A FEW WEEKS LATER
The sun had barely broken the horizon when Lavinia stepped into the back room and stopped cold.
The air shimmered with pale violet mist.
Her copper pots hung suspended in mid-air, slowly rotating. The sourdough starter she'd been nurturing for two weeks had levitated and begun singing—yes, singing—a haunting lullaby in Old Hazeldalian.
And in the middle of it all stood Elias.
His dark curls were a mess, his coat smudged with ash, and both of his hands were glowing faintly blue.
"You said you'd only enchant the fireplace, not…" she waved vaguely at the chaos, "the concept of physics!"
"It was supposed to be a simple heat rune." He responded, sheepish. "A warming charm, gentle, focused. Not… this."
Lavinia ducked as a teacup spun past her head and shattered against a beam.
"Turn it off."
"I'm trying! But it's feeding off ambient enchantments—yours, probably. You've built protective wards into the walls, haven't you?"
"Yes, because I'm a hunted noblewoman and this café is the only home I have!" She snapped, grabbing a rolling pin like a weapon. "Now fix it or I swear I'll turn you into a cinnamon scone."
Elias grimaced. "You'd make me taste delicious, I'm sure, but give me a moment…"
With a muttered spell and a sudden pulse of golden light, the room snapped back to normal.
Everything crashed to the ground in a synchronized thud: pots, pans, the singing dough, a very confused cat that hadn't been there before.
Lavinia stood in the middle of the mess, chest rising and falling, flour in her hair and fury in her eyes.
Elias, for once, looked genuinely contrite.
"I'm sorry…" He apologized. "Truly. I should've tested the rune in the woods. I just… I wanted to help. You've been waking up early every morning, kneading dough by moonlight, falling asleep at the counter. I thought if I could take one burden…"
Her anger cracked, just slightly.
She sighed and knelt to pick up a scorched baking tray. "You did this for me?"
He looked up, brushing ash from his shirt. "You saved me when I stumbled through your door the other day, nearly frozen and bleeding. You didn't ask questions. You gave me soup and a bed and told me I could stay to rest if I didn't ruin the sourdough."
"It was good soup."
"You were a better cook than I was a liar."
Lavinia leaned back on her heels. The morning light framed her face, softening her sharp cheekbones and the smudge of soot on her nose.
"You're reckless." She muttered.
He smiled. "Only for people who matter."
Her heart skipped. Just once.
Not because he was handsome—though he was, in a troublemaker-alchemist kind of way—but because someone had tried to lighten her burden. Not for a crown, or power, or courtly games—but for her.
"I'm still mad." She said.
"I'll make you coffee."
She arched a brow. "With what? The grinder exploded."
"I'll grind it by hand."
"And what about my singing dough?"
"We'll call it an experiment and feed it to the Whisper next time he visits."
Lavinia burst out laughing—too suddenly, too loudly. It surprised them both.
"Fine." She gave in, standing. "You get the beans. I'll make a batch of emergency croissants."
"You have a recipe for that?"
"I'm a Hazeldalian. We invented panicked pastries."
As they moved side by side in the kitchen, brushing against each other in that dance only cooks know—his fingers brushing flour from her wrist, her arm grazing his as she reached for butter—there was a moment.
A pause.
Lavinia met his gaze.
"Elias…" she said softly, "no more magical experiments inside the café."
His eyes dropped to her lips before rising again. "Then let me enchant something else."
She blinked. "What?"
His hand brushed hers. Just briefly. Just enough.
"A moment. A feeling. The kind of magic you don't need a wand for."
She didn't pull away. But she didn't lean in either.
Not yet.
Instead, she turned back to the oven, heart fluttering.
"Start grinding the beans, Elias." She ordered. "And keep your spells to yourself."
But she was smiling.
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Café Note: Emergency Croissants
(For when your morning gets magically exploded)
Ingredients:
- 2 sheets puff pastry, thawed
- 1 egg, beaten (for wash)
- A block of good dark chocolate
- A sense of rising panic
Instructions:
Cut puff pastry into triangles. Place a chocolate square near the wide end. Roll, brush with egg wash. Bake at 375°F (190°C) until golden.
Serve warm. Apologize profusely if magic is involved.
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The storm came at dusk, rolling down the mountains like a beast unshackled. Wind clawed at shutters and howled down chimneys. Rain lashed the café roof in sheets, rattling the panes and flooding the courtyard herb boxes.
