“Welcome!” Professor Honeycomb smiled warmly at the first-years from her place at the center table. “We are truly delighted to have you join us. When we say your name, please step forward and give a wave, so the other students know who is who.”

They went down the line, introducing each new student to the second- and third-years. Once everyone’s name had been called, Professor Genoise indicated the table in the front left corner, directly inside the doors.

“You may take your places,” he said. “Then we will get on with the evening’s festivities.”

Caramelle pulled Lyra with her, securing the two seats facing the center of the room. Boysen slid into the chair on Lyra’s other side, with Ginger next to him. Looking almost as nervous as he had that morning, Mac perched on the seat beside Caramelle.

That left Aniseed with the chair facing away from the rest of the room. She glared at the table frostily, then turned to the professors.

“That table is rather crowded,” she said, her voice ringing shrilly across the relatively small room. “I wonder if I might sit with the second-years instead.”

Lyra was stunned. Beside her, Caramelle inhaled sharply.

The professors, however, seemed unfazed.

“Please take your seat, Miss Mint,” Professor Genoise said mildly. “With your first-year colleagues.”

Aniseed waited three beats, as if expecting someone to intervene. Then she turned on her heel, deliberately pulled the chair out from the table, and sat on the very edge of it. Her ramrod posture radiated so much icy disdain that Lyra shivered.

“Well, then. Welcome, all!” Professor Genoise stepped back, spreading his arms to indicate the whole room. “If this morning’s final entrance exam was any indication, this will be a year of special excellence in the exalted history of the Royal Academy of Magical Baking.”

Professor Puff stood, joining him. “Indeed, Professor. And what better way to begin such a year than with an excellent feast?”

“I couldn’t agree more,” chorused the second- and third-years. Apparently, this bit of the speech was an academy tradition.

Professor Honeycomb smiled as she stood with her fellow professors. “Well said, Aspiring and Apprentice Bakers. Of course, we cannot begin the feast without introducing the visionary responsible for its creation. Students new and returning, I give you Chef Peppercorn Flax!”

The second- and third-year tables broke into wild applause as the doors to the kitchen burst open, revealing the largest man Lyra had ever seen. The grand chef’s hat atop his graying black curls added half a foot to his already significant height. He was nearly as broad as he was tall, and clothed entirely in white. Smock, pants, hat — even his shoes were snowy white and sparkling clean. His apron had been white at some point, but it was now covered in flour and a multitude of stains in various hues.

The older students continued applauding, all rising from their chairs. A few even whistled. Chef Peppercorn Flax’s face, already red from the heat of the kitchens, flushed even redder as he beamed at the whole room from the podium.

“I don’t know what they’re so excited about,” Caramelle whispered to Lyra. “His story is so sad.”

“Sad?” Lyra echoed.

“He was the top student of his class at the academy,” Caramelle explained. “He could have been the Royal Chef of Flavor. The Queen actually offered him the job, but for some reason, he wound up here instead.”

“Because he wanted to.” Boysen leaned across Lyra, joining the girls’ whispered conversation. “He’s an old friend of my parents. This was always his dream job.”

Caramelle’s voice was incredulous. “Cooking for students? When he could have been cooking for royalty?”

Boysen shrugged. “Seems like a much more fun job to me.”

“Me too,” Lyra said softly, watching the chef as he waved at the older students.

“Thank you,” Chef Flax called. He gave one more deep bow, then achieved order with a sharp whistle. “Thank you, one and all, but that is quite enough. I left choux pastry in the oven, which is far more important to me than your adoration.” He winked broadly at the third-year table. “Though adoration is always welcome. Preferably after the meal.”

A ripple of laughter ran around the room.

“I look forward to spending more time with all of you,” Chef Flax continued. “And most especially, I look forward to getting to know our new students. Having sampled the fruits of your labor this morning, I must echo your esteemed professors: this is sure to be a year of particular excellence at our beloved Royal Academy of Magical Baking.”

He bowed towards the first-year table, then gave the room a cheerful wave.

“See you all later, and remember —”

“Save room for dessert!” shouted the second- and third-years. Chef Flax laughed merrily and disappeared into the kitchens to another round of applause.

The three professors took his place on the podium, wheeling a tray-cart to the front. Lyra blinked. On the tray-cart was a cake stand displaying the messiest-looking cake she had ever seen. It was the color of mud, like someone had tried to mix far too many different hues in the frosting. Its sagging middle hinted at some fundamental miscalculation within as well as without.

