As the thick doors clicked to behind them, Antonia and Mitzi were filled with relief. Now they were indoors, they could talk and move freely.

They explored, looking for a room further back that they could use: the front room looked down onto the village, but all the other bathhouses were hidden from this angle.

“Here will work,” Antonia said, stepping into the second-largest room. Moonlight spilled in from the glass wall on one side of the room, but beyond that was just forest: the room was lit, but hidden.

The air was hot and humid, and it smelled of fresh florals and herbs from the soapy baths. Large mirrors sat on some of the walls, and Antonia and Mitzi caught themselves in one of these. Mitzi waved at their reflections.

In the daytime, the smooth stone that constituted the rooms was a warm cream, highlighted by turquoise tiles that lined the pools and doorways. It was easy to imagine the bath workers weaving around the round pools, walking the lengths of the straight ones, carrying fluffy towels and toiletries piled high on trollies to the bathing patrons. One such trolley had been left at the side of a pool and Antonia pawed through the soaps, delighted.

Mitzi joined her. “See if there’s anything rose-scented in there.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to tell,” Antonia replied. “They all just smell like flowers to me.”

Mitzi pulled out the box of soap. Some were still wrapped in wax paper, but several had been opened. She began to smell them, handing each to Antonia afterward.

“Lavender.

Orange.

Thyme.

Rose.

Not sure about this one – but I like it a lot.”

Antonia was enjoying watching Mitzi, and took her at her word. The soaps smelled better once she could imagine the flowers it came from.

Each holding a pale bar of the mysterious final soap – which I can tell you happened to be Edelweiss – Antonia rose to her feet, considering the room.

The half of the room nearest to the glass wall was lit with moonlight, draping the stones with silvery blue. Where this cut off, the room became very dark, and the pools toward the back edge were almost invisible. Antonia liked the look of them.

“Ok,” she said. “While we’ve got soap here, you should wash your clothes.”

“But I’ve not got any spares to wear!” Mitzi looked down at herself.

“I’ve been thinking about this. I know it’s not ideal, but if you wring them out now and hang them up, you can put them on as we leave. We can spend a few hours here now we’re safely inside.”

“Luxurious!”

Antonia began to walk toward the further pools. “I’m going to wash my clothes over here. You go… somewhere else.”

Mitzi stood uneasily. “But – it’s dark over there!”

“I’ve made my choice. You wash your clothes in the light, d’accord?”

Shit. Mitzi had to fess up.

“… How do I wash my clothes?”

This stopped Antonia in her tracks.

“You’ve never washed your own clothes? … I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” She sighed. “Fine. I’ll show you.”

Side-by-side, the two girls stripped down. Antonia had a spare shirt, so stayed in the shirt she was wearing. Mitzi stripped down to her underclothes, which Antonia noticed were of fine, expensive looking silk. She had almost forgotten that Mitzi would usually be dressed as Royalty, and looked to the side, blushing.

They knelt at one of the round pools and washed their clothes. Antonia wet the fabric and scrubbed it with soap, paying attention to the collar, cuffs and patches of dirt. Mitzi watched her hands carefully and copied her.

“Normally, you wouldn’t use soap like this, but it’s all we have.”

The splashing of the pool’s disturbed surface kept the girls from sitting in silence, for which Antonia was thankful. She concentrated hard on her clothes, trying her best to ignore the half-naked girl kneeling next to her and watching her.

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Once the shirts were wrung out and hung up, Mitzi couldn’t stop Antonia from drifting back to the darkest pool to wash the last of her clothes. Mitzi wouldn’t be able to see her from the light, and she suspected that this was on purpose.

Mitzi, however, had no such reservations. She took off her underclothes in order to wash them, kneeling naked by the pool in full moonlight. From the darkness, she heard a voice.

“P–Princess!”

“Not embarrassed, are you?”

In response, she saw Antonia’s silhouette dip entirely underwater, and Mitzi laughed. She stood and started to head toward Antonia’s pool, but a voice rung in her head.

Leave her be, Mitzi. It was Whackus Bonkus.

“What? Why?” She said into the air, but received no reply. Really, she could guess why Antonia was being so furtive.

When she had met Antonia, her face had been made up to be feminine, and Mitzi had not thought twice about her being a girl. But after a few days of travel, Antonia had given up on it: finding still water to use as a mirror was annoying, and washing it off again was difficult. Although she had said nothing to Mitzi, it had become apparent that Antonia’s status as female was one she had chosen for herself.

Antonia’s lack of control over her appearance while travelling rough was bringing her down considerably. She hated going without her routines, and making up and painting her face was her way of presenting herself to the world.

Although Mitzi couldn’t tell all of this, it was clear at least that Antonia was bothered by it all. Conceding, Mitzi knelt back down and left Antonia alone as she resurfaced.

“You know, I would never dress without at least two or three maids in attendance,” Mitzi said as she washed her clothes.

“Is that so?” Antonia seemed happier now she was in the water.

“That’s right. I was bathed by maids, more often than not. I’ve never had any worries about being naked in front of other women. But that does probably put me in the minority.”

“I’ll say.”

Mitzi stood, hung her underclothes up, and stretched at full length. She enjoyed the warmth of the baths and looked out to the moon, cutting a black silhouette out of the treeline. The light falling around her reminded her of one of the only spells she knew, and she felt powerful in view of the night sky.

She noticed at length that the pool behind her had become silent. Turning, she tried to pick Antonia out in the blackness and could see her faintly, watching her.

“Like what you see?”

Antonia didn’t miss a beat. “I happen to be looking at 2,000 gold pieces. So… I suppose I do like it.”

