“You did?” Boysen repeated. “You already wrote songs for the colors?”

“Not a whole song. Just a little line of melody for each one. No words, either,” Lyra explained.

“That’s brilliant!”

“No, it’s not.” Lyra shook her head firmly, talking almost to herself. “It’s a bad habit.”

“What is?”

“Music. Depending on it to learn the spells. I need to get out of it.”

“Says who? Oh wait,” Boysen paused. Lyra was keeping her eyes on the frosting, but she could hear Boysen’s grin dissolve into a scowl. “I know who.”

She whirled on him, squaring her shoulders. “Look, it’s not —”

“Save it.” He held up his hands, half in defense and half in surrender. “No more grains of cardamom today, all right? My palate’s overloaded.”

“Fine,” Lyra sighed. Turning back to the counter, she felt her shoulders slump a little at the sight of the five bowls of glaringly uncolored frosting. Suddenly, reciting the five different charms in total silence didn’t seem quite so fun or exciting as Cardamom had made it seem in Thursday’s tutoring session.

Boysen nudged her shoulder. “You’re still going to share those songs with me, though.”

She sighed again. “Boysen —”

“Hear me out. I have three most excellent reasons.” He held up a hand over the bowls, counting on his fingers. “One, as my friend and partner, you are duty-bound to help me get through this task using every tool at your disposal. Two, you promised to sing for your scones. Three, and most importantly, you want to sing these color-songs. I can tell. So go for it.”

Lyra hesitated a few seconds longer, but Boysen’s arguments were as irresistible as they were logical. With a third and final sigh, she said, “All right. Just once, to help get the colors straight in our heads.” Rummaging through a stack of parchment on the counter, she retrieved his copy of the color charm list. “It’s like the proofing spell. Just think of each color as a different character. Starting with red.”

Lyra sang a brief, intense tune, with lots of leaps to high notes and a few dazzling runs.

“Red is super passionate about everything,” she explained. “A little strange, but bold about it.”

“Like Mac,” Boysen suggested.

Lyra raised her eyebrows. “Quiet little Macaron Fondant?”

“It’s always the quiet ones,” he said mysteriously. “Our Mac has hidden depths. Remember the word Professor Genoise gave for his style?”

“Majestic,” Lyra said thoughtfully. “Red is a royal color.”

Boysen nodded. “Exactly. And it’s the color of heat, too. I think Mac’s got a fire in him. He’s a slow burn, but when he ignites… he’s going to leave us all in the dust. Wait and see.”

Lyra smiled. “You’re a good friend to him, Boysen.”

“It’s easy to be nice to Mac.” Boysen smiled.

“Unless you’re Caramelle.”

“Don’t remind me,” he sighed. “So, red is Mac. Who do you have for green?”

“I wasn’t assigning specific people,” Lyra said. “Just personality. I thought of green as innovative. A scientist-type, always pushing boundaries and trying something new.”

Lyra sang a quiet melody that kept breaking out into different styles, changing key with each new theme. Then she and Boysen looked at each other for a moment.

“Ginger,” they both said at once.

“Nice!” Boysen crowed. “You’re right. Presentation can be fun. Who’s next? What are your thoughts on yellow?”

In answer, Lyra trilled a simple, joyful tune.

Boysen cocked his head. “Someone who’s just really happy?”

“That’s the idea,” Lyra said. “Think about it. When you’re looking at something that’s bright yellow, is it possible to be sad?”

“It is difficult,” Boysen agreed. He studied her for a few seconds. “I think that’s you, Lyra.”

“Me?” she asked, startled. “I’m yellow?”

“Professor Genoise did say your style was ‘joyful’,” Boysen reminded her. “And it is hard to be sad when you’re around.”

Lyra’s heart suddenly filled with the same delicious warmth she usually associated with the first sip of hot chocolate. “Th-thank you,” she stammered.

“I’m sure the other Whizzes would agree,” he went on quickly. He made a great show of pointing at the list. “So, that’s three colors. Can’t wait to hear purple.”

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

The delicious warmth was lingering, but she pushed it aside and made a face. “Purple was tricky. I couldn’t quite seem to capture it.”

Lyra sang a complex, vivid tune that wavered between major and minor intervals. It started out light and whimsical, then dove dramatically into a heavy, pondering cadence. The end was poignant, failing to resolve the two contrary styles.

They were both silent for a while.

Eventually, Boysen commented, “A lot going on there.”

Lyra nodded. “That’s what I was saying. I don’t feel like I could get a hold of what it wants to be.”

“No, you definitely captured it. That’s absolutely purple. It’s the color that can’t figure out who it is, not you.”

“There’s so much to it,” Lyra mused. “And I can only take so much of it at one time. You know? It’s bright and dark and heavy and light and noble and overbearing and —”

“Caramelle,” Boysen said flatly.

Lyra’s breath came out in a whoosh, like she’d been elbowed in the gut. She locked eyes with him.

“Caramelle,” she repeated.

For some reason, her eyes filled with tears. Boysen must have noticed because his voice was gentle as he rushed to change the subject. “I guess that makes me blue. Hope so, anyway. If it doesn’t fit, we’ll have to start over and rearrange everyone.”

“Right.” Blinking back the tears, Lyra took a deep breath. “Blue… that’s perfect, actually. Listen.”

The tune she sang was steady and straightforward, but rich. It was the kind of melody that could both ground a person and inspire them to new heights, with a surprise chromatic run at the end.

When she finished, Boysen looked stunned.

“Well.” He cleared his throat. “Blue. I like that a lot. You sure that’s me?”

