But if this is what I’m meant for, why can’t I control it?

At least I can control my cake. Once the chocolate is silky smooth, I set it aside to cool down for a moment so it doesn’t cook the eggs I’m whisking into the sugar. There’s a little coffee leftover from this morning, and I add it to the mixture in place of water or milk, for a little extra depth. At least with this, I know what I’m doing. Which makes sense, since I’ve been practicing my baking skills since I was too small to see above the counter without standing on a chair.

Something clicks into place so suddenly that I gasp just as a puff of cocoa lands in the wet ingredients. I stand perfectly still over the bowl for a moment, mind racing. I’ve been practicing baking my whole life. When I was young, I wanted to add things out of order, to throw together ingredients that I know now would never work. Papa guided me through, letting me ruin it when I had to, but always giving me the chance to try again. Eventually, I figured out which flavors went with which, and the common kind of alchemy that makes a cake rise or go flat. Once I knew the rules, I could experiment again.

Just like I’m doing now. The batter already smells wonderful, thanks mostly to the melted chocolate. I keep folding it together automatically.

What if magic isn’t something that’s been forced on me but something I need to develop? What if magic is like baking, and I have to do it again and again and let myself mess up before it’s something I can control and predict?

What if I’ve been looking at this all wrong?

chapter twenty-one

After another week, the ground starts sloping up again, soft meadows and forest giving way to sharp, cold rock.

When I study the compass for direction, it seems to sense that I’m looking at it. Every once in a while, it spins, just for attention, before continuing to point to its target. We’re getting close—and I still don’t really know what that means.

The Destiny rumbles over the stony road, shaking everything inside and making our teeth chatter. It already feels like fall in the mountains, with the occasional hot, dry wind to remind us what lies on the other side of the peaks. Sunlight filters through leafy stained-glass windows, turning green and gold and red as it strikes the path. Even the air smells different.

The first time we pass one of the signs, it’s a shock: a hand-painted wooden post warning us to turn back, that we’re entering active faerie territory. Everything falls silent until we’re no longer in its shadow.

Soon, the fiery-hued leaves give way to bristly pine needles. The evergreens are so tall I have to tilt my head all the way back to see where they brush the sky.

I wring my hands, massaging my left palm, a new habit I can’t seem to help.