Baking Bad: a Witch's Tale

Chapter 1 - Home

Emma Fairchild sat at the window of her favorite diner, squeezing extra lemons into her sweet iced tea and stirring it with a half-hearted twirl of her spoon. College brochures lay spread out before her, covering the lacquered surface of the table at which she sat, each one promising a different future she wasn’t sure she wanted. Columbia, NYU, some smaller liberal arts colleges her guidance counselor had pushed on her—none of them felt right. As an orphan, Emma had never felt like she belonged anywhere. College was supposed to be her ticket out into a great wide world: that was what everyone told her when the scholarships started to roll in. But if that was true, why did she still feel like such an outsider? Why hadn’t anyone decided to take her into their family, back when she was little and cute?

Why didn’t she have a home?

She sighed, rubbing her temple. “I need a sign,” she muttered under her breath.

As if on cue, the chair across from her scraped against the floor. A woman sat down at her table without waiting for an invitation.

The stranger was tall and severe, with high cheekbones and her gray hair trussed all up in a stylish beehive, and yet, flawless golden skin that made her look half her age. Lady had to have some dermatologist. She was impeccably dressed in a dark emerald blazer that shimmered faintly, as though the fabric itself were alive. A thin silver chain rested at her collar, and her dark eyes held a weight that pinned Emma to her seat.

“Miss Fairchild,” the woman said smoothly, folding her gloved hands atop the table. “I have an offer that may interest you.”

Emma blinked. “Uhm—I’m sorry, Ma’am, do I know you?”

“My name is Headmistress Lysandra Vale. I oversee Thornmere Academy.” Her voice was low and smooth, yet gritty, like the bottom of a bottle of honey you’d left in the pantry and forgot to eat and now it was all full of those crystals, and she had this elegant manner of speaking, kind of New-Yorky, but, like, old-Hollywood New York, not the ‘ey-I’m-walkin’-here’ kind.

“Academy, huh?” Emma frowned, flipping through the thick stack of brochures before her. She’d never heard of it. “That’s nice, but I think I already have too many options.”

“Ah, but none like this.” The Headmistress slid a crisp, cream-colored envelope across the table. A navy-blue, wax seal held it closed, embossed with an intricate sigil bearing lettering in an alphabet Emma couldn’t decipher, although the small yet detailed designs of a broomstick and a dragon were pretty clear. “You are special, Miss Fairchild. You were born with gifts the mundane world has no use for.”

Emma snorted. “Oh yeah? And what gifts are those?”

Headmistress Vale’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “You are a witch, Miss Fairchild.”

Emma choked on her latte. She coughed violently, eyes watering, while the headmistress waited patiently. “I’m sorry. What? For a second I thought you said I was–?”

“A witch,” Vale repeated. “One of potential you can’t begin to imagine…at least, not yet. And you belong with your own kind.”

Emma’s mind reeled. “Okay, let’s assume for a second you’re not a total lunatic and I’m not being Punk’d.” And if she was on a prank show, damned if she wasn’t going to call it out on the reel. Although, this was an awful lot of effort, even for one of the bigger trash TV channels…

“How does this work? I go to some fancy magical school, learn to wave a wand, and what? Go get some kind of witch job?”

Vale’s smile didn’t waver. “You’ll be trained, educated, and first and foremost protected. The world of magic is not kind to those who grow up outside of it. However, there are those like myself, who wish to see our community welcome new blood, which is why I’ve extended this invitation.”

Emma glanced back at the college brochures, suddenly seeming as dull as a stack of standardized tests. Against her better judgment, she reached for the envelope…

***

Thornmere Academy loomed over the darkened cliffs like a castle torn from time, or like, Lord of the Rings or something. The journey had been a blur—one moment, she was in the café; the next, she was swept into a sleek black coach drawn by horses that took off into the sky, seemingly unnoticed by the city folks below. The campus was all gothic spires, ivy-choked archways, and floating lanterns that glowed like fireflies but hovered as lazily as lilypads on the surface of a lake. Emma felt entirely out of place as she stepped onto the cobblestone path leading to the main hall.

Students bustled about in dark robes, some carrying books that whispered as they flipped through their own pages, but even more people stared at her, gossiping none-too-subtly. They didn’t even bother to look at her sideways or anything, just openly got nasty, even as she walked at the side of Headmistress Vale.

“Who IS that?”

“Why don’t I know her?”

“Maybe she’s new?”

“New or not, what is she WEARING?”

“She must be a Mortal-born!”

“Eww, a Mortie!”

“Disgusting, really, letting one of them in.”

“Vale’s done it again, hasn’t she?”

“Vale’s a bit of a radical, yes…”

“Politics aside, Vale’s been losing her mind for quite sometime. This is why I’ve been begging my father to have me transferred to Emberhardt…”

Emma swallowed hard, tugging self-consciously, at the cuff of one rolled-up flannel sleeve. So much for a warm welcome…not that she wasn’t used to it.

