Uncharmed

1

Sugar and Sorcery

The promise and power of a little treat is perhaps the most magical concept that a mind can manifest. The potency that it holds, hovering just beyond arm's reach, is a gift that can lead to wonderful things. It is well-intentioned trickery, and silent prayer. It is a mug of warm, silken coffee clutched between chilled hands in exchange for waking up before the morning sun. The bright splashed palette of supermarket flowers for completing a tick list, the wrapper crinkling against a net of oranges, a squashed loaf of bread. Or the promise to oneself that a precious half hour will be reserved amidst the madness, for peace and rest, reading and escape, everything else forbidden to interrupt while feet are tucked underneath legs and a blanket keeps the world away. A little treat can change it all.

Each small bargaining vow holds equally compelling magic, but most folk would probably agree that their favourite treat is a sweet one, and the best of those could always be found at Celestial Bakehouse. Everyone who knew the bakery would bribe themselves with a trip. If only they could get through their pile of work, their demanding day-to-day, then the reward would be to follow the scent of toasted cinnamon sugar that trailed down the street until they reached the candy-striped canopy. An otherworldly charm seemed to float on the air at Celeste, as regulars had taken to calling it. The irresistible pull of the place, powder pink and pretty on the corner of London's Maple Row, might well have been explained by the treats inside. Then again, it might also have had something to do with the owner.

When Annie Wildwood first moved in and turned the place pink, the bakery had seemed to spring up overnight, appearing one morning as if from nowhere in a cloud of rosy spring light and foggy icing sugar. Word had spread in a matter of days that Celeste and its charming proprietor were something special. Bewitching even. The small fact that Annie was indeed a witch was almost by the by. Everything was crafted with love above all, but over her thirty-two years, Annie had come to discover that sugar and sorcery was a particularly compelling, delicious combination.

"I'm afraid Joe just got the last choux bun," Annie said, gesturing to the older gentleman who was winking and waving on his way out of the shop, delighted at his luck. "But there's one caramel éclair left with your name on it, Olive."

"That'll do me, duck," Olive said, tired eyes crinkling. The lady, her sandy hair tumbling out of a hasty bun, turned to the line of customers waiting behind her, beaming smugly for beating them to it. Not that they had much to worry about; Celeste had a habit of presenting its visitors with the very last one of their favourites at just the right time.

Spotting her moment while Olive was fumbling in her purse, Annie fluttered her fingers in the direction of the last éclair, the white chocolate topping shining like marble. A glint of pale pink Proprius Minutia sparks sprinkled the air, and the letters of Olive began to ice themselves in a delicate loop across the glaze. From the moment she'd begun her days at the bakery five years ago, Annie had quickly noticed that customers were far too preoccupied with the reason for their sweet reward to realise that anything as insignificant as magic was afoot. Witchery in the non-wicche realm wasn't as tricky to conceal as one might think.

Strictly speaking, personalised goodies were not something Annie had time for these days. Since word had spread far and wide about Celeste, she had barely a spare second for the flourishes that she'd treasured at the start, but the little details were what made all the difference. She was not one to cut corners. Annie wanted every Celeste visit to be a special one.

"Had a good day?" Annie called back over her shoulder as she lifted the glass dome and took up the éclair with her tongs, a pop of fluffy gingerbread cream bursting through one side of the pastry. The early evening light was pouring through the shop's bay windows and turning the whole place peach. September's young autumn had delivered a crackle of orange-peel leaves across the pavement outside, and as the door swung open and stirred them in a gust, they rustled in the background against the chatter of the packed café.

"Quiet chaos." Olive shrugged. "They're all quiet chaos these days." Her smile faded to something more self-conscious at the confession, the glint in her eye dimming.

Annie faltered, sensing deep in her bones-as she always could-that she was needed. It was a feeling that pulled at her, like a vine of ivy that wound its way around her ribs. She added in a slice of cinnamon apple crumble for good measure and wrapped it all up in its own little box with a ribbon tied around it. Olive took it carefully by the handle as though the sweetness inside was a remedy. There was still a line of patient customers almost reaching the door despite closing time hanging in the air. But Annie would find the time to spare once they had all been served.

"Have you got time for a tea, Ol? I'm just closing up," Annie said softly, leaning over the counter. "You can help me finish this leftover banana bread."

Olive looked delighted, then hesitated. "I know you're a busy lady. You don't want to be wasting your exciting evening plans on me."

"Where did you get these so-called exciting evening plans from? I think I'm good to take a rain check," Annie replied, cheerfully batting away the suggestion. She ignored the twinge in her chest that longed for home after being on her feet since the early hours.

When Celeste eventually cleared out, she seized her chance to flip the pink sign from Open to Closed before anyone else could press their nose against the door with a pleading look. Annie had sent her co-workers Faye and Pari home hours ago (despite their protests), not wishing them to spend their precious evenings at the bakery. Annie knew how cherished that time should be and would never want to take it from them-not when she could get through things easily enough by herself.

