m glad you still want to be my partner and all, but Caramelle seems to be handling the work well. She looked fine in class, anyway.”

  “She did not look ‘okay’ last night. Trust me.”

  Boysen’s eyebrow rose higher. “You spotted The Meringue? In the wild?”

  “She came looking for Cardamom, to do the preservation spells.” Lyra felt heat spreading across her cheeks and fought to keep her voice cool. “He — we lost track of time, over dinner. That’s why he was so late with his dorm rounds.”

  Boysen nodded stiffly, pressing his lips together as if afraid of what might come out.

  “But it’s not just that I don’t want to work alone,” Lyra rushed on. “I want to work with you. We make a good team, remember?”

  Slowly, Boysen’s face relaxed into a smile. It was a far cry from one of his signature grins, but Lyra still felt a corner of her heart suddenly relax, like a stubborn air bubble had finally popped.

  “We do indeed,” he replied. “The professors have spoken.”

  Stepping back, he bowed with a sweeping gesture, indicating the door.

  “Shall we prove them right once again, starting with a Whisk review in the company of other well-paired Whizzes?”

  Lyra gave an exaggerated version of her Any Weather Bards post-show curtsy. “Lead on, Flavor King.”

  Boysen laughed at that, the sound popping a few more of Lyra’s internal air bubbles.

  “That reminds me.” Pushing through the door, he held it open for her. “I’ve been rethinking some of the family crests we designed. Is an owl really appropriate for Crumble?”

  “Hmm, you’re right. Maybe something more aggressive,” Lyra agreed. “To show her… fierce dedication to creativity. How do you feel about porcupines?”

  Chatting easily, they made their way across the dining hall and back to the dorms for another cheerful night of studying.

  —

  After resolving the tension with Boysen, Lyra thought the worst of the week must surely be over.

  Then came Wednesday.

  Second term Texture lab days were a whole new level of grueling. Professor Puff had announced the first week that it was time to investigate the discipline’s more technical side. She would no longer be providing the spells with the equations always completed. That meant working out the pace and number of repetitions for each spell as homework, so all of class time could be devoted to practice.

  The other Whisk Whizzes were a huge help Tuesday night, but Lyra still felt herself floundering, like she’d been tossed into a deep bowl of cake batter without knowing how to swim. She even caught herself regretting the loss of Caramelle as a roommate. If anyone could have sorted through the page of equations with stylish ease, it was The Meringue.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  This regret was short-lived, of course. Lyra only had to remember the look in Caramelle’s eyes from Monday morning’s exam to rejoice once again at being free of Pestle. Whatever mix was stewing under those perfect auburn coils, something was very off.

  Lyra’s gut was clear on this point. No superconductor required.

  At least the Texture class was working on a familiar spell: Madame Brioche’s Kneading Chant. The first-years had used this charm to make several loaves of enriched bread during the first term, though always at the beginner level. This week’s assignment of ‘spicy cheese bread’ called for the intermediate level, and of course, Professor Puff was not providing any of the mathematical preparation.

  Lyra had worked herself into such a tizzy by the start of lab day that it came as a true shock when Wednesday morning passed so smoothly. The silence of the classroom felt peaceful as she combined flour, sugar, salt, and yeast in a large bowl, adding butter, eggs, an egg yolk, and water heated to a precise temperature. The first round of kneading and proofing flew by. Before Lyra knew it, the dough was ready to be prepped for its second rise.

  This ease was partly due to the song she had written for Madame Brioche’s chant during one of the first term Whisk Whiz Review sessions. It was a catchy tune, easily adaptable to the spell’s new difficulty level, and it refused to leave Lyra’s brain. Despite her best efforts to focus solely on mental recitation, the tune kept weaving itself around the words, drawing her hands into the appropriate kneading rhythm.

  She couldn’t even keep the song out of her head as she rolled out the dough into a rectangle. It hummed incessantly through her thoughts as she covered the rectangle with a sprinkled mix of cheddar and spicy red pepper flakes. It persisted through the sequence of rolling the dough into a log, shaping the log into a coil, and brushing the coil with an egg white glaze. The song shifted to provide the appropriate soundtrack for every stage of the process, culminating in a solid accompaniment for Lyra’s final recitation of the spell just before the second proof.

  Lyra wanted to be annoyed with herself. Wasn’t she supposed to be breaking this music habit? How would anyone take her seriously as a baker if she couldn’t get through a single Texture spell without breaking into song? What would Professor Puff say if she knew Lyra was mentally singing Madame Brioche’s carefully crafted words?

  What would Cardamom say?

