“Attention, everyone.” Root steps up onto an overturned log, gaining the crowd’s notice.
There are at least ten fires spread out around this large forest clearing as we all congregate under the night sky, a half-moon shining down on our celebration.
“It’s time for our third and final challenge of the day. A task that will require finesse and an understanding of your fellow mythic.”
From the corner of my eye, I spy Blossom leaning forward, gaze rapt on her father, as if she thinks she can win simply by hearing him first.
“And like it or not, your fates will be decided by a single judge this next round. A special guest you both will try to impress. Everyone, please welcome our illustrious Mayor Nightson.”
The crowd claps and whoops in approval as Belinda Nightson steps forward. Choosing a casual look for this gathering, our town mayor has her waist-length braids swinging loose and wears jeans and flannel, much like the scarecrows left for us in the maze. But even in her dressed-down attire, she still has an air of authority. The woman sits with a straight spine, a wide grin, and power rolling off her ebony skin. I’ve heard, in her griffin form, she’s as large as a grizzly bear.
But when Belinda speaks, her voice is kind and welcoming. “Thank you so much for having me. I’m honored to take part in this Folk Haven tradition.”
“And we’re lucky to have you here.” Root turns his attention back to his daughter and me. “You two will have ten minutes to fashion the best, most delicious s’more you can create.”
He waves toward a table, where I spy the normal s’mores ingredients stacked. Graham crackers, chocolate, and marshmallows.
But there’s also so much more. There’re at least five different types of chocolate, a jar of peanut butter, multiple jellies, different candy bars, a container of caramel, a collection of fruits, and a variety of spices, like cinnamon, nutmeg, and cayenne pepper. There’s even a package of bacon.
Mmm, a bacon s’more? Sounds perfect to me.
“You’ll want to be inventive. Or maybe you want to go classic.” Root wears a teasing smirk. “But what youneedto do is make the perfect s’more for Mayor Nightson, who will sit with her back turned, unaware of who is making what. And, Mayor, I expect you to judge based on your preference rather than mass appeal.”
She offers a solemn nod. “Understood. I swear to be the pickiest of eaters.”
“Love to hear it!” The wood witch returns his attention to us. “Once again, you both have ten minutes to create the perfect campfire treat and present it to me. I will then deliver the finished products to Mayor Nightson.”
Interesting.
I glance over in time to see Blossom’s brow crinkle in concentration, her expression thoughtful, her eyes locked on the mayor, as if the griffin is a puzzle that simply needs to be solved.
“Your time starts now!”
Immediately, the gathered wolves and witches start calling out suggestions, but I ignore them as I lurch to my feet, eyes scanning the table of ingredients. If I’m going to win or lose this, it’ll be on my own ideas. I know I’d like to try a chocolate-coated bacon s’more, but would the mayor? I grab the package of meat and a collection of other ingredients, deciding to experiment. Ten minutes should give me just enough time for at least one practice round.
As I arrange food items with one hand and hold a skewer over the fire with a marshmallow, my eyes keep trying to watch Blossom instead of my food. The witch seems to be eating more than she’s cooking. But her face still holds that focused expression that tells me a lot is going on in her mind.
If only I could read her thoughts. But I don’t care about insight into her s’more plan.
I want to know if she thinks aboutme. If there’s a single positive pondering about the werewolf who’s secretly loved her for years.
“Three minutes!” Root calls out just as I’m hit with inspiration.
I don’t know if it’ll appeal to the mayor, but the combo can’t be denied once I have my mind set. I hurry to re-create my mental image. And just as my marshmallow turns the perfect level of gooey crispiness, Blossom snaps her fingers and lets out a whoop of triumph.
Then, she sprints into the trees.
I pause, shocked by her abrupt departure.
“One minute!” Root calls out, the man also appearing confused, his stare on the shadowy trees where his daughter disappeared.
But she returns a moment later, a wide grin on her face. The witch runs back to the fire in time to scoop up her marshmallows before they scorch.
Needing to finish off my presentation, I can’t watch Blossom’s final arrangement.
As Root counts down from ten, I situate my top graham cracker and hurry up to him, offering the plate with my dessert.
Blossom is a step behind me, and I catch a flash of melting chocolate and golden-brown marshmallow before her father whisks the plates to the waiting mayor.
