Page 20 of Fate’s Sweetest Curse (Mirrors of Fate #2)

Reunion

Hattie

I promise I’ll stay out of your way,” I said, hefting my basket of ingredients a little higher. “I brought my own supplies and everything.”

Cook Tillen—the kitchen master for Inver College—folded her arms across her ample chest. “What did you say your name was?”

“Hattie,” I replied. “I’m an apprentice of—”

“Apprentices are not permitted in the kitchens.”

Lavender pre-dawn light filtered in through the venting windows that lined the ceiling, spilling onto the bare surfaces of the butcher-block tables. At this Fates-forsaken hour, Cook Tillen and I were the only two people here.

“You won’t even know I’m—”

“No. Apprentices.”

My fingers lifted to my chest, where Anya’s birthday gift was tucked inside the front of my dress, between my breasts: a necklace with a tiny teardrop vial as the pendent. I lifted my chin a little higher. “Even on my birthday?”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. My birthday had been yesterday.

I hadn’t made a fuss about the milestone, instead opting for a quiet night studying and snacking with my friends.

Aside from the fact that no celebration could top a Waldron celebration—especially one organized by Anya—my logic was this: if I downplayed the significance of my age, perhaps the year would pass uneventfully.

Twenty-nine was a momentous year, after all .

In adolescence and young adulthood, one’s Fate was considered malleable, which meant that if the Mirror of Fortune or the Mirror of Death predicted an undesirable future, the outcome could be avoided. After thirty, however, one’s Fate became “fixed.” Unchanging.

Whether a person wanted their future to change or remain the same, the twenty-ninth year was crucial. It was the last chance to point one’s life in a better direction—or hold on tight to a desirable Fate.

My visions in the Mirrors of Fortune and Death had been favorable, so I couldn’t wait to turn thirty and be done with the uncertainty. The fact that I was joining Phina’s research team in my final unfixed year, however, was…worrying.

It’s why I’d come to the kitchens. To take my mind off of my self-doubt, Sani’s tales of politically driven assassinations, and my fear of my own turbulent past repeating itself. And to partake in a treasured birthday tradition.

I forced a smile, hoping Cook Tillen would see my request for what it was: genuine, if a little desperate.

Cook Tillen made a show of assessing me, from my curly hair pinned into a bun, to my basket, to the hem of my simple blue dress that dusted the stone floor. “You want to bake on your birthday?” she finally asked. “Why?”

I glanced at the sacks of flour, sugar, and lemons in my basket, which was growing heavier with each second we stood here arguing in the doorway. “It reminds me of home.”

When I was a girl, the castle’s kitchen master—Cook Zina—made me lemon cookies every year.

Their flavor was bright and citrusy, not too sweet.

On the morning of my eighth birthday, I decided it wasn’t enough just to eat them—I wanted to learn the recipe.

Zina was kind enough to teach me her secrets.

The rosemary she sprinkled into the batter for fragrant complexity.

How to zest the lemons without adding any bitter pith .

The duck egg she incorporated for richness.

As we dusted the cookies with sugar, Zina told me the recipe had been my mother’s favorite, too.

It’d brought me joy to have something in common with the woman who’d given me life, but whom I’d never met.

My aunt and uncle had raised me as their own, and therefore I rarely felt my mother’s absence, but those occasional reminders of her—a connection across time—still warmed my heart.

Besides, the cookies really were delicious.

Every year thereafter—until Zina retired—we made my birthday cookies together. There were few traditions I’d taken with me when I was forced to leave home—but that recipe was one of them.

I squared my shoulders at Cook Tillen. “What if I baked a batch for you, too?”

Two hours later, my basket laden with cookies, I made my way down Adept’s Walk—the wide road that bisected campus—to report for my first day as an apprentice on Phina Farkept’s research team.

The Walk was abustle with professors and students heading to and from classes, libraries, research buildings, and the many shops that lined the street: apothecaries, chandleries, bakeries, jewelers, saddleries, and more.

Colorful flags hung on crisscrossing lines above the road, snapping in the wind; gangs of pigeons and crows patrolled for dropped morsels.

The street could’ve easily been one in Wynhaim City.

The pollen-scented breeze reminded me of the winds that whipped up from the grasslands of my home territory.

The taste of mineral grit and smoke in the air was reminiscent of the Maronan turnips I refused to eat as a child.

I heard Raina’s laugh drifting through the clamor of clopping horseshoes .

