“Lyra!” Cardamom exclaimed, stepping back and examining her anxiously. “Sorry about that. Are you all right?”

“Hi!” she squeaked. Then, realizing that wasn’t the proper response, she tried again. “I mean, fine. I’m fine. How are you?”

Before he could answer, Caramelle appeared at Lyra’s shoulder. “Cardamom!” she said, her eyes and voice shining with delight. “What a lovely surprise. I thought I wouldn’t get to see you until after the break!”

Cardamom smiled. “Congratulations, Aspiring Baker Meringue. Winning the Stellar Enchantment Pin is quite an achievement.”

“I couldn’t have done it alone,” Caramelle purred. She put a friendly arm around Lyra, using the gesture to maneuver herself around the other girl. “My colleagues provided wonderful support, of course, but most of the credit belongs to you.” Cardamom started to protest, but she held up a hand. “I mean it. I don’t know where I would have been this term without your help. And how kind of you to come by and congratulate us before break! It gives me the chance to repay you. I could make some dessert for us, and we —”

“That’s not necessary,” he interrupted smoothly, matching her smile. “You have nothing to repay me for, Caramelle. You earned that pin.”

“At least let me thank you,” she insisted. “If you must rush off for break, I can whip up some cookies for —”

“I’m actually here to see Lyra.”

“Lyra?” both girls echoed.

Cardamom’s smile hit Lyra like a searchlight. “Yes. I wanted to catch you before you left for break. Looks like I’m just in time.” He stepped backwards with a bow, gesturing gallantly to the couches in the common area. “Might I have a word?”

“Of course,” Lyra said weakly. She brushed past Caramelle, who seemed to have been shocked into paralysis, and followed Cardamom over to the couches.

He waited until she sank down beside him, still clutching her bag and guitar, then began. “First of all, congratulations on surviving your first term. Well done, Lyra.”

“Thanks.” She blushed, wishing the couch would open up and swallow her. “It didn’t end well, though. Today was… awful.”

“I wouldn’t use the word ‘awful,’” he said kindly.

Lyra looked down, cursing inwardly at the sight of her stained, wrinkled apron. Why didn’t I take this off earlier?

“You didn’t see my exam cake,” she pointed out. “It was awful.”

“Professor Genoise showed it to me.” He shook his head. “Not awful. Not nearly so terrible as some of my creations my first term.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it,” he said grimly. “In comparison, your cake was more than acceptable. But it could have been better. That’s why I’m here.”

Lyra blinked. “You’re —”

“I spoke to Professor Genoise,” Cardamom went on. “He agreed that your exam cake, though it excelled in both Flavor and Texture, did not live up to your potential in Presentation.”

She blinked again. “I have potential?”

“Absolutely. Your work in class has been solid, but the professor and I both know you can go beyond solid.” He placed one of his hands on hers. “We think you’re something pretty special, Lyra.”

“Oh,” Lyra managed to get out. It was difficult to form coherent thoughts, let alone words. She felt like she was simultaneously floating and drowning.

“So we want to make sure you succeed.” Cardamom’s dark eyes radiated warmth. “That’s why I would like to be your tutor next term. I could meet with you Wednesday and Thursday evenings, after dinner. Wednesday, we would be preparing you for your Presentation lab the next day. Thursday, we could go over what you did in lab. Professor Genoise thinks it’s a grand idea, so long as you’re interested.”

He paused long enough that Lyra realized he was waiting for a response.

“I’m — yes,” she stammered. “Yes, please. And thank you.”

His smile broadened, and he gave her hand an encouraging squeeze. “Excellent. I look forward to working with you, Lyra.” He winked as he stood up. “Maybe you can finally teach me that secret we talked about all those weeks ago. Whatever makes your style so joyful, as Professor Genoise puts it.”

“Sure,” Lyra said faintly.

“Have a wonderful break, and I’ll see you in two weeks.”

“Sure,” she repeated.

With one final bow, he was gone.

Lyra sat there on the couch for a long time, too dizzily happy to move. Not even the sound of Pestle’s door slamming could burst her bubble.

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Caramelle heard the whole thing, she thought, with an uncontrollable surge of mean satisfaction. Serves her right.

Lyra’s heart felt like it might leap out of her chest at any moment. Her fingers were numb from clutching her guitar case. Her face hurt from smiling. She didn’t care. All she could think about was the pressure of Cardamom’s hand on hers, and the warmth of his eyes as he smiled at her.

“We think you’re something pretty special, Lyra.”

Cardamom remembered details from a brief conversation with Lyra from the beginning of term, along with the style-word Professor Genoise had given her. He had gone to Professor Genoise on her behalf. He was looking forward to spending time with her.

He sees me.

Finally, noises from Whisk and Zester broke Lyra out of her reverie. She darted out the main lobby door before any of her friends could emerge from their rooms. There would be time later to tell them the news. For now, she just wanted to keep all this beauty to herself.

He sees me. The thought kept sparking in her mind like a magical flame as she floated down the path outside the dorm, keeping her warm in the bitingly cold winter air. Cardamom Coulis the Third SEES me. And he thinks I’m special.

Me.

Lyra Treble.

Special.

Lyra danced through the main academy gate, singing as she made her way home, carried on a dream-wave of cinnamon and honey.

—

Still riding the dream-wave, Lyra found it difficult to sleep that night. It also felt strange to be back in her own bed. After three months in the focused quiet of Pestle, she had forgotten how loud her house was, even at night. Each Treble child had their own room, but her brothers still found a way to snore in three-part harmony.