She’d done the best she could in the town where she’d grown up, or at least, for a while, she’d tried. And maybe she could have been one of the cool kids, if her cheap plaid shirts, thrift-store Jeggings and beaten-up boots could compete with the pristine crispness of their durable brand-name equivalents from Truck Supply, or wherever. Maybe she’d have gotten a lick of respect if she could afford a movie ticket at a nice theater, a fake ID, and her own beer, or if she had a mom whose truck she could drive around, but instead, she was always the dork slumming it at the Dollar Movie Warehouse, a block’s walk up from the bus stop, in a seat that smelled like–actually, she’d never known what the seats smelled like, and after a point, she’d decided she’d be happier if she didn’t ask. She’d given up on trying to ever become one of the beautiful, popular girls in the–what had Vale called it? The ‘mundane’ world? Her plan, up until now, had been to land herself in a successful career, which would take time, even with an education under her belt. As far as dreamers went, she was willing to be realistic. She’d probably have to start out as someone’s intern or secretary, working her way up the ranks through grit, hard work, and sheer intelligence. Learning she had magical powers changed a lot of things, and for one glimmering instant, the instant she’d opened her acceptance letter and told the Headmistress that yes, she would come to Thornmere, she entertained the thought that everything might change.

Yeah, she didn’t know why she’d let herself believe that.

After her first day of classes, she was escorted by a ‘Magistrate’, which she guessed was the magical equivalent of ‘Hall Monitor’, to the office of the Headmistress. Inside, it was lined with lined with spellbooks and potions bubbling in crystal vials. Vale gestured for Emma to sit, her expression unreadable.”How are you finding Thornmere?”

“I’m not gonna lie, Ma’am, it’s pretty awful,” confessed Emma, taking the seat on the other side of the Headmisstress’ desk. “For example, where’s the theory? I feel like I’m being thrown into magic and expected to just…know how to do it without knowing how it works. Earlier in class, we were supposed to be turning wallets into watches, and I turned mine into a wallaby? Extremely embarrassing–”

“It’s amazing that you managed to turn it into anything at all,” said the Headmistress, as calm as ever, with that small serene smile still frozen across her face over her hot tea, and gee howdy, who drank it hot, besides, you know, British folks? Sure, it was a little colder here than Emma was used to, but after an exhausting morning and afternoon of classes, all she wanted was her frickin’ iced tea, her jammies and a nap.

Going on, Vale explained, “I’m sure many of your fellow first-year students failed to even spark their wands.”

“Well, that’s true,” agreed Emma, “but at least they didn’t draw attention to themselves! And that’s the other thing: they gave me this wand at the admin desk, but should they be custom-tailored to the witch or something? Is that why my spell fu–messed up?”

“The wand is only as effective as the witch or warlock, Miss Fairchild. As your confidence grows, so too will your magic become more obedient to your intentions.”

“If’n you say so, Ma’am,” sighed Emma. “I just wish they’d all stop talking about me. That’s not to say I’m not grateful…”

“You don’t need to be grateful. You simply need to apply yourself. Work hard,” advised the Headmistress. “Your education will be difficult. Many will resent you for your heritage. But if you do your best, you may find they have no choice but to respect you.”

Emma folded her arms. “Gee, thanks for the inspiring pep talk.”

Vale ignored the sarcasm. “You will join your classmates at dinner, and at dawn, you will resume your classes. And a word of advice? If what you want is to fit in, you’d do well to drop the ‘Ma’am’. The accent is…charming. But witches and warlocks like to be addressed more formally. Try out ‘Sir,’ ‘Miss,’ and ‘Madam’. Or, of course, when in doubt, your best bet might be ‘Professor’. See how those taste in your mouth.”

***

BLUB-BLUB-BLUB-blub-bl ub-BLU-BU-BUB…

Emma flailed her arms and reached blindly for a wooden stall wall on either side of her, so that she might hoist herself out of her predicament, but it was no use. The bullies outnumbered her five to one, and her every movement only seemed to goad them into shoving her head deeper under the water. She was receiving the first swirly of her life, and boy howdy, did she hate it. HATE!

She’d been at Thornmere for all of a frickin’ day, and already, she was praying to God that she wouldn’t die in the bathroom like Elvis. (Could she do that? Pray in a magic school? Obviously, there were things in the world that contradicted everything she’d believed in all her life, not that her beliefs mattered, probably. Divine intervention had never helped her before.) Then again, death might be a mercy.

Even underwater, holding onto breath for dear life, she could hear the chants of her tormentors, and they all just repeated one word, in unison and cruel glee: “Mortie! Mortie! MOR-TIE!”

Then, at last, came the rich, heavy thrum of the class bell.

“We’re gonna be late!”

“Everyone, scram!”

“Yeah, some little Mortal-born’s not worth it anyway!”

