Page 122 of The Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium

“Not for a second,” Mrs. Bochart answered without hesitation. “It wasn’t a fairy-tale ending, but the best love stories give you a little more of yourself, a little more of the world. That’s the wonder of being human.” She tipped her mug in salute to Talula. “Even half human.”

“I love who I am when I’m with Dahlia,” Talula said. “She lights my insides on fire.”

“I bet she does.” Mrs. Bochart smirked.

“But I don’t know if I’m ready to tell her everything.”

“Lies and secrets will hurt any relationship. Be honest,” Mrs. Bochart said firmly. “If you’re not ready to be honest, be honest about what you can’t be honest about.”

“Will that be enough?”

“It might be.” Mrs. Bochart shrugged. “I don’t know if anyone ever told you this, kid, but you don’t have to make the same choices your mother did about romance. Just know that when it comes to love, there are never sure things. You just have to decide what risks are worth taking. You are the only person who gets to make that choice. And you don’t have to wait for anyone to give you permission to make it.”

Talula mulled that over.

“Now let me ask you something.” Mrs. Bochart took a few meaningful sniffs. “What’s in the oven?”

Talula explained the mystery of the cookbook and the puzzle at the core of her cakes. Mrs. Bochart poked, prodded, and sampled each one. The best baker in three counties gave Talula the same disappointed look Talula herself had given the cakes not long ago.

“I’m trying! But this recipe doesn’t have any instructions, just ingredients,” Talula explained.

“Ooh! Like a technical challenge in that baking show. Let me take a look.” Mrs. Bochart pulled out a pair of reading glasses from her purse and squinted at Talula’s translated recipe. “Ah, egg whites.”

“Is that important?” Talula asked desperately.

“You bet your pointy hat, missy. Egg whites in a cake recipe mean they need to be beaten into a meringue to create an airy texture for the cake. You typically see them in angel food recipes.” Mrs. Bochart skimmed over the ingredients list. “Yup, there’s no oil or butter listed, either. It’s definitely a recipe for angel food cake.”

“Okay!” Talula perked up. “What should I do?”

“A standard cake recipe is not going to cut it.” Mrs. Bochart grabbed the spare apron hanging on a hook. “Let’s get to work.”

Under Mrs. Bochart’s eye, Talula sifted sugar and flour, beat egg whites, and mixed ingredients. As the cake baked, she and Mrs. Bochart chatted on the café’s sofa.

“This reminds me of when I used to bake for your mother,” Mrs. Bochart said nostalgically.

“She has such a sweet tooth.” Talula smiled. “I bet she loved it.”

“She really did.” Mrs. Bochart surveyed the café. “You know, baking’s a lot like magic. The baker’s power isn’t seeing things as they are, but as they could be. It’s the rearrangement of atoms through chemical reactions to turn these simple things into something completely different. So you think of what it can be, then you can make it what you want, how you want it.”

Talula sat straight up in her seat, heart pounding.

Make it what you want, how you want it.

Just like Kiki had written.

Confused, Mrs. Bochart frowned at her. “What did I say?”

“Nothing. Something. Maybe everything.” Mind racing, Talula ran into the kitchen and brought out one of the failed cakes.

“Why is that thing out here where good and decent folk can see it?” Mrs. Bochart scowled.

Talula didn’t answer, settling into her magical core. She thought of the cake, how the ingredients she used in this subpar cake were the same as the ingredients in the cake that was baking in the oven at that moment. It came down to atoms, the stuff that everyone and everything was made of.

With a shift of perspective, this cake could be anything. Talula called her magic and rearranged what she saw in her mind’s eye into what the cake could be.

The sad, flat disc of cake wobbled on its plate, shimmering oddly. In a blink, it became a perfectly golden angel food cake. Mrs. Bochart and Talula gasped at the same time. Talula ran to get plates and cutlery.

“This won’t turn me into anything, will it?” Mrs. Bochart asked as Talula cut her a slice.