“Pfft.” At this, Mitzi took a few steps and dove into the largest of the pools, swimming some length underwater and surfacing about halfway down.

“It’s warm!” She shouted gleefully, before going under again. After going for a month washing up in streams and puddles, to take a civilised bath was a treat. She splashed about, sending ripples to all four sides of the pool. She whooped and blew bubbles and played at holding her breath underwater.

Quietly, in the shadows, Antonia washed herself more thoroughly than she’d ever washed in her life. When Mitzi was looking away, Antonia watched her. Once all the layers of dirt were gone, Antonia saw for the first time the girl from the MISSING posters: the princess.

000000000000000

“I wish I were joking when I say – the towels weren’t even this nice at the Palace.”

Mitzi lay herself down lazily on a wooden bench near Antonia, who had settled herself on a reclined chair. On a raised platform in the darkness of the main bathing room lay a sort of spectator’s area: a space for patrons who were finished bathing, but not yet ready to get dressed and leave. Scattered about it was smooth wooden furniture and in the centre was an unlit fire, above which was a basin full of rocks. It seemed that this was used in the daytime to create steam and keep the air hot in the bathhouse. But it was high summer, and the girls were perfectly warm.

They had been elated, too, to find a box of tiny syrupy pastries (not dissimilar to baklava) in one of the cabinets against the wall. They reclined like Kings and, between them, worked their way through the box as they chatted.

“You’re joking. Does the Stellarian Palace not stock towels made from the finest… what are towels made of? Cotton?”

“You know, I have no idea.” Mitzi rested her head on her hands and tried to focus on Antonia in the darkness. “Do they have good cotton and bad cotton? Do cotton qualities differ?”

Antonia chuckled, holding her towel up as she reached for another pastry. “If they don’t teach you about magic, and they don’t teach you about cotton, then what do they teach you at Princess School?”

“Hey! They taught me a little magic.”

“Then what have I been doing, breaking my back pulling all the weight?”

“The magic I got taught was less useful. It was ceremonial.” Mitzi shrugged. “They assumed I would never need to do anything for myself, so they focused on spells that needed to get passed down, things to cast at the Coronation, at important occasions. Light tricks.”

Antonia’s curiosity was piqued. “Can you show me?”

“I – I suppose. But it’s… not as consistent as your spells. I’m out of practice.”

“I’ve yet to meet anyone who’s spells are as consistent as mine.” This was a brag, and also fact. “Show me whatever you’ve got.”

Mitzi picked herself up and sat down on the chair next to Antonia. She lifted her hands, and spoke.

“Isil elenye… Yal-n pice-lle … Tana inde”

(Moon and Stars… I Call Upon Thee… Show Yourselves)

The air in front of them, that had hung dark and thick, melted in front of Antonia’s eyes. She gasped as before her lay constellations layered upon constellations; tiny pinpricks of light layering across the air like a three-dimensional map of the Milky Way. Where there was empty space now lay tints of shimmering purple and navy nebula.

Antonia sat in silent awe for a moment. She leant forward and reached out to touch one of the stars, and as she did, Mitzi’s head turned to look at Antonia.

Her eyes were shining, reflecting the hundreds of tiny lights caused by Mitzi’s magic trick. Now that her face and hair was clean, she looked more herself. Mitzi saw her face, fall, however, as the lights dimmed and flickered out: Mitzi had lost concentration, and the spell had broken.

Antonia pulled her hand back as if she had touched something hot.

“Ah. I forget you’re not supposed to touch illusions. Sorry to interfere.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Mitzi was glad of the excuse. “What did you think?”

“Utterly incredible. But – what was that language? I’ve heard Techo casting complicated spells, but the words never sounded like that.”

“Did they not?” Mitzi seemed content to leave it as a pleasant mystery, but a familiar voice sounded in her head.

She listened, and then responded.

“… Oh, really?”

“What?” Antonia was confused.

“But I’ve never met an elf in my life. I didn’t know they ever lived here.”

Antonia watched as Mitzi cast her eye to Whackus Bonkus. Ah. It was always pleasant to know that her charge wasn’t going completely crazy.

“…Huh!”

“What did he say?” Antonia asked.

“Whackus Bonkus says that the language of that spell is Elvish. He says that hundreds of years ago, when the Kingdom was more powerful and magical, Elves would pass through here.”

“That explains why the spell felt so different.”

Mitzi was quiet for another moment.

“Whackus also wants to know – where you studied magic. I’m curious too. Making an inanimate glove move like a hand is inside it – I haven’t ever seen that before.”

Antonia smiled. “Where does a Laundress’ daughter go to study magic?”

“That sounds like a riddle.”

“It is.”

“Whackus, do you have any idea?” Mitzi listened, then shook her head.

“She doesn’t.” Antonia clicked her fingers, lifting her glove up from next to her, and flexing it impressively. “A Laundress’ daughter picks up a simple levitation spell from the street, and practices it for hours every day. One day, she finds that if she concentrates hard enough, she can manipulate a soft object from two points.”

To illustrate her point, Antonia made the glove fold in half.

“After that revelation, it was simply practice. I’ve never seen anyone else cast two cantrips at once – of the same spell, or different.

“The glove thing is illusory: an act. I worked that up by identifying all the joints on the fingers, and making them move together to resemble a hand movement. Give it an hour every day for five years, and they can play the piano.”

Antonia bent the fingers on the glove unnaturally, as if the fingers within might be breaking backward at all angles. Mitzi flinched.

