Against my better judgment, I glance over at her station again. She’s already moved on to prepping her apple tart, her movements efficient and sure. Of course she’s ahead. She’s Poppy.
She’s going to ace this exam, and I’ll be lucky if I don’t burn something.
As if sensing my attention, Poppy straightens, reaching for a spice jar. And for one brief, painful moment, our eyes meet across the classroom.
My heart lurches. I want to do something, to mouth an apology or smile orsomething. Anything to bridge the awful distance between us. Especially after that awkward encounter in the courtyard, when she saw me walking with Morgan, when I fucked up yet again and didn’t say anything, didn’t even raise a hand to wave. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to her. Idid. I just didn’t know what to say.
But Poppy’s expression doesn’t change. She looks away, returning to her work as if I’m not even there.
It feels like someone just punched me in the gut.
“Fifteen minutes remaining for your main courses,” Professor Sage announces. “Desserts should be in progress.”
Fifteen minutes. I look down at my station and realizewith a sinking feeling that I’m nowhere near ready. My vegetables are only half roasted, my red wine sauce isn’t ready yet, and I haven’t even started on my apple tart.
I’m going to fail this. After everything—after all of Poppy’s tutoring, all those hours of study, all the work I put in—I’m going to fail because I can’t stop thinking about her, the girl I pushed away.
No. No, I’m not going to let that happen. I can’t. Too much is riding on this.
I take a deep breath and force myself to focus, to shut out everything except the food in front of me, the spells I need to cast, and the steps I need to complete. Poppy helped me so much this semester, trying to ensure I passed my classes and held on to my spot on the runeball team. The least I can do is not waste everything she taught me.
I throw myself into the work. I cast a temperature boost on my vegetables, using a little bit of fire and carefully monitoring them to make sure they don’t burn. I mix my biscuit dough with shaking hands, whispering the leavening spell as I fold in the butter.
“Levamentum dulcis, rise and breathe, by patient hands that mix and knead. Lightness shaped by craft and care, lift now and fill the air.”
The magic takes. I feel it catch, feel the dough begin to respond, air pockets forming in the mixture just like they’re supposed to. Relief floods through me.
I can do this. I’m going to do this.
By the time Professor Sage calls for main courses to be plated, I’ve managed to pull everything together. It’s not perfect—my vegetables are a little too dark on the edges,and my sauce is thinner than I’d like—but it’s done. It’s edible. It’s hopefully good enough to pass.
The professors move through the classroom, tasting each student’s meal and making notes on their clipboards. When they reach my station, Headmistress Moonhart takes a bite of my roasted winter squash, then breaks open one of my biscuits, the steam curling up around her face.
“The leavening spell was well executed,” she says, her tone neutral, her silver-blue hair catching the light from the sun sinking outside. “Though your timing could use work. The vegetables are overcooked.”
“Yes, Headmistress,” I say, trying not to wince.
She makes a note and moves on. I watch as she reaches Poppy’s station. Even from here, I can see how beautiful Poppy’s meal looks—perfectly golden biscuits, vegetables that are caramelized but not burnt, a red wine sauce that has the perfect consistency.
Headmistress Moonhart takes a bite and smiles. “Excellent work, Miss Waverly. I’d serve this to my own mother—and she’s notoriously difficult to please.”
Pride swells in my chest, even through my own disappointment. Of course Poppy did well. She’s brilliant. She’s talented. She’s—
Leaving.
I blink, suddenly realizing that Poppy is cleaning up her station, packing away her supplies. She’s already done with her meal, her apple tart steaming on her workstation, which means she’s allowed to leave early. She’s gathering her bag, slipping her cloak over her shoulders, moving toward the door.
I need to talk to her. I need to—
“Mr. Vandermere, your dessert?” Professor Sage prompts, stepping into my line of sight.
Right. I still have to finish the exam.
I watch over our professor’s shoulder as Poppy slips out of the classroom, the door closing quietly behind her. I want to follow, want to abandon my half-finished tart and chase after her, but I can’t. Not without failing the exam entirely.
So I stay. My mind races as I finish my tart and plate it with trembling hands. It didn’t hold together quite as well as I’d have liked—some of the apples slip out on one side—but I think I did a somewhat decent job. I present it to the professors, accept their lukewarm praise, and clean up my station with focused efficiency, as if hurrying now will help me catch up to Poppy. But that’s a ridiculous thought.
Because by the time I’m allowed to leave, the winter sun has set, and Poppy is long gone.