“We like to start off every year with a demonstration,” Professor Puff began. “First-years, gather round.”

Lyra and her classmates obeyed, clustering around the podium. Professor Honeycomb cut a piece out of the cake and passed it around.

“Take a small bite,” she instructed. “Each of you.”

Again, they obeyed, though more reluctantly. Not only did the cake look like a mess, but it smelled faintly of beetroot. Rotten beetroot.

“Revolting, isn’t it?” Professor Honeycomb’s voice rang out cheerfully as the first-years tried not to gag. “This is a disaster cake. My two colleagues and I made it together.”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“We have been baking long enough to know all the possible mistakes,” Professor Genoise went on smoothly. “So we made them deliberately. The Presentation is a disgrace.”

Professor Honeycomb nodded. “The Flavor is abysmal.”

“The Texture has collapsed.” Professor Puff raised a delicate silver spoon, the handle as long as a wand. “But all is not lost, so long as you know the right spells.”

She let the spoon hover over the cake. Her gray eyes were calm, but intensely focused. Lyra could almost feel the air vibrating.

Then the Texture headmistress delivered a series of light, rapid taps on the cake, rotating around it expertly with the silver spoon-wand. Though the instrument barely touched the surface, a burst of blue light exploded with each tap, vanishing instantly into the cake. After twelve taps, delivered expertly in a pattern too intricate to follow, Professor Puff stood back.

Lyra gasped. The cake was growing before her eyes. She caught another faint shimmer of blue as each layer lifted, becoming light and fluffy and everything you would want a cake to be.

Before anyone could recover, Professor Honeycomb stepped forward. She had no long, delicate silver spoon. Instead, she held her empty hand out over the cake, palm down. The headmistress of Flavor closed her eyes for several seconds, then opened them as she twisted her wrist with a sharp flick.

A sphere of green light burst out of the cake. It lingered, glowing, then began to shrink, as if the cake was drawing the light back into itself. When the last bit of green disappeared into the cake, Lyra inhaled with a smile. Rather than beetroot, the cake was now emanating a faint, perfectly balanced aroma of lemon and lavender.

Professor Genoise stepped forward. He held two long silver spoon-wands, one in each hand. Unlike Professor Puff’s, the Presentation headmaster’s instruments were exquisitely carved. He raised them both and began waving them over the cake.

To Lyra, he looked like a conductor leading an orchestra. But instead of filling the air with music, the two spoon-wands left streaks of purple light behind them. The streaks wove together like ribbons, faster and thicker until the cake was covered with a delicate purple glow. Then, with a final elegant flourish, Professor Genoise brought his tools together and tapped the top of the cake lightly.

The purple ribbons vanished in a cloud of sparkling smoke, revealing a cake now decorated within an inch of its life. Every color of the rainbow was represented, but in precise and equal measure, swirled delicately into a perfect depiction of a sunset sky.

Wordlessly, Professor Honeycomb cut another slice from the cake and passed it around.

“Behold,” Professor Genoise said as the first-years reveled in the delicious treat. “The Presentation is now perfect.”

Professor Puff nodded solemnly. “The Texture is flawless.”

“And the Flavor is rich.” Professor Honeycomb beamed at the first-years. “This is what the Royal Academy of Magical Baking is about, Aspiring Bakers.”

Professor Genoise gestured grandly at the now-magnificent cake. “Our aim is to equip you sufficiently in all three disciplines so you can produce creations as exquisite as this, even after everything goes wrong.”

“But you have a long way to go,” Professor Puff warned. “These spells my colleagues and I have performed today are as risky as they are complex. Not even our third-years have attempted them yet. We share them now merely as a demonstration of the baking accomplishments that await you if you continue on this noble path.”

“Hear, hear!” Professor Honeycomb took the empty plate from Mac. “Now return to your table, Aspiring Bakers, but don’t sit! Let’s all stand and raise our glasses for the academy toast.”

Lyra and her fellow first-years scrambled back across the room as the second- and third-years rose to their feet. The professors moved sedately, returning to their table and lifting glasses of sparkling cordial.

“We expect you to make your own pledge to these principles we have demonstrated here today,” Professor Genoise said. “To Flavor, Texture, and Presentation!”

The dozen students in the room echoed as one: “Flavor, Texture, and Presentation!”

Everyone drank, then resumed their seats.

“What’d I tell you?” Boysen whispered to Lyra. “Wouldn’t be the academy without a bit of ceremony.”