“Exactly! Making it look organic is the hardest part. A glove is just fabric. But I’ll say something: until you came along, I had never thought to use it outside of a performance before.”

Mitzi paused before nodding at her sword. “In all your years, Whackus? Truly, I’m not surprised either. Sounds like it would take a lunatic to put that much work into an act.”

Antonia tried in vain to conceal her pride.

“Now, no more from me, or I shall start sweating and have to get back in the pool again. Can you do any other magic?”

“I’ve got one more spell worth showing you. It’s a moonbeam visually, but works best when cast on another person. It’s the only useful spell I have, in a sense: when I cast it on someone, I get a sense of them. Something about them – something they really care about, or something concealed. Something about their soul. Come over here.”

Antonia leaned back defensively. “Whoa! Whoa. I don’t think it would do for you to be casting that sort of thing on your captor. Mystery is one of my biggest assets.”

Inwardly, Mitzi was disappointed. She had been pondering Antonia in all her depth over the last few days, and had hoped to get a sense of her using the spell. But it had to be consensual, or Antonia would need to be tied down, and that wasn’t looking likely.

“I can cast it without a target, if you just want the light show.”

“See? You must know me well enough to have figured that out.”

Mitzi sat reluctantly back down on her own bench before speaking.

“Ithil; tana-ye I naitie; nassea iluvea-ye; moe tercenima-ye.”

(Moon; Show me the Truth; Natural and Unchanged; Soft and Clear.)

From past the stone roof, a round ray of moonlight fell into the room and illuminated the floor between Mitzi and Antonia. The air around it seemed to darken in comparison to the shimmering stillness of the blue light.

In it, Antonia swore she could see every dust mote, every wisp of steam left over from the fires of the day. This time, she did not touch: simply watched until the beam slowly faded. Mitzi was becoming tired. At least it was a lighter spell to cast when there was no target.

“Wonderful.” Antonia had a newfound respect for Mitzi: the spells were gorgeous. “They’re unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. They almost taste different. But magic aside, then.” She leaned forward. “What else do they teach you in the Palace?”

“You ask too many questions.” Mitzi smiled, pleased at the opportunity to give too many answers. “Mostly diplomatic things. How to run a Kingdom. All very abstract. How and when to order executions. You’re in for it when I get back there.”

Antonia snorted.

“You wouldn’t order my execution, Mitzi. I doubt any prisoner has been treated better than you. A princess of prisoners, even. You’re in a spa, for god’s sake.”

Silence.

“Maybe just an ear then.”

“Oh, I cannot wait to be rid of you, you wretch.”

Mitzi’s ear cocked as Whackus’ voice sounded: be nice to her, Mitzi.

“And who asked you, all of a sudden?” She addressed the sword. “She’s taking me back to the castle! Let’s not forget the three weeks we spent getting AWAY from the castle.”

Whackus spoke again.

Take each day as it comes. I’ve been around for long enough to know that things can surprise you, or turn out in mysterious ways.

“Oh, so you’re a philosopher now? Let me meditate my way out of the forced marriage and get back to you.”

I like Antonia.

Mitzi sighed in despair and turned to Antonia, who was amused at Mitzi’s one-sided tangent. “Great. Now he’s on your side.”

Antonia smiled widely. “Now, Mr. Bonkus, don’t tell her everything I said.”

“And Mr Bonkus, don’t forget whose royal blood you’re obligated to serve, either.”

Both girls broke into giggles. It was time to dry up and get dressed.

0000000000

0000000000

“So… You’re Whackus Bonkus?”

There was no-one in sight as Antonia spoke, and on first glance you might be forgiven for thinking she was insane. As she looked down, it became clear that she was addressing the huge, ornate sword laid across her lap.

“Mitzi named you that, didn’t she? I haven’t known her very long, but it sounds like something only she would do to an ancient, magical heirloom. Do you like it, or is it torture every time she says it?”

Antonia was sitting on a tree stump in a little wooded area about five minutes’ walk from Cerric. Cerric was a town – mercifully larger than Plinton – that was known for its Spas and Baths. Set low on an ancient mountain, water flowing through there was fresh and clean, having fallen only a mile or so upstream in the hills. People travelled to Cerric to “take fresh air”, but Antonia suspected it was mostly a marketing thing, and had little basis in geographical or medical knowledge.

It was night time, and the woods were incredibly dark. Occasionally, Antonia would cast a small light-spell in her hand and check her belongings, but she tried to restrict this to avoid drawing any attention to herself.

Looking down, she allowed herself a tiny magical light between her fingers as she admired the otherworldly blue-green of Whackus’ metal blade. Although it had been dangerous, she had to admit that getting the sword repaired in Loreel had been a good idea: it had always looked scary, but now it looked formidable.

“I bet you had other names before Whackus Bonkus. Probably slightly more noble ones.”

The sword did not respond: only Mitzi could hear it speaking. Antonia had to assume that Mitzi wasn’t pulling some elaborate prank. Otherwise, she was just talking to herself, but this was far from unheard of.

“Mitzi has named herself as well. Mitzi Harper. Do you call her Lyra Casseopeia, or do you call her Mitzi? I don’t suppose many people would call her Mitzi. They would probably think the Princess picking a name for herself would be a bit of a folly.”

Antonia looked into the distance as she talked; she was speaking more to herself than to the sword.

“… I picked a name for myself, too. When I was nine. Although, my name before that was Antonio, so I wasn’t particularly creative with it.”

Whackus Bonkus listened patiently, which he seemed to be very good at doing.

“Everyone thought it was a folly too, at first. Then, when they realised I was serious, they were confused. Then they thought it wasn’t going to last. But,” Antonia said, “I’m still Antonia today.