  Though these questions intruded upon Lyra’s peace throughout the morning, they never seemed able to break through the song’s relentless tide. Besides, the results spoke for themselves. It was hard to listen to the nagging doubts when the bread’s first and second rise went so perfectly. It became even harder when Lyra pulled the finished loaf out of the oven, light and springy and fragrant. By the time Professor Puff cut into the bread and announced it ‘an admirable first effort’, the questions were little more than a faint whisper, completely overshadowed by the song’s triumphant chorus.

  It’s not like I’m doing it on purpose, Lyra reasoned as she started on her second loaf. The music is just there, inside me. If it helps, it helps. Doesn’t mean that I’m depending on it, or cheating…

  Shaking her head, she focused on separating another egg, setting aside the white for glazing and adding the yolk to the dough. Lab day was not the time to sink into an internal debate, or try to resolve yet another existential crisis.

  Lab day was for one thing, and one thing only: repetition.

  Closing her eyes, Lyra dug her hands into the new batch of dough and began kneading, the determined melody starting up again to coincide perfectly with the first words of Madame Brioche’s Chant.

  On the whole, the first-years were in high spirits when they broke for lunch. Everyone’s morning had passed about as pleasantly as Lyra’s. They were all on track to meet Professor Puff’s goal of four full loaves by the end of lab day. Best of all, Caramelle continued the habit she had begun at the beginning of second term, bringing her lunch and staying in the classroom while the others adjourned to the dining hall.

  Lyra wasn’t sure where Caramelle found time to prepare her own meals, but she wasn’t about to complain. A Meringue-free table was definitely preferable to the alternative. She couldn’t even bring herself to feel bad when they returned to the classroom, all laughing together at Mac’s latest ‘Fortescue the Foppish Fox’ stories, to find Caramelle sitting hunched over her work-station in the front row.

  She prefers to be alone, Lyra told herself stoutly. She never appreciated the Whizzes, anyway.

  Still giggling over Mac’s imitation of Fortescue’s ‘pocket square’ monologue, Lyra pulled her bowl of dough from the proofing drawer and turned it out on the counter.

  That was when her good mood vanished.

  The dough hadn’t risen. It had sunk, shrinking into a ball less than half its original size. The structure was so tightly compacted, she couldn’t imagine rolling it into a frisbee-sized disc, let alone a twelve-by-eighteen inch rectangle.

  “Oh my.” Professor Puff’s serene voice sounded from the end of her work-station. “Did you have trouble with the second round of Madame Brioche’s spell, Aspiring Baker Treble?”

  “Not at all, Professor,” Lyra replied helplessly. “I did it exactly the same as the first time. At least, I think I did.”

  Professor Puff picked up the dough, weighing it gravely in her expert hands. “This has been over-kneaded. You must have recited the spell too many times.”

  “But I didn’t,” Lyra insisted. “I was going by the same equations I used for the first round, and that came out well.”

  “It is easy to lose track of repetitions,” the professor said, her expression kind. “Especially as you move into the higher levels of these spells. That’s why we practice: to hone our focusing abilities. You’ll just get in an extra round of practice today. This may put you a bit behind, but you should still be able to get through four loaves. If not, you can finish the last one tonight as homework, and bring it to me tomorrow. Yes?”

  Lyra’s insides felt like a collapsing cake. She knew she hadn’t over-recited the spell, at least not enough to produce such a disaster. Still, Professor Puff’s gray eyes were not inviting argument.

  Lyra swallowed her protests. “Yes, Professor.”

  “Excellent.” Professor Puff gave her a slight smile. “Don’t be discouraged. Your first loaf this morning proved you can accomplish this spell. I am confident some more repetition will get you back on track in no time.”

  “Yes, don’t be discouraged!” Caramelle’s sweet voice rang out from the work-station ahead of Lyra’s. “It takes a lot of time and training to master these principles. Years of focused study. Right, Professor?”

  Professor Puff nodded approvingly. “Right, Aspiring Baker Meringue.”

  “And Lyra’s only been baking for a year or so,” Caramelle went on, smiling so graciously that Lyra fought the urge to gag. “Limited experience, no formal training… honestly, it’s incredible she’s here at all. One might even say, unbelievable.”

  The auburn-haired girl’s eyes narrowed briefly, so fast that Lyra doubted anyone else noticed. Then she turned back to her own work, bestowing another oh-so-kind smile as she went.

  Lyra stared at her former roommate’s back. Her head was spinning, flashing through the same images over and over, faster and faster and far too many times. She pictured Caramelle, here in the classroom all through lunch, alone with Lyra’s undefended proofing drawer…

  Her mind ceased its circular whirl, tightening in on itself like a lump of over-kneaded dough.

  Nope, she thought grimly, remembering the strange moment she’d shared with Caramelle at the end of Monday’s exam. Nope… definitely NOT done dealing with The Meringue.