Professor Genoise lifted his hand. “One last order of business before Chef Flax sends in the first course. Second-years, would you rise and introduce yourselves to our new students? Just so they can give a friendly greeting when you pass each other in the halls.”

The three students sitting at the table in the front right corner of the room all stood, but Lyra couldn’t concentrate. She was suddenly realizing how hungry she was. Breakfast had been out of the question that stress-filled morning, and lunch had gotten lost in a flurry of packing. Now her stomach was beginning to growl, so loudly that she feared Chef Flax might hear it all the way from the kitchens.

Professor Puff’s voice cut across her thoughts. “Thank you, Aspiring Bakers. Now, would our third-years please stand?”

The table in the back left corner stood.

Professor Puff went on, “Pay attention, new students. You will be getting to know our third-years quite well. As you may know, the academy curriculum culminates in an apprenticeship of sorts. Each of our senior students has focused their studies on a different principle of baking. This year, they will be assisting us as we strive to teach you those principles.”

Professor Honeycomb pointed at a tall, lanky young man with messy brown hair. “For Flavor, I am thrilled to have Razz Berry as my assistant.”

Razz waved, shooting a particularly broad wink at the first-year table.

Lyra nudged Boysen. “You didn’t tell me your brother is still a student here!”

“Sadly, yes.” Boysen rolled his eyes. “There are six Berry boys. You’d think my parents would have spaced us far enough apart to avoid situations like this, but… oh, well. My younger brothers, Mull and Whortle, are twins. Who knows what they’ll do.”

“For Texture,” Professor Puff said, “I have the honor of being assisted by Hyacinth Roulade.”

Hyacinth waved at the first-years. Her chocolate-colored skin was so smooth and perfect, Lyra wondered if she actually had been carved out of marble. But her smile was warm and friendly, and her whole being shone with cheerful ease.

Texture classes might actually be fun, Lyra thought.

Then Professor Genoise announced, “And for Presentation, it is my distinct privilege to introduce to you my assistant, Cardamom Coulis the Third.”

Suddenly, Lyra forgot everything else.

She forgot her growling stomach. She forgot her apprehension about classes starting the day after tomorrow. She even, for a moment, forgot her own name.

Lyra’s father had once told her, “The first time I saw your mother, it was like I’d seen a song made visible. She was music itself, in physical form.”

Lyra had never really been sure what her father meant… until now.

Cardamom Coulis the Third was perfect. His dark hair was swept smoothly to one side, revealing an elegant nose and delicately sharp cheekbones. Dark eyes sparkled against flawless olive-toned skin. His smile was somehow, simultaneously, both open and mysterious.

But there was something else at work that made him more than the sum of his exquisite parts. Like Caramelle’s cake that morning, he seemed to radiate appeal, as if he were constantly casting a virtuosic Presentation spell over himself.

He was a song made visible. He was music itself, in physical form.

“On behalf of my fellow seniors, I’d like to welcome our first-years.” Even Cardamom’s voice was musical. “We look forward to working with you.”

Lyra heard her roommate sigh beside her.

“Sweet and savory,” Caramelle whispered dreamily.

Lyra couldn’t speak. The invisible choir was back, singing so loudly that she could barely hear herself think. She just nodded in agreement as Cardamom led his table in a brief round of applause for the new students.

“Thank you, Cardamom,” Professor Genoise said. “I believe that concludes the welcome ceremony.”

Professor Puff nodded at Professor Honeycomb, who crossed to the kitchen doors and knocked three times.

“Chef Flax!” Professor Honeycomb called. “We’re ready for you!”

The doors opened, and several dishes appeared, suspended in the air as if held by invisible hands. Lyra gasped. The next moment, the dishes began floating across the room towards the center table, landing elegantly and precisely in front of the professors. The smells wafted around to the other tables, wrapping Lyra in a heavenly cocoon of aromatic anticipation as another round of dishes emerged and headed for the third-year table.

The invisible choir got louder. Once again, Lyra remembered her mother’s words from that morning, echoing like a half-remembered nightmare:

“I’m just not sure about this, Lyra.”

I am, Lyra thought as the first steaming dish landed in front of her. She breathed in deeply, the heady scent of basil mixing with the intoxicating reality of Cardamom Coulis the Third, sitting only a few dozen feet away.

No more doubt. No more anxiety.

Lyra Treble was exactly where she was meant to be.