“Because I am Antonia. Antonia Bramstoker, the Jaw-Droppening! The Star-Aligner, the Confuser and Infuser or Fancies and Whim!”

She smiled at herself.

“Whackus Bonkus, I would ask you to pick a card, but you’ve no hands. And I gave away my Ace of Spades… temporarily.”

Antonia fell into thought, reminded of where her card was, and considered her mission.

“Mitzi has been gone for a while. It’s terribly dark – I hope she’s alright. She is my bounty, after all,” Antonia said softly, as if she were trying to convince herself.

“Whackus… I would never have found her in Loreel if your hilt hadn’t been glowing. You gave her position away to me. Why did you do that?”

Antonia’s ears pricked and she fell silent: she could hear footsteps disturbing the moss and twigs on the woody floor. Her hand moved and found the hilt of her own rapier: even if she wanted to fight with Whackus, he was far too heavy to wield usefully.

A voice came through the trees.

“…Antonia? Antonia?”

“I’m here, Mitzi.” Antonia felt a rush of relief at Mitzi’s return. Adrenaline still rushed in her ears and her chest pounded as she cast a light, showing Mitzi where to step and find her.

Mitzi slumped onto her knees at the base of the tree stump. She pulled Antonia’s hand down toward her face and held her hands around the ball of light as if she were warming them, although it gave out no heat. Antonia could see in her eyes that Mitzi was exhausted.

“I’m glad to see you back, prisoner.”

“You know I wouldn’t try anything. I’m dead without Whackus Bonkus,” Mitzi replied. She made no attempt to grab the sword on Antonia’s lap.

Antonia wondered in a second of panic whether Whackus might immediately start telling Mitzi what she had told him, but Mitzi showed no signs that he was speaking to her. Instead, Antonia addressed Mitzi.

“Did you manage to … find anything?”

Mitzi rummaged in her satchel distractedly and pulled out a handful of coins. She held them up to the light, and Antonia gasped in surprise.

Mitzi spoke before Antonia had a chance to. “I need to learn how to make a light as steady and bright as yours. I’m shit-scared of the dark.”

“How did you get these?” Antonia tried to stay on subject.

“I told you not to ask about how I was going to get them.” Mitzi pocketed the coins again. “I got them. That’s it.” She rolled onto her back on the floor.

Antonia leaned forward and held her light over Mitzi, who watched it with half-closed eyes.

Mitzi was filthy. Antonia was well-aware she wasn’t looking too well herself, and missed being able to put her face paint on, but Mitzi was on a different level. She was more careless as they walked, tripped and fell more, and made little attempt to clean herself up when she did. They had been travelling for a week now, unable to stop anywhere with washrooms lest someone recognise Mitzi as the missing princess. Mitzi’s face, shirt and arms were all discoloured with dirt.

Antonia’s heart pulled at the sight of her, and she rolled her eyes at herself in the darkness. Sometimes she wished she weren’t so self-aware: she knew what this feeling was, and it was deeply inconvenient.

At length, an idea came to her.

“Mitzi… did you get a chance to see the baths in Cerric?”

“Sure. They’re as big as the rest of the town put together. But they’re all closed now.”

“Did they look… easy to break into?”

Mitzi propped herself up on her elbows, raising an eyebrow in thought.

“Come to think of it? They did.”

00000000000

Antonia and Mitzi took care to enter Cerric from above, climbing up the hill and creeping back down behind the bath houses. This way, they avoided the town and any unwanted attention.

The bath houses were splendid, and Antonia was surprised by their size. They sprawled across several hundred metres of land; slabs of smooth cream stone held up by ornate Ionic pillars. Many of the walls were made up of glass panes, showing the shimmering, still baths and pools inside. The sight of it made the girls lucidly aware of how dirty they were.

They ran into their first problem: the double doors at the Spa’s entrance faced the village, soaked in direct moonlight. Mitzi peered around a corner, Antonia not far behind her. Although no-one else was in sight, this would be a dangerous entrance to take.

“Merde.” Antonia was having trouble thinking straight. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but she had hoped it would be easier than this. “Do you think we can take another entrance? A back door, maybe?”

Mitzi shook her head, still contemplating the main entrance. “No. The other doors were all metal and padlocked. I guess the only reason this one isn’t is because of how mad you’d have to be to try and break in this way.”

The doors themselves were made of thick glass, set into a grand, statement glass wall. They could have broken them quite easily, but the point of this mission wasn’t to steal anything: it was important that they not be detected.

Without consulting Antonia, Mitzi pushed away from the side of the building and walked up to the door.

“Mitzi!!” Antonia hissed.

Mitzi didn’t listen. She tried the door handle, but with no luck. When she returned to Antonia, she was amused by the fear and concern written over her face.

“What are you doing?”

“I had to try. How cool would it have been if they were just open?” Mitzi grinned. Her face fell when Antonia showed no signs of calming down.

“Relax a little, Antonia,” she whispered. “I can’t see anyone around. If we had been spotted, someone would have shouted, and I’m confident we could have just run away in plenty of time. We’re not going to get in there by standing in the shadows and staring at it.”

There was something to what Mitzi said. Reluctantly, Antonia conceded.

“Well. Did you see anything useful?”

“The handles on the inside don’t look like the handles on the outside. The ones I tried were just knobs, but there’s a sort of bar on each handle behind the glass. And since there wasn’t an obvious lock… I think it might just open from the inside.”

Antonia’s eyes widened. “Wow. I didn’t realise you were looking out for so many things.”

