Lyra slumped on her stool. In the corner of her eye, she saw Boysen trying to get her attention, but she pretended not to notice.

She couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t look at anyone.

The judging proceeded as silently as it had during the final entrance exam. Before, the lack of noise had made Lyra jittery. Now, it pressed down on her shoulders like a fifty-pound bag of flour, giving her the strange feeling that she was sinking into the stone floor.

The cheerful morning sunlight streaming through the windows felt oppressive. Like all rooms at the academy, the exam hall’s temperature was magically controlled, but Lyra was uncomfortably warm. No matter how many times she wiped her hands on her apron, they remained slick with perspiration.

When the three professors reached her counter, Lyra wasn’t sure what to hope for. Would the Flavor and Texture be so amazing that they would break their silence and compliment her, like before? But if Professors Honeycomb and Puff spoke, that meant Professor Genoise would also have to speak too.

Lyra did not want to hear what he had to say.

She tried to rally. Sitting up, she folded her hands in imitation of Caramelle and smiled. She hung on to that smile, clenching her hands in her lap as each professor’s eyes widened at the sight of her lackluster cake. Professor Genoise glanced at her, raised a single eyebrow, but said nothing.

That first moment was the worst. The cake cut beautifully, and though Professor Puff’s face was habitually unreadable, Lyra was fairly confident she saw approval in the Texture headmistress’s gray eyes. She also could have sworn she saw Professor Honeycomb’s shoulders wriggle in delight at the first taste of Lyra’s vanilla-boysenberry Flavor combination.

All three professors nodded. They had a silent moment of communication, exchanging a series of meaningful looks with each other and the cake. Then they nodded again, bowed to Lyra, and moved on.

That was it. No words, no winks, no smiles. No message of any kind.

Lyra clenched her hands even tighter, digging her nails into her palms. The smile melted off her face like buttercream frosting on a cake still warm from the oven. She glared at her okay-looking cake, silently demanding that it answer the question screaming repeatedly through her brain:

What did I do wrong?

She went back over every step. Point for point, the recipe and execution were identical to the dozens of practice sessions she had squeezed in over the past week. The only new element was the slight tweak to Madame Temper’s Chant of Precision, but that had gone perfectly the night before.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Lyra replayed that final late night practice session with Caramelle, urging her memory to analyze each moment in slow motion. It was tricky, both because of her still tingling nerves and her bleary-eyed exhaustion. Still, when she reached the point when Caramelle had demonstrated Cardamom’s pro tip, Lyra paused.

She remembered something.

She had been distracted at the time, making notes of the adjustments and cleaning up in preparation for bed. But she distinctly remembered Caramelle’s hands moving in a complicated pattern over the cake, just before the streams of purple light appeared to confirm the chant’s magic was at work.

The movement happened so fast, Lyra had barely caught it. But it did happen. Caramelle recited the altered spell, then performed some intricate motion with her fingers. At the time, in her weariness, Lyra had dismissed this as a careless gesture, like someone dusting off their hands at the end of a long day’s work.

But Caramelle was never careless. Every move she made was purposeful. She had done something to that cake…

Lyra’s blood felt sluggish, like ice was forming along the insides of her veins. Her heart seemed to be taking longer and longer between each beat. But her thoughts moved rapidly, pounding along with terrible clarity towards an even more terrible conclusion.

Caramelle had sabotaged her.

Once her mind formed the words, there was no reclaiming them. She could only watch, helpless, as the reasoning played itself out on her mental stage.

Caramelle was a Meringue. She had told Lyra many times that failure at the Royal Academy of Magical Baking was not an option for her. And for a Meringue, ‘failure’ meant anything below first place. Absolute perfection was the only true definition of success.

Caramelle’s words from the night before echoed in Lyra’s memory:

“We’re up against a group of incredibly talented bakers, and one of us won’t be here next term. We have to use every resource at our disposal to make sure we’re not that ‘one.’”

Caramelle had been living by that principle all term. It seemed so obvious to Lyra now. Caramelle had joined the Whisk Whiz Review not for camaraderie’s sake, but to glean every advantage she could from her classmates’ strengths — and to analyze their weaknesses. Then, last night, she must have decided she needed one more ‘edge’ to guarantee she would be at the top of the pack.

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She needed to trick Lyra.

There was no ‘tip’ from Cardamom. Lyra was sure of it. Caramelle had invented the slight adjustments to the chant, then practiced them with Lyra to prove their efficacy. That hand motion must have canceled the detrimental impact of the altered spell, or perhaps infused the whole cake with an extra boost of glamour to cover any gaps. Only then had the purple light appeared, confirming to Lyra’s naïve eyes that the chant had ‘worked.’

Caramelle was an expert at Self-Presentation spells, after all.

Lyra realized with a start that her whole body was shaking. Her blood wasn’t frozen anymore. It was boiling, making her cheeks flush as her heart pounded in her ears.

She forced her eyes to look in Caramelle’s direction, only to find the three professors gathered around her roommate’s counter. Their judging was nearly complete. As she watched, Professor Genoise bowed low over Caramelle’s hand, kissing it while his colleagues gave Caramelle a silent round of applause.

In that moment, Caramelle glanced up and caught Lyra’s gaze. She froze. A shadow passed over her eyes. Lyra couldn’t help but think of her younger brother Clef, whose face had worn the same expression when Lyra caught him stealing bites from one of her practice cakes.

