As she peered into her cupboard, her forehead creased and her eyebrows arched, she was a study in sternness. “But I need it,” she told the air before her, swinging a thick sheaf of brown hair off her shoulder. “Come on.” Down came a tiny tube of powder, and it seemed as if the very air in the kitchen heaved a sigh. “Eh, I know,” the girl said, pinching the tip of the tube and adding a thick substance to the bowl in her arms. “Father wouldn’t approve, but he’s not here.”
“Grind two sticks of cinnamon,” the girl murmured, “grate a stick of butter...what kind of spell is this?” Her disbelief colored the air around her, as did her voice. “I...what am I making?” she asked, closing the book on one finger. Just as the dust rose off the cover in a thick cloud, she sneezed. “Keep that out of the spell,” she mumbled to herself, glancing down into the bowl. “Let’s not give him hay fever in with the love spell! Merde - what if he sneezes every time he sees me? No, that won’t do.”
On she went, collecting things from the cupboards and adding them to the large blue ceramic bowl she held. Pausing, she pulled over a basket of blueberries, then washed them, tipping their violet jeweled selves into a silver colander. Quietly, she chanted as she dried them with a few pats and taps. Raising one finger made each berry dive-bomb into the mixture inside the bowl. Seeming satisfied, the girl stirred the concoction. “Time to bake it,” she said.
“Ugh,” she muttered, a moment later, as the oven’s banked heat slapped at her face. “Very hot.” With that, she left the kitchen. “Xavier,” she called, as she returned. “You won’t believe how well this turned out.”
“Zut alors,” a bespectacled young man exclaimed from behind the girl, “you’ve baked me a love spell at last!”
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