As her torturers dispersed, Emma pulled her head out of the toilet and collapsed, gasping, on her ass on the bathroom floor. For a moment, her vision swam. Her eyes burned hot as she sat there coughing up water into her lap, soaking her standard-issue uniform skirt.

But then she told herself, uh-uh. UH-UH! She WOULD not cry! She was a tough-as-nails Texas girl, and if anyone could overcome, it was her.

Alright. Alright! Up, and up, and up, and up, and out.

First class, day two, was Potions, and Emma slid into her desk wet and late, her blonde hair plastered to the back of her cloak. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been: something in her, perhaps something magic, had made the nasty toilet water smell like cinnamon and taste like sweet tea. Come to think of it, it was a talent she had always possessed, making things clean, nice, decent, and suitable for consumption. She’d thought once that maybe she was imagining it all, or that there was a touch of craziness in her, until she learned to ignore it, having bigger problems. But come to think of it, maybe it was an early sign of her magic all along. Hell, she’d turned a wallet into a frickin’ wallaby, and as the Headmistress had said, that counted for something!

“Good morning, students!” said the man standing before the blackboard once every seat was filled.

“Good morning, Professor,” chorused the students, and Emma was quick to fall in line. She didn’t need any more problems today.

“Now, I’m sure you’re all very eager to get right to the stewing and brewing, but you must understand, this is a first year class, so in order to avoid any accidents, mishaps, or explosions in this room–and preserve my tenure–we’re going to start the semester off with a run-down of potions theory. I have a presentation prepared, so if you’ll all please take out your notebooks or some scratch paper while I set up this projector, and then follow along and take notes while I bring you the basic rundown…”

Finally! Somebody who made a lick of sense around here!

***

Over the course of her first week at Thornmere, Emma learned quickly that there was one, and exactly ONE safe place for her: the Potions classroom.

Professor Aldric Graves was not like the others. His dark robes were always dusted with flour and the occasional sprinkle of crushed herbs, and he smelled faintly of cinnamon and burnt sugar. He wasn’t the tallest man around, but what he lacked in stature, he made up for in bluntness.

What’s more, he was a plump sort of fella, his belly testing the strength of his robe buttons whether he stood or sat and Emma?

Emma liked that.

It was this one day in his office hours. Guiding her hand from behind, he helped her stir the latest brew he’d been teaching her, after she impressed him as a quick study in his classroom.

“Very good, Miss Fairchild. Very good. I can see you have a natural talent.”

“Ya really think so, for a Mortie?”

“Oh, for Avalon’s sake, kid, don’t call yourself that.” Detaching, he returned to his seat behind his desk. He lit up his pipe. The smoke smelled spicy and warm…delicious. She bit her lip. It wasn’t exciting, watching his belly bounce against his lap, or anything. “You’re smart for a person. You’re talented because you’re talented. Please, never forget that.”

Emma kicked the hardwood below with the heel of one scuffed boot. “Well, if you say so…Professor,” she added hastily, remembering her place.

“Let’s backtrack…”

Returning to their work, he looked into her cauldron. The potion within simmered and shimmered, and when he raised the ladle to his lips…

“Hm…caramel. I suspect you have a rare gift, Miss Fairchild,” he mused. “A natural understanding of…no, it couldn’t be.” Taking to pacing, he muttered, “Curious, curious…”

Emma frowned. “What does that mean?”

Graves tapped his chin. “Tell me—if you wanted this to taste like strawberries, could you do it?”

Emma hesitated. “I dunno, I mean…maybe?” Taking the ladle from his hand, she dunked the other end in the potion and took a lick, because she couldn’t put her lips on the part where his had been, or, at least, he couldn’t see her do it. He was right, it tasted just like salted caramel. Then she reached into the cauldron, stirring with nothing but her fingers. A soft glow radiated outward from the surface of the potion as it slowly began to change color. She stuck her thumb in her mouth and blinked. The rich caramel had transformed into something tart and sweet, not like strawberries at all, but maybe strawberry candy?

Graves gave her a rare smile. “Amazing,” he muttered to himself. "Culina Magistra…Gustatrix Arcana...your gift has many names.”

“Excuse me?”

“To put it shortly, you’re a kitchen witch.” He returned to his desk and his pipe, kicking up his feet.

Emma blinked. “A what now?”

“Your magic is rooted in sustenance, taste, and nourishment,” he explained. “You can manipulate food to taste like anything, adjust its nutritional properties, perhaps even imbue it with magical properties beyond simple potions.”

Emma stared at the spoon in her hand, her mind racing. “Well, no. Well, NO! I can’t be a ‘kitchen witch’, I’m supposed to be successful, a computer scientist or, or, or like a doctor or a lawyer or something! I can’t just be in the kitchen, taking care of a, of a–!”

It was Emma’s turn to pace, but Professor Graves just chuckled. “Honey…kitchen witches solve famines and save countries. They feed armies, and win wars. You could be powerful…dangerous even. It’s all up to you to decide."