Then Caramelle’s face twisted. Her mouth hardened. Her chin tilted up. She stared boldly at Lyra over their professors’ shoulders, raising her eyebrows in an unmistakable message.

Well? What are you going to do about it?

Nothing. Lyra knew she could do nothing. Regardless of Caramelle’s deception, it was Lyra who decided to use the altered chant. Lyra knew she hadn’t been in the baking world long, but she was pretty sure that blaming someone else for your own mistakes was a bad idea at the Royal Academy of Magical Baking.

She stared at Caramelle until the auburn-haired girl dropped her eyes. Then Lyra turned away. Boysen was still trying to get her attention, but she fixed her gaze on the professors as they returned to the front of the room.

It was judgment time.

“This has certainly been a fascinating day,” Professor Honeycomb said. “Your hard work over the past term is on full display, here in this room. Each of you has something to be proud of.”

She looked directly at Lyra as she said this, lingering on her in a rather obvious fashion. Lyra felt like she was glowing and shriveling at the same time.

Professor Puff took up the thread, speaking in the same cool, even voice she always used. “Unfortunately, only five of you may carry on at the royal academy for the second term. The student who will not be joining us is Aniseed Mint.”

Lyra blinked. She hadn’t even had time to panic thoroughly. Despite her Presentation disaster, she was safe.

She was a second term student at the Royal Academy of Magical Baking. Just like that.

Of course, ‘just like that’ did not sit well with Aniseed.

“What?!” the dark-haired girl shrieked. She stood, knocking over her stool and actually stamping her foot in rage. “I demand a recount!”

“This is not a vote, Miss Mint,” Professor Puff said coolly. “Our decision is final.”

Aniseed tossed her head so violently, Lyra wondered how she didn’t give herself a neck spasm. “Your reasons, then! Or do you have any, other than a jealous grudge against me and my family from the very beginning?”

“Reason one.” Professor Honeycomb’s voice was flat, hard, and so very un-Honeycomb-ish that Lyra shivered. “You disregarded the rules of this exam by using a Flavor spell, not to mention advanced charms from Texture and Presentation that were not covered in this term.”

“It is not my fault that your curriculum is so amateur,” Aniseed sneered. “This term has been a joke. I chose spells I have mastered on my own, and made a cake that demonstrates my abilities as an excellent magical baker. The Royal Academy of Magical Baking is supposed to value excellence!”

“Excellence in the discipline of baking,” Professor Genoise said coldly, peering at Aniseed over the tops of his spectacles like she was some tacky, over-decorated pastry. “Discipline, Miss Mint. Discipline requires us to follow rules, and to sacrifice our own ego for the sake of growth. Humility is a necessary ingredient in excellence, and it is an ingredient you clearly do not possess.”

“Lack of humility, and a lack of discipline,” Professor Puff agreed. “That is what you have demonstrated, Miss Mint.” The professor turned away from the fuming girl. “And your so-called mastery of spells leaves much to be desired. That is, without doubt, the most boring cake I have ever had the displeasure of consuming.”

Aniseed stood for a moment, absolutely rigid with fury.

“You will be hearing from the Royal Chefs about this,” she hissed. Then she stormed out, throwing her apron on the floor as she went.

“I do hope so,” Professor Honeycomb called mildly after her. “It has been too long since I’ve seen dear Nougie — I mean Master Nougat. I would love a catch-up.”

Professor Genoise ignored the sounds of Aniseed’s angry exit from the hall. He smiled at the remaining students.

“A most interesting day, indeed. It is now my distinct honor and delight to conclude the morning’s activities by awarding this year’s first Stellar Enchantment Pin. As my esteemed colleague said, each of you has reason to be proud of your efforts this term. Choosing one distinguished baker from such an admirable group is always a difficult task. Today, it was a markedly high standard in Presentation that tipped the scales in favor of this particular student.”

He held up a small pin, shaped like a glowing star.

“For demonstrated excellence in Master Glaze’s Shine Spell, I hereby award this Stellar Enchantment Pin to Aspiring Baker Caramelle Meringue!”

Lyra’s mouth dropped open. Her thoughts were on a rapid, downward-spiraling loop.

We were supposed to be both using Madame Temper’s Chant of Precision. That’s what she said she was working on with Cardamom. She claimed the Glaze spell was too complicated. But —

Caramelle walked to the front amidst enthusiastic applause from her professors and fellow students. Her pace was sedate, and her manner as poised as always, but Lyra could see her fingers trembling as she accepted the pin from Professor Genoise and pinned it to her crisp chef’s hat.

Lyra joined in the applause. She even forced her face into a smile. The last thing she wanted was for the professors to see her grimace and form a negative opinion of her ‘collegial spirit.’

Another memory from the night before flashed across her mind — Caramelle’s cheerful voice, pealing like a welcome bell:

“You mark my words. The Stellar Enchantment Pin is coming to Pestle tomorrow.”

Lyra rose from her seat along with her fellow students, continuing the applause as Caramelle walked gracefully back to her seat.

You were right, Caramelle, Lyra thought. But the pin isn’t the only thing coming to our room.

Pestle was a small space. There was nowhere to hide, and Lyra was done mincing words to save her ‘oh-so-pressured’ roommate’s feelings.

The Meringue was headed for a reckoning.