Lyra crept downstairs with the first light of dawn the next day. Humming to herself, she began whipping up pancake batter, smiling as she added a liberal dash of cinnamon to the dry ingredients.

These would go well with honey, she thought, her heart giggling at the secret joke.

“Smells good,” sang a rich tenor voice behind her.

Turning, Lyra found her oldest brother Canto standing in the doorway.

“You’re up early,” they said in unison, then laughed.

“Baking hours,” she explained. “Dawn is like midmorning for a baker.”

Canto yawned a perfect A minor arpeggio. “Sounds like a terrible existence.”

“You get used to it.” Lyra poured buttermilk into the bowl of flour, salt, baking soda, and cinnamon, stirring carefully so as not to overmix them. “What’s your excuse? You all got in so late last night, I didn’t expect anyone to be up for another hour or so.”

“We’re playing a brunch gig.” Canto helped himself to one of the bananas Lyra had set out to serve with the pancakes. Biting off half, he winked at her. “You should join us.”

“Play a show?” Lyra’s eyebrows rose. “Today? With no rehearsal?”

“It’s just the old set,” Canto wheedled, somehow managing to speak clearly around the banana. “For Thespy’s cousin’s birthday party. He requested all our biggest hits. You don’t need rehearsal for those.”

Lyra shook her head, turning to melt butter over the griddle. “I haven’t played in weeks. Really played, I mean.”

“You’re a pro.” Canto filled the kettle and set it on the stove’s back burner with a decisive CLANG. “And a Treble. You’ll be great. Besides, it’ll mean a lot to Mom and Dad.”

Lyra paused, a spoonful of batter halfway between the bowl and the griddle. “Really?”

“Really, truly, surely,” Canto sang. Leaning down from his noble height of six feet three inches, he planted a kiss on top of her head. “It’ll mean a lot to all of us. We’ve missed you, Lyra-lee.”

A sweet ache rose up Lyra’s chest. Dropping the spoon back into the bowl, she wrapped her arm around her brother’s waist in a quick side-hug. “I’ve missed you, too. All of you.”

He returned the hug, then reached above her head to retrieve six mugs from the cupboard. “Think you’ll go back? Or was one term enough?”

“Of course I’ll go back.” She paused and turned around to stare at him. “Why wouldn’t I go back?”

“Mom said it’s really stressful.”

“Sure, but… it’s school. Stress is normal.”

“For baking?” Canto’s naturally high voice rose half an octave. “What’s there to be stressed about?”

“There’s a lot to learn,” Lyra shot back. “It’s a three-year program.”

“Don’t they cut people throughout the year, or something?”

“One person at the end of every term. But I made it through.”

Canto yawned again, this time in a descending chromatic scale. “I repeat: sounds like a terrible existence. Why put yourself through all that?”

“Because…”

Lyra turned around and took a moment to gather her thoughts. Pouring four spoonfuls of batter onto the griddle, she watched until tiny bubbles began to appear on the surface. Then, in a series of deft movements, she flipped, buttered, and stacked the pancakes, putting the plate in the oven at a low temperature to keep warm.

“Because I love baking,” she said simply. “And I want to learn how to do it better.”

Canto inhaled, grinning with appreciation at the aromas circulating through the tiny kitchen. “But you’re already a great baker. Do you really need that school?”

She paused again as more butter melted over the griddle’s smooth surface, then asked, “How’s your painting? Working on anything new?”

“Not really new,” he replied, wrinkling his eyebrows at the change of subject. “That same one I started just before you left. The Joy Song, I’m calling it.”

“You haven’t finished yet?”

He shrugged. “There’s not a lot of time. We’ve got that day-gig at the cafe, then rehearsal at night for the weekend shows. And Rondo has started songwriting, so we spend whatever free time we have workshopping his stuff.”

“Really?” Lyra exclaimed, momentarily distracted from the main point. “Is he any good?”

Canto nodded solemnly. “Mom and Dad think he might reach Uncle Clef’s level someday. We’ll play you one of his new ones later.”

“Little Rondo. Who knew?” Lyra sighed happily. Then the smell of browning butter recalled her to the present, and she ladled four more spoonfuls of pancake batter onto the griddle, returning the conversation to the original topic. “So when do you paint?”

“A little here, a little there.” Canto shrugged again. “Sometimes after rehearsal, or if I need to unwind after a show.”

“Doesn’t it bother you? Not having time to paint?”

“Nope. It’s no big deal.” Canto grabbed the whistling kettle from the stove and filled the teapot. “Painting is just for fun. Music is what matters, remember?”

“Didn’t you ever want to do anything else?” Lyra persisted. “When you were my age?”

“Afraid not, Lyra-lee.”

“You always wanted to be part of the Any Weather Bards? Forever?”

“Always always, forever and a day.” Leaning against the counter, Canto smiled at her, his round face full of settled peace. “I enjoy other things, but music is home.”

“Home…” Lyra flipped the pancakes, spread them with butter, and added them to the warming plate in the oven. Gazing at the empty griddle, she felt another sigh building up in her chest and let it out softly. “Home is a tricky tune at the moment. I can’t seem to find my part.”

With a speed and grace that belied his hefty tenor build, Canto opened the oven, snatched the top two pancakes, and devoured them both before Lyra could protest.

“Come and play the gig with us today,” he said, silencing her indignant squeak with a boop on the nose. “See how it feels. Maybe now that you’ve been away for a while… you’ll find that home was here all along.”