The Prospect's Dance (Book 1, Land of Sweets)

6: Journey Through the Snow (2 of 3)

Casimir sticks his hands in the pockets of his burgundy doublet and bounces lightly out from behind the bar, kicking his heels in a jig. He does not cringe at the sight of me. Instead, he startles in concern. I reassure him. "It's only a scratch."

His broad shoulders relax in relief. "Babushka," he booms to Claire with a friendly smile, "come sit by the fire. Just because the snows are not as bone-cold as mortal snow doesn't make my hearth's warmth any less welcome."

He dances toward a table near the hearth, and one frown from his towering height sends the table's occupants scrambling. Claire begins to follow, but Casimir regards her with gentle reproach. "Not the way, my girl. Dance."

Claire gapes at me. I nod.

She composes herself, then moves with beautiful ballon, a light, feathery skip across the deep amber floor. I follow in my own dance. Casimir sweeps the chair out for her with grand flair, then spins and bows, taking her fingers in his to give them a gallant kiss. "My lady, rest your weary feet, and we gentlemen will bring you a most succulent feast." He jerks his chin at me, and I know he has something to say.

He kick-jumps away from Claire and performs a personal minuet through the sea of tables and patrons, who look like human cupcakes and bon-bons. I follow in temps levé.

Casimir tosses me a purple tablecloth and gestures to a stool before the bar as he circles around to take position behind it. "Sit. I pour. Francesca, a meal for our newest guests." Sighing, he flips a glass into the air, where it makes several rotations before landing in his palm with a silvery zing. "Chocolate liqueur and coffee?"

I tie the tablecloth around myself to hide the bloodstain. "Please."

"What will the girl drink?"

"She likes raspberry."

"Raspberry hot cocoa blanca, then. Francesca! Warm milk!" He shakes his head mournfully. "So hard to find good help. I shall have to replace her, this woman."

Francesca twirls to his side with a kettle. "It's rude to talk behind your wife's back. I'll make you sleep in the snow."

Casimir smiles and takes the kettle. "You wouldn't. You'd miss me."

It makes my chest ache to hear Francesca call herself wife, for it is not true, not really, merely a dream they insist on pretending is real. There is no marriage in the Land of Sweets—it is forbidden. How strange that one of the loveliest institutions on earth is forbidden in a world that prizes beauty above all.

Francesca flits into the kitchen with a not-so-subtle glance at Claire. I do not know what she sees or doesn't see in her, for she turns before I can catch her expression.

Casimir's cheer fades. He is not a man of many facial expressions. He either looks like a jovial warrior or a menacing fiend, though I've known him long enough to see the worry in his eyes. "We've had word from the city since you last passed through."

My spine stiffens. I last stopped at Casimir and Francesca's on my way to find a Prospect six months ago—which is but a blink in the Land of Sweets. I sit forward as he slides me my coffee with liqueur. "Good or bad?"

He purses his lips. "Undetermined. You see, the Coffee are gone."

My jaw goes slack. "Gone. You mean...How are they gone?"

Casimir waves a hand. "As in gone. Poof. Vanished. The entire School of Coffee, every member, has gone up in a puff of smoke."

"I don't understand. How can an entire School vanish?"

"No one knows," he says darkly. "Some speak of rebellion."

My throat dries. Rebellion. So good in theory, but so impossible. What is change? People say it is a part of life, but in this world of constant sameness, how do they know? Even the mortal world, in all its upheaval, has had but a handful of real, authentic changes. The rest is just reverting to an old system again and again and again.