Finally, armed with two forks and a doorstop slice of spiced nutty loaf that tasted like Sunday afternoons in October, Annie joined Olive at the bay window just as the first stars began to scatter outside.

"Tell me all about it."

The marbled banana loaf was no accidental choice; Annie had selected it especially. The brew of comfort concoction (chamomile, feather light, a gasp of butterfly breath, stir clockwise . . .) that she had melted into the salty-sweet caramel drizzle would bring a little bit of solace for the next few nights. Annie listened to how Olive's life had changed, busier and emptier all at once since she lost her husband, her childhood sweetheart. Annie poured out tea and comfort entwined, and told her that she could only dream of finding a love like that. By the time Olive was done, a rare hour just for her, away from the children, her shoulders were higher for sharing the weight of her troubles. The shop's pearly sconces flared across the black-and-white tiles, and a throw of crumbs dotted the scalloped tablecloth.

Encounters like this were not rare for Annie. Indeed, she seemed to unconsciously attract them. More importantly, she was never one to turn them away. Celeste was always supposed to be more than service with a smile; it was service with genuine friendship. She made sure to remember every detail of people's days-everything from appointments to kids to redecorating to exam results. Annie always knew what to say to make it all a little brighter. No detail was too small to recall, and no favour was too big to request. Her heart was soft and full for all.

Days at Celeste began very early, and ended even later. The results of her hard work-because she had had no choice but to make it work when she had first opened that bakery door-lay behind the glass to admire. A patchwork of pastel-coloured macarons each morning, summoned in the kitchen from mixing bowl to oven to plate before sunrise. Cinnamon swirls curled like Catherine wheels. Immaculate fruit tarts glazed like stained glass. Chocolate so creamy that it conjured spun silk. Delicate croissants shaped like seashells, and pillowy pain au chocolat infused with the feeling and taste of golden hour. Her flair for all things sugary and spellbound, and her affinity for baking were something to behold. Ever since she was a girl, Annie had held an intimate understanding of the importance of a sweet treat: the way it could alter the worst of moods, brighten the darkest of days, bring a little bit of hope to a heavy heart.

"Who's the lucky gent tonight, then?" Olive asked, a knowing expression on her face as she gathered her tartan coat and stuffed a rogue children's toy back into her permanently overflowing handbag.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Annie feigned innocence as she cleared away their empty plates and untied her frilly flour-smeared pink pinny. Most things in her life were a shade of pink, and she rarely strayed from it.

"It's like clockwork. Thursday, isn't it? And Thursday is always date night." Olive waggled a knowing finger. "Fridays are with your girls. Mondays are late-night Cake Club here, to brighten up everybody's start to the week. Tuesdays for your studies. Wednesday nights are left for spontaneous plans. I'm not sure what's spontaneous about planning your spontaneous plans in advance, but . . ." Olive shook her head with a laugh. "You're a marvel, Annie. When you find the time to sleep remains to be seen."

"You know me," Annie said, shrugging in good humour. "I just like things to be organised."

Olive clucked. "There's organised, and then there's the way you like to do things, lady. Whatever happened to going with the flow?"

Annie tried not to take this as a slight. It felt like one, whenever people pointed out her need to consider things first. "Everything's just better when it's wrapped up in a neat little bow, don't you think?" Hands on hips, she nodded pointedly towards the small box in Olive's grasp containing her éclair and crumble. The shine on its dusky pink ribbon winked back at just the right moment, as though it should have been accompanied by a high-pitched ping. Annie made a mental note to research adding magical pings to her powers when she had a spare moment. It could be a very cute detail.

Olive tutted. "Go easy on this one, will you? They're all hapless victims as soon as they see you. I've witnessed it in here first-hand more times than I can count. Have to feel sorry for them, really. Poor chaps."

Annie rolled her eyes affectionately. "I'm only giving as good as I get."

"It's that shampoo you're using, I think. Must get the brand from you next time," Olive muttered as she turned to leave. Splendor Coma was a spell that Annie had mastered at her dressing table on day dot-the very same afternoon that she had come into her powers at fifteen years old before her mother moved her onto more important things. Just the right amount of volume, a calculated projection of shine. A never-sickly fragrance that lingered when she turned, sweet coconut and fresh vanilla. Even in drizzly London weather, her hair never dropped.

Annie held the door as Olive left clutching the little box. A damp fog yawned out across the early night, coating the cobbled street with a misty rain that fizzed on contact with the cold air. "Any time you need to talk, Ol. I'm always here."

Olive paused for a second to wrap a hand around Annie's. "You're a real diamond, Annie. What would we all do without you?" She shook her hand tightly and sincerely. "I'll see you in the week, duck."

Annie snicked the brass bolt shut and, with a deep breath, leaned her forehead against the front door. The conversation with Olive had been heavy; heartbreak and loss and sadness clung to the tips of her fingers, tingling against her magic like opposing forces. But Annie only allowed herself a second of quiet to swallow it down.