Mitzi harrumphed as if to say, now, you can trust me SOMETIMES. She blushed a little, though: in truth, Whackus Bonkus had spoken in her ear before she ran, reminding her watch for everything she had just mentioned. She felt a pang of shame.

I really am useless without this sword. Nothing I’ve done so far on this trip has been on my own merit. I can’t even have my own ideas.

Meanwhile, Antonia, who I’m pretty sure is just an entertainer, has fought her own fights. She doesn’t want to be here. She just needs this money for her sick family. Who am I to be putting her through this?

For the first time, Mitzi thought: If I turned myself in, I could just give her the money.

Antonia’s eyes were drawn away from the doors as she realised Mitzi was looking her up and down.

She doesn’t suit sneaking around forests and back streets. She suits her face paint. She suited the bar, playing the piano, doing her tricks…

Her tricks.

“Antonia!”

Antonia jumped at the sudden speech.

“Do you have your gloves on you?”

Antonia patted her pack, indicating that she did.

Mitzi looked closely through the glass walls, examining the baths. A bath had been constructed over a fire pit in the corner of the room, so that the water might be heated when the fire was lit. Above this, the ceiling broke into a lattice to let smoke out.

Excitedly, Mitzi pointed.

“You see those holes in the ceiling over there?

What if you made your glove float in from the ceiling, and open the door from the inside? Just like you made them float at the piano, when you were singing at the bar.”

Antonia’s eyebrows shot up. She rummaged and took out one of her gloves. As if to test that she still could, she let go of the glove, and it stayed suspended in mid-air. Mitzi was delighted. Antonia made it do a little wave and Mitzi smiled even more widely. Finally, Antonia began to feel her spirits lift.

“You say that you know a little magic,” she said, “so you must know that magic requires energy from your body. I’m familiar with all this, but I’m not sure I can make the glove travel so far away from myself with so little practice. It will take all my concentration.”

“Are you asking me to shut up?” Mitzi grinned.

“Now that you say it…”

Antonia and Mitzi crept around the building until they were at the closest point to the openings. Taking a deep breath, Antonia flicked her hand and sent the glove upward.

Mitzi gazed at Antonia’s hands.

“I just love it when your hands glow.”

As she spoke, the glowing stopped and Mitzi watched Antonia catch the glove as it fell with a little thwip.

“What did I say about talking?”

“Whoops. Sorry.”

Antonia was sweating, and her brow was furrowed. The last thing she wanted to do was lose her precious glove on the ceiling: if she lost control of it once it left her line of sight, she wouldn’t be able to get it back.

The glove disappeared over the edge of the building. Both girls held their breaths.

Antonia spent a few seconds in deep concentration, staring at the holes. When she could hold on for no longer, she shook her hand in frustration, slumping against the wall.

“Antonia.” Mitzi knelt down to check on her, but a disturbance in the light caused her head to snap back to the baths.

“Antonia!”

The excitement in Mitzi’s voice led Antonia to follow her gaze. At the last moment, the glove must have dropped over the edge – and now fell lightly into the bathhouse, landing on dark rocks next to the pool.

The success hardened Antonia’s resolve. Still exhausted, she crawled alongside the building until she was between the glove and the door. Now she could see it again through the glass, the spell was slightly simpler to cast, but still difficult. With immense effort, she moved the glove to the door, pulled the handle, and – click!

“It worked!! Antonia, it worked!” Mitzi held Antonia’s hands triumphantly. “That was incredible.”

Antonia was breathing heavily, still on the floor.

“If I had to smell you like this for one more day, I don’t think I would have made it much past Cerric.”

Mitzi snorted, pulling Antonia back to her feet.

“No, but I’m serious.” Antonia let herself be led into the building quietly. “We are finding you some soap in there.”

This piece is set four or five years before the main plot of my fantasy story takes place. In a city to the West of Stellaria called Altor sits a famous Academy of Magic, known only as The Academy. Two of its students were Techo and Ludwig. Techo’s esteemed father ensured she would get a place at the Academy before passing away when she was young. Ludwig excelled on his entrance exams, and was accepted in part due to novelty – he is the only Giant the Kingdom has seen in living memory, and this draws attention.

We join them on their very first day.

---

First Year students of Class——- – 2 filed into the Academy’s Food Hall. It was a beautiful room, reminiscent of a huge church: high stained-glass windows let in the Autumn sun, spotlighting orange beams of dust in the air. The light fell onto long tables made of dark wood and benches on either side. These might once have been polished, but decades of use had left the tabletops scratched and uneven. Techo loved it.

For such a big, stony room, one would have expected it to be cold. But, quite the opposite – it was so warm you could fall asleep in it. The reason for this became quickly apparent: in the far corner of the Hall sat a wall of ovens – eight of them, in two columns of four. They all seemed to be running. A greying Halfling man who had been idling by these ovens now lifted his cap and sat a little straighter. Techo gave him a nervous wave. He waved back.

A woman’s voice sounded suddenly from behind them, and the awkward new students were glad of somewhere to direct their attention.

“Good afternoon, class.” The voice belonged to an older woman dressed stunningly in navy Wizard’s robes hemmed in electric blue. Her hair was grey, falling to her shoulders in fraying coils that would once have been thick and gorgeous. Her face was severe, but her eyes shone.

“My name is Professor Eve Malistra, but please call me Professor M.”

The name set off whispers amongst some of the class: students that had older siblings here were aware that Professor M was legendary. A force to be reckoned with; universally feared amongst students but far more universally loved.

Techo knew none of this, but you could tell it all simply by looking at the Professor’s face.