“Positive.” Lyra smiled. “That was the first one I came up with, actually. It’s my favorite.”

“I see.” He hesitated, as if torn between two dangerously different conversational tracks. Then he broke into a classic, tension-diffusing grin. “Your favorite. Definitely me, then.”

Lyra groaned, wondering why she suddenly felt so relieved. “Someone thinks very highly of himself.”

“The music doesn’t lie, Treble. Neither do the colors.” Taking the parchment from her hand, Boysen spread it out on the counter. “I can’t wait to see these in action. Singing them is going to make a huge difference.”

“Oh no,” she gasped. “That’s not allowed.”

“Not allowed?” He looked at her curiously. “I know Texture has very strict rules, but Presentation is different.”

“It still has rules. They call it a baking discipline for a reason.”

“It’s all about style,” he argued. “If you can’t ‘mix it up’ in a style-based discipline, when can you?”

“The style comes out in other ways,” she insisted. “You follow the rules, infusing each one with your personality. The strongest personalities are the ones that stand out. That’s how you make your mark.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it.

“What?” she demanded.

“It’s just… nothing.”

“Spit it out, Berry.”

He sighed. “I told you. A little ‘Cardamom’ goes a long way, and I hit my limit at breakfast.”

“This is something we discussed in our private sessions, yes. So what?” She folded her arms. “He is my Presentation tutor.”

Boysen rolled his eyes. “Believe me, I know.”

“And Professor Genoise’s assistant.”

“Sure, but —”

“So that means he knows what he’s talking about,” Lyra continued, her voice rising. “The ‘grain of salt’ rule doesn’t apply here.”

“Grain of cardamom,” Boysen corrected, then held up his hand to forestall her retort. “Got it. Sorry. I just… I like those songs, Lyra. They’re really good. Better than good. I was excited to try something new.”

Lyra slowly unfolded her arms. “I understand. And thank you. I — I’m glad you like the songs.”

He nodded, attempting a playful smile. “Maybe I can get Mac to wear more red from now on. Might bring out new notes in his personality.”

“We can try an experiment,” she said, joining him in the ‘determined fun’ routine. “I’ll encourage Ginger to wear green. See how they behave. Compile results next weekend.”

“Experiment?” He threw up his hands in mock despair. “Now we really are acting like Crumble. Quick! Is my hair turning green?”

Lyra’s laughter was interrupted by the ovens, whose timers went off simultaneously. They both ran to retrieve their bread, listening as they tapped the bottom of each loaf.

“Why does a hollow sound mean it’s fully baked?” Lyra thought out loud. “The bread’s not hollow.”

“Not sure,” Boysen replied. “Good question for Professor Puff on Monday.”

Lyra reverently placed the loaves on the waiting rack to cool. “Or your mom, when I come over for that dinner.”

“Absolutely. But I’m not sure she uses the ‘tap’ test anymore. She’ll probably just tell you it’s a matter of instinct. And, of course —”

“Repetition,” Lyra sighed. “Of course.”

Boysen looked at the clock. “Salts, the day is going fast. Where were we? Oh… right. Colors.”

He stared at the parchment dejectedly.

“What’s the matter?” Lyra asked, waving a palette knife in front of his face. “It’s exciting, remember? Coloring without synthetic stuff that messes with Flavor?”

“I guess. But…” Boysen clasped his hands and turned to her. “Are you sure we can’t use the songs? At least a little?”

His brown eyes were full of a woeful pleading Lyra usually associated with puppies. Combined with the sight of the breakfast remnants on the table, and the lingering effects of the soothing Texture spell, and the warmth that always permeated the air in Whisk… it was too much for Lyra’s halfhearted defenses.

“A little,” she relented. “We shouldn’t sing them out loud, but… we can think about each melody when we’re reciting the charm.”

“You’re the boss.” He grinned, the pleading instantly replaced by mischievous glee. “For Presentation, anyway. But this afternoon —”

“I know, I know.” She waved a hand dismissively. “All hail the Flavor King.”

Boysen drew himself up to his full lanky height. “I shall have my coronation cake all in blue, if you please.”

“I have created a monster.”

“A monster with an incredibly deficient memory.” Boysen relaxed, shrugging cheerfully. “I’m going to need to hear each of those tunes twice more if you want me to think them correctly. Don’t want green leaking into purple, or some other combustible color conflict.”

“And we definitely can’t have that.” Lyra opened her mouth to begin the ‘Red’ melody, then paused. “This does count as singing for my scones, right?”

He wrinkled his eyebrows, considering. “Yes. Partly. I still want one spontaneous musical moment some time after lunch. Surprise me, and your breakfast debt is paid.”

“You are a kind and generous monarch.” Lyra looked at the clock too, surprised at her own sudden sadness. Time was passing so quickly. As complicated as some of the moments had been, she didn’t want the day to end.

Glancing around, she tried to capture the cheery kitchen as a memory she could revisit later. The freshly baked bread filled the air with a delicious aroma. The mahogany paneling gleamed in the morning sunlight pouring through the windows. Next to her, Boysen leaned over the counter, studying the parchment. He brushed a strand of brown hair out of his eyes with a floury hand, oblivious to the smudges this left on his forehead.

A smile unfolded inside Lyra. It diffused her melancholy with a sweet lightness, lifting her mood like yeast working its way through flour.

I know second term is supposed to be hard, she thought. But if it includes days like this… I think we’ll be just fine.

“Listen up, Flavor King.” She took a deep breath, focusing on the first notes of the ‘Red’ melody. “Let’s see how this goes.”