Inside Steam & Sugar, the air was thick with warmth and cinnamon, the soft clink of mugs, and the gentle hum of a lullaby Lavinia had baked into the sugar crust helped smoothened—though by only little— the fretful feeling from the storm.
She was just wiping down the counter—her fingers aching pleasantly from hours of baking—when the door slammed opens.
Not a knock.
Not a gentle creak.
A slam.
Cold wind swept inside, curling under skirts and flickering the lanternlight.
And there—framed by storm and lightning—stood a man in imperial army's. Rain rolled from his oilskin cloak. A sword gleamed at his hip. And on his breast, unmistakable and gleaming, was the crest of Royal House Deveraux: a crowned dove wrapped in flames.
Lavinia froze.
She hadn't seen that sigil in nearly a year.
Not since she'd escaped the royal palace on the eve of her betrothal, wrapped in a cook's cloak, with flour in her pockets and a dagger in her boot.
And she hadn't seen that knight since he dispatched for the war either… back when she was thirteen.
He was her father's sword, as well as his loyal dog.
She gasped. "Sir Corwin…"
The knight's eyes locked onto hers.
He knew.
He remembered.
Elias stepped forward before she could move, placing himself subtly between them.
"Can I help you, traveller?" He asked, voice calm but laced with tension.
The man didn't look at him.
Only Lavinia.
"Your Highness…" He said softly, bowing just enough. "The King has fallen ill. Hazeldale Kingdom is in peril. And you are needed."
The room went silent. Even the fire seemed to hold its breath.
Lavinia didn't speak. Couldn't. Her pulse pounded in her ears.
"Princess Lavinia Kathryn Deveraux," the man continued, "the Crown Prince… your brother has fallen to poison. The council is divided. The crown teeters on a blade's edge."
Elias turned, eyes wide, searching her face.
She didn't deny it.
Didn't lie.
She simply whispered… "I can't go back."
The soldier's voice was quiet. "You're the last heir."
She stared at him, soaked to the bone, bringing a kingdom's worth of sorrow into her little café like it was nothing more than a bag of flour.
Elias stepped forward again. "She has a life here. A name. A home. She saved this town's children from the blood-fever last month. She doesn't owe your throne anything."
"I only speak to the Royal Princess." The soldier said coolly.
"She's not alone anymore." Elias replied, and this time his voice wasn't quiet at all.
Lavinia reached out, resting a hand on Elias's wrist. It steadied him—and herself.
"I ran for a reason." She uttered softly. "I ran because I was being sold like a prize pig to a warmonger duke who murdered his last two wives. Because I was never seen at court—only used."
"And now you'd let the Kingdom burn?"
She met the soldier's eyes—her cousin, she realized, underneath the rain. Dorian. Always quiet. Always watching.
"No." She stated. "Dorian will not burn the Kingdom down. And I will not lose myself to save it. There's nothing to save but my own self."
He stared at her for a long time.
Then he nodded once.
"Then I will stay here." He countered. "Until you decide."
Lavinia blinked. "You'll stay?"
"If I leave without you, they'll send someone worse. Someone who won't knock."
"You didn't knock either."
"That's because I thought that the Whisper has…"
"He was here. But nothing happened… yet."
Lightning split the sky. Rain roared against the windows.
Elias was silent. But his hand brushed against hers under the counter—small, steady, warm.
Not a question. Just a promise.
She looked between them. One from her past. One from her present. One carrying duty. The other, choice.
The café was quiet again, filled only with the smell of sugar and the sound of rain… and the storm.
She lit another lantern.
The night would be long.
"Sit down Sir Corwin..."
"You remember me, Princess. I'm honoured."
"I was thirteen-years-old, not lack of memory years-old." She smiled. I'll prepare some pastry."
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☕ Late Storm Special: Sea-Salt Lightning Tart
A favourite of Lavinia's for stormy nights and heavy hearts.
Ingredients:
- 1 shortcrust pastry shell
- 1 cup dark chocolate
- ½ cup cream
- 1 tsp sea salt
- 1 tbsp citrus zest (lemon or orange)
- Edible gold dust (optional—because royalty deserves a little sparkle)
Instructions:
Melt chocolate and cream together over low heat. Stir in zest and salt. Pour into pre-baked tart shell. Chill until set.5. Sprinkle gold dust. Serve with courage.
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