“I have been teaching at the Academy for forty years. I installed this particular lesson to the syllabus thirty years ago, and I have been the one to teach it to every single class since then. I find that is a good chance to meet me, and to interact with your classmates.

I trust you’ve all met each other before – during registration this morning, and during your tour of the grounds.” Techo’s ears twitched, and she overheard a few excited students muttering something about bread.

“I encourage you to talk to and help each other during this lesson, but not while I am talking, thank you.”

Techo grinned to herself as the students shut up.

“It’s been a busy morning: I trust you are all getting hungry.” Professor M walked as she talked, making her way over to the edge of the Hall. Running along the far wall was one long worktable, raised higher than the eating tables. Along it, at regular intervals, sat four sets of metal weighing scales. At the end of it sat a washing basin.

“At the Academy, a hot meal is provided to you once a day. There will also be a small selection of food available in the mornings, and butter and simple spreads are always available in the kitchen. This alone will not be enough to keep you full. Every student at the Academy is expected to make their own bread, and you will be making your first loaf today, now.”

Excited tittering would have broken out if any student had dared. The silence was still thick with anticipation, and Techo looked around to find someone to share it with. She knew none of the students, and was terribly nervous.

“Thirty places have been set out at the worktable.” Students craned their necks to see as Professor M pointed out the place settings. “Each has a bowl, a tin, a measuring jug, three spoons and two cleaning cloths. Each also has a recipe card for a simple loaf of bread.

“Students are not required to stick to the recipe card, but I suggest that you follow it until you are confident.

“You have sole use of the tables until three p.m., at which time it opens back up for the rest of the academy to use as they please.”

Three pm? Techo thought. That’s four hours. How long does bread take to make?!

M turned her attention fully back to the class, standing straight and addressing them a final time.

“I insist that students learn how to make their own bread, because food is the great equaliser. Some of you will be from families that will have already taught you some magic, some of you will as of yet know none. Some of you will be very rich, some less so.

“Every student here will now be signing out the same flour, and afforded the same opportunity to feed themselves. Magic is an affair of the mind: it takes mental dexterity. It is easy while studying magic to forget how important using your hands is, the physicality of things. Bread will respond directly to the work and care you put into it; you can’t fake it, rush it or skip steps.

“Your first loaves – if indeed, they are your first – will almost certainly be poor, but don’t be disheartened. This is a lesson in practice and patience. The more keenly aware of you will soon realise just how similar bread-making is to magic.

“My teaching ends here. You will now have to rely on your recipe cards and classmates. I will supervise, but you won’t be graded, so don’t panic. Now, go.”

Professor M gestured to the worktables rather like Willy Wonka gestured to the chocolate room, allowing the students to skip past her and into the space dizzy with nerves and excitement.

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Techo stood back for a moment and watched. About half the class had rushed into positions nearby the ovens, and formed an impossibly fast queue in front of the Halfling. Techo overheard them talking.

“I told you we wanted to be the first to sign out some flour. Felicity told me that the queue was boring when she took this class.”

“We’ve got this, don’t we, Henry? My Dad’s been teaching me how to make bread since I could knead dough – he made his first loaves here in this room and he wanted me to get the best start possible.”

“I’ve actually bought in a bit of garlic because I knew we’d be getting this lesson today. I want to impress Prof M as soon as possible, get my head above the rest and all.”

It seemed as she listened to the students that this lesson was a famous one, and many of the students had come prepared. She had not gotten the memo, and began to feel distinctly ill. Instead of joining the queue herself, she wondered over to one of the furthest set places – one of the last not already claimed by bags and robes. She wouldn’t even know how much flour she wanted to sign out until she read the recipe card.

The worktable was set into the wall at the correct height for a Human. As a Halfling, the wood jutted out at about the height of Techo’s teeth, and she sighed. The only other halfling, dressed in a shirt embroidered with some family crest or another, had confidently wondered to the end of the room and picked up a wooden stool.

She needed a stool too, but was too nervous just to take one. She spotted the Halfling man watching her out of the side of his eye.

Be brave. Be brave.

Techo walked up to the man, who paused signing out flour to speak to her. The student Techo had interrupted looked at her with indignation.

“I’m sorry, but am I alright to take a stool from over there? To work with?”

“Go right ahead.” The man smiled, and Techo’s nerves eased. She watched as his eyeline was drawn suddenly up from her – right up.

“May – may I take one too?” Techo turned to follow the new voice.

Stood behind her was the tallest man she had ever met. He was one of her new classmates. She had no idea how he had come to be that tall, but she had overheard her classmates whispering about giant genes when he had first entered their classroom at registration. She had never met a giant, and by the looks of it, neither had anyone else. It had been very hard not to stare, but now, she looked.

The poor student looked even more nervous than her. He was dressed in a plain shirt with brown X – suspenders, and subtly patched trousers.

The halfling showed no reaction whatsoever to his height. “Go ahead,” he repeated. “And thank you two for asking.”

One or two students looked at the Halfling who had taken the stool without asking, but they were already enthusiastically kneading dough with their friends and was not listening.

Together, Techo and the Giant walked across the hall to fetch stools. They were aware that half of the class had stopped to look at them: they made a ridiculous pair.

Be brave.

“I’m Techo,” said Techo.

“I’m Ludwig.”

“It’s nice to meet you!”

“You too.”

Ludwig picked up his stool, and watched as Techo struggled slightly with hers.

Without speaking, he met her eye, and picked hers up too.

“Now, then, I can carry it myself.”

