“We’ll probably need it more when we’re farther up in the mountains. The cocoa powder and whipped eggs should give it enough structure without wasting flour, anyway.” I line everything up parallel, adjusting corners and distances until they’re all evenly spaced in the order I’m going to need them.

Before Raze can say anything else, the door opens. Olani’s head pokes in, braids that have fallen loose from the knot on top of her head swinging. “Raze, can you come outside for a moment?” she asks, gaze switching quickly between the two of us.

“Why? I told you I don’t want to be target practice again. Or a demonstrating-where-pressure-points-are dummy, or—”

“We need you to settle an argument,” Isolde’s voice calls from outside, in the rhythm of when she’s telling a lie. My senses go on alert. Are we in danger? Has Leira caught up? But then I realize how relaxed Olani looks, and as if that isn’t enough, she winks at me with most of her face: it’s a harmless lie, just to get him outside. To give me a moment to myself.

Raze sighs, pushing himself up and ruffling his hair through his fingers with a stretch. “Well, if you insist.” His gaze meets mine one more time before he scoots past Olani, and he smiles.

The returning smile on my lips doesn’t fade as my eyes drop to Olani’s. Thank you, I mouth.

You’re welcome, she replies, and when the door closes after her, I feel like we’ve formed some kind of alliance.

I settle into the rhythm of baking—wet then dry, whisk then fold—and the rain outside and the fire in the hearth form a soothing blankness. My mind clears.

And then I have to light the stove to melt the chocolate, and as the fire sparks, I’m thinking about my magic again. I could do that with magic. I should do that with magic. I should be practicing every chance I get, since I promised to get this thing within me under control.

But I don’t want to. I don’t want to be the changeling enchanter who summons storms and flings fireballs. I just want to make my parents proud, to feel the comfort of family and home. I want to make cakes somewhere cozy, where no one has any expectations of me, and be left alone.

My feelings get the better of me, and I don’t even realize that my magic is flaring up until the flame under the pot of water my bowl of chocolate is nestled in turns bright blue and blazing hot. The water boils quickly, bubbling over the sides. I jump back and pull my chocolate away, cursing quietly as I fight to get the burner back under control.

Maybe magic is what I’m meant to do. It’s getting warm in the cramped wagon, and I wipe tiny beads of sweat away from my face with a forearm that may or may not be smeared with chocolate. Maybe I’m only fooling myself, thinking that I could ever do anything else, when my magic is such a deeply woven part of myself.