Maybe it was because I’d spent the morning making lemon cookies, but nostalgia pulled through my heart like spun sugar, sweet at first, but quick to turn brittle.

I shook my head, trying to clear it of the cloying memories.

Wistfulness would only sadden me. Distract me from who I was now—who I could be.

Someone who made a difference. An apothecary .

Lifting my chin, I picked up my pace.

The building containing Phina’s lab was just as magnificent as the rest of the Collegium’s campus—pointy spires, decorative carvings, regal archways—with one unique, standout feature: a massive rose window above the entrance.

Colored glass had been fitted into the gaps of intricate stone tracery, forming a wheel of symmetrical loops resembling the most common knots used in alchemy.

Because of the window, the building had been named the Alchemist’s Oculus, which everyone shortened to the Ocs.

Aside from the regal, arched entrance, the majority of the structure was surrounded by a forty-foot-high circumferential wall, guarded by knights.

It was the most secure, secretive building at the Collegium; most apprentices would never step foot inside.

So, as I walked through the heavy double doors, I felt an overwhelming sense of pride, curiosity, excitement, and nervousness.

There was no turning back now—and in spite of my apprehensions, I didn’t want to.

A steward welcomed me as I stepped into the dark foyer.

Beyond the tunnel-like entryway was a vaulted atrium, with doors and hallways on the far end leading deeper inside; sunlight streamed through the stained glass, casting patches of blue, green, and pink onto the white tile.

Between here and there, strange symbols—arcane lettering—marked the wooden threshold.

“Name?” the steward asked, standing up from her small desk.

My voice came out squeakier than I intended. “Hattie Mund.”

“Oath? ”

I lifted my arm, showing her my tattoo.

She jutted her chin at my satchel and basket. “Your things.”

I placed them on the desk, allowing her to rummage through every pocket, flip through my notebook, and examine the vials (including my monthly anti-pregnancy tincture—mostly pointless, as of late—plus a potion for headaches).

“I don’t have any weapons, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I said. A pair of knights loitered at the other end of the foyer, casual and at ease, making small talk with each other.

The steward wordlessly replaced the vials, then inspected the basket, lifting the tea towel to reveal the cookies. Their toasted yellow tops glittered with sugar.

“You can have one if you’d like,” I offered.

The steward dropped the towel, covering them again. “You can’t take these inside.”

“I can’t bring cookies with me?”

“No food in the labs.”

“Truly?”

Her lips pressed into a disapproving frown.

“They’re not all for me ,” I insisted. “They’re for my professor. Her team. As a thank you.” They might’ve been birthday cookies, but I hadn’t planned on eating them all myself.

“Thank your professor another way,” the steward said, lifting the basket and setting it behind her desk.

I flashed the steward a teasing grin. “I think you just want the cookies for yourself.”

The pair of knights—who’d paused their conversation to watch the scene unfold—chuckled.

With a scowl, the steward lifted a forest-green scarf from a hook on the wall behind her and held it out to me.

I took the silken material, not entirely understanding, but getting the sense that this was my cue to continue into the building.

With a reluctant smile, I shouldered my satchel and started toward the atrium.

“ Ah, ah, ah, ” the steward scolded. “Put it on.” She gestured to her eyes.

I stared down at the scarf in my hand.

One of the knights—female, mid-thirties, and taller than her stocky male partner by a good foot—stepped closer, offering me a kind smile. “First day?”

I nodded.

“The blindfold is protocol for all first- and second-year apprentices,” she said. “My name’s Willa. I’ll escort you.”

Sparing the knight a longer look—pretty eyes and masculine features, hair pinned into a bun at her nape, burgundy tunic, leather armor, a dagger and a set of keys dangling from her belt—I then fitted the silk fabric over my eyes and tied it behind my head.

When I was done, gentle fingers grasped my upper arm and led me forward.

My Oath tattoo tingled as we passed from the dark foyer into the bright atrium. I couldn’t see anything through the tight weave of the silk, but the light that leaked through changed in quality as we crossed the sun-soaked tiles and turned—presumably—down one of the many passageways.

“What kind of cookies did you make?” Willa asked after a while.

“Lemon,” I replied. “I make them for my birthday every year.”

“It’s your birthday?”

“Yesterday,” I replied. “Twenty-nine.”

Willa let out a low whistle, guiding me around a corner. “Fortuitous.”

“Indeed.”

For a few seconds, the only sound was the echo of our shoes on stone.