“I’m sure you can.” Ludwig spoke softly. “Thank you for asking for a stool first. I would have been so nervous, I would never have asked for one otherwise.”

Techo now understood that Ludwig wanted to return the favour, and stood back from her stool accordingly. As they returned to their seats, they spotted Professor M on a small balcony. She had lowered her book and watched Techo and Ludwig as they settled down next to each other. Ludwig sat on his stool to lower himself down, and Techo stood on hers to raise herself up.

“Ludwig… have you ever made a loaf of bread?” Techo asked.

“I’ve made two. My Momma made them with me, as something to do together.” Now he stopped talking and blushed, nervous that he had made himself look childish. “But mine weren’t great.”

“No, that’s good! You’re two loaves up on me. I don’t understand this recipe card. What is proving? Why are the timings so changeable? How am I supposed to know anything?” Techo grew more nervous as she voiced her fears aloud.

“We can make our loaves together, if you’d like.”

Techo looked up at Ludwig, eyes shining.

“I’d like that!”

“But I can’t promise they’ll be any good. At all.”

Techo, who had been far more nervous about being the only student with a dense, burned loaf, now shook her head. “That really, really doesn’t matter.”

• Insert recipe card –

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Bread was hard.

Techo had never kneaded dough before, and watched her classmates carefully before trying it herself.

Every time she pushed her dough forward, her stool wobbled. It was awkward, but she carried on, determined not to let her height be a disadvantage today.

Behind them, Techo and Ludwig heard a shout.

“Good Morning, Professor M! Howdy-doody, Shanks! Feels like just yesterday we last met.” A student had breezed in behind them, dressed in plain, bright robes. They held themselves obviously with the confidence of a third-year. Techo stopped kneading to watch them.

Shanks appeared to be the name of the Halfling manning the ovens. At the student’s arrival, he hopped up a stepstool to the top-right oven. The student waited patiently below, still talking.

“Oh, I’m cutting it fine, aren’t I? Terribly cheeky of me to be using the oven during an induction, but it looks like most of you are still kneading. But –” they said this now to Shanks – “really kind of you to let me.”

When Shanks passed their loaf down to them, nearby students let out gasps of ooh-s and aah-s: this was no ordinary loaf of bread. The loaf was a wide, flat focaccia in a pan unlike the ones they had been issued. The top was shining and deliciously brown, and it had been decorated beautifully with tomatoes, cloves of garlic and thyme.

The student showed it off smugly to anyone who had come to take a look.

As they passed Techo and Ludwig, they smiled: Techo and Ludwig were both leaning back on their stools to look at the bread, and their height difference had clearly amused the student.

“That’s gorgeous!” Ludwig said.

“Thank you!” The student looked at Ludwig for a second longer, before bursting out: “I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve got to say it: My God, you’re tall.”

“I am, aren’t I? It’s terribly inconvenient.”

The student smiled, glad they’d not offended him. “You’ve got to promise to stand at the back of the group when they do magic demonstrations, alright? I’ve got a tall classmate that always pushes right to the front, and I don’t half dream of beheading him.”

They seemed about to take back their last statement, but Ludwig seemed amused, and they thought better of it. Instead, they turned to Techo.

“Do what you want, but I’m good friends with a few Halflings and they’ve figured out that it’s easier to knead at the tables. They never really got that oomph when they balanced on stools.”

Techo looked around. “…That’s allowed?”

“Allowed?” The student laughed. “This space is yours now, ok? And since you’re here, I’ll give you some advice.

“Make friends with the Oven Monitors. Make friends with Professor M. They say you can only sign out so much flour a week, but that’s just so you don’t open yourself a bakery here. If you really want to practice, they’re very generous with it. They close this room for inductions, but they’ve let me come in and make a loaf anyway. Does that make sense? They respond to passion and kindness with generosity. Woah.” They paused, admiring themself for a second. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that articulate in my life. Write that down or something, you hear?”

“Had you had much practice when you started at the Academy?” Techo asked, still clearly admiring the loaf.

“God, no! My first loaf here was shit. Well, not shit, but it didn’t rise much at all. That’s what they’re all like at first. They’re not usually burned, or inedible, just a bit… sad. You’ll get the hang of it. Cheery – o!”

The student let Techo and Ludwig be, but Techo watched as they took out a knife and cut two slices from their focaccia. They twisted their hand, and the slices rose out of the tin and into the air.

Enjoying the attention of several pairs of eyes, the student made the slices float through the air. One drifted to Shanks, one to Professor M. M politely declined her slice, but Shanks took his and bit into it, giving the student a decisive thumbs up as the second slice returned to its tin. Now, the student really did leave.

When they had gone, Ludwig turned to Techo.

“Well, they said that they’d never baked before they came here, and they made that.”

“Yes… it’s hopeful, isn’t it?” Techo turned back to her own wet dough. “I just wish I could skip three years and be good at it now. What a bore.”

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Luckily, readers, I CAN skip three years, because I’m the one who writes the story.

                         THREE YEARS LATER

“This is getting ridiculous.”

“Then it means I’ve won.”

“Oh, my god, fine.” Techo harrumphed and reached for her water jug, sloshing some more out onto her dough and checking the number. “That’s 400 millilitres now, so I’m 20 up on you.”

“With the caveat that it still has to be a good loaf.” Ludwig leaned over and pretended to inspect the wet mess that Techo was attempting to scrape off her hands and knead.

Shanks watched the pair with amusement. Halfway through first year, they had asked him his working hours – and since then they’d taken care to come and make their loaves when he was on duty. It was sweet to be liked.

Shanks worked nights, and this suited Techo and Ludwig well. The ovens were open at all hours, and they had taken to coming in the middle of the night to avoid all the footfall and fuss of the day. He had noticed during the last few years that Ludwig depended heavily on schedule and repetition: he liked to see the same Oven Monitor; he liked it to be quiet; he liked to make exactly the same bread each time. He asked Shanks to place all his loaves in the same oven, in the same position.

Techo was more easy-going, and more experimental in her baking. She had bought several different pans during her time at the Academy, and had tried making all manner of breads: sweet, savoury, milky, moist, floury. Rolls, plaits, twists, boules: each with different patterns sliced into the top to help it rise.

Tonight, though, they were making the bread Ludwig liked – a simple sandwich loaf. They had a bet going: who could work with the wettest dough, and still come out with a successful loaf? The endeavour was risky in nature: once you’d added more water, there was no taking it away. The loser was buying the winner drinks in one of the City Taverns.

It was a fun bet: there was something comical in how messy their stations were compared to usual, and they were both doughy halfway to their elbows. Shanks watched on as, with great vigour, Techo managed to knead her dough.

“A great man once told me,” she said between breaths, “That the key to working with a very wet dough is speed. Don’t give it a chance to stick.” Shanks chuckled: this was directed – and referring – to him.

Ludwig looked over and was impressed. He leaned in to check her water jug by the glowing light of the ovens.

“Let me see that. Are you sure that’s 400?”

“Are you jealous? Jealous of all this yummy structure?” Despite the shit talking, the dough was still incredibly hard to work with. “Shanks, we’re still agreed that if I fuck this up, you’re switching this out with a good loaf when you get it out the oven?”

“I’ll be able to tell.” Ludwig lifted his hands from his dough in frustration. “This is mad. I’m using less water than you, and my dough is sticking worse!”

Shanks cut in. “That’ll be because your hands are so much bigger. If they’re warmer, the dough will be more likely to stick.”

“So you’re saying… you’re saying Techo is cheating!”

“Having small hands is not cheating.” Techo gave her dough a few final, quick turns before gathering it up and dropping it into her oiled bowl. Ludwig, sensing that his was worked enough, did the same. They covered their bowls with dampened cloth and each tied a piece of fabric around the rim, to keep it tight.

They had taken to proving their bread by their beds at night, letting it rise before knocking it back first thing in the morning. This routine was now deeply learned, and they both loved it.

Ludwig looked around the hall. “Not many more loaves of bread left to make here, Techo.”

Techo nodded sadly. “I know.”

Indeed, part of the reason they’d had the bet was to make some memories in the Food Hall while they still had time: their final year ended in a matter of weeks. They had both grown so accustomed to the Academy, and neither could face the thought of leaving.

“What will we do when we have no more special oven?” Ludwig asked.

“We’ll get a place, with our own oven. And you can figure out exactly the best place for your bread to sit there.”

“I fear I will burn my hands, or mess it up. Shanks’s always done the oven part for us.”

“That’s something exciting and new to learn!” Techo said this hopefully, but she knew that the change in routine would be devastating to Ludwig no matter what. Only time and new routines would fix what he was losing at the Academy.

Shanks interrupted their thoughts. “You two… if there’s nobody about tomorrow morning, I can let you put your own loaves in.”

“Hear that?” Techo pulled Ludwig’s sleeve excitedly. “Let’s get it nailed while we’re here, and then we can use our own oven when we move!”

Ludwig seemed comforted by this. Techo thanked Shanks with her eyes.

Together, the pair of them took their bowls to their rooms, pausing to wish Shanks – and the Hall – goodnight.

—-

AN ASIDE.

Prof M fought hard to get where she was as a teacher. She had to fight even harder to get her crazy idea approved by the school board. Students making their own bread?? Not only was that insulting to the students of elite heritage, it would be expensive and inconvenient to install.

But Professor M makes her case. Making bread rounds you out as a person. It teaches you a valuable life skill: for every student at the Academy, for the rest of their lives, if there is flour, there is good food to be eaten.

It teaches patience and practice. The most talented and elite magic student will fuck their first loaf of bread up: you can’t think your way around it, you can’t be good first time. It connects you to your own body. It connects you to time: you have to measure the hours as the yeast does its work. It connects you to reality: you feel the moisture of the dough, the heat of the oven, the taste of the cooked bread.

When it does finally get approved, M pays for the ovens out of her own pocket. She staffs the ovens herself, signs out all the flour personally. After the first few years – almost every single student reports that they wouldn’t be who they were if they hadn’t learned to make bread at the Academy.

–

Now, M talks about food as “the great equaliser”. Some of Techo’s peers have prepared thoroughly for this class. Even the act of baking bread has become this segregated exercise – the upper class students who know the syllabus or have relatives who attend the Academy know to practice making bread in advance, and this becomes a form of clout in First Year. The students think they’re impressing the Professor, but they have misread the class entirely: by preparing and showing off, they are going directly against the initiative of the class. There is nothing M can do about this: she’s stuck in a system funded and run by the same people whose sons and daughters are attending the classes.

She watches each new class induction carefully. In each class there are students that rush to make the most gorgeous loaf of bread, keeping their knowledge to themselves on purpose. There are some classes where kind students have almost become tutors, running new students patiently through the best technique. When this kindness isn’t shown, there are always a few that have never made bread before in their lives – and these are the most interesting to watch.

There have been several instances through the decades where Professor M has watched a student make an incredibly poor first loaf, and to develop through the years into a very fine baker. Often the third years will offer her some homemade bread proudly, and she gets misty-eyed when this happens even to this day.