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Trey Clover first lit up the Heartslabyul kitchen at four o’clock sharp on a Saturday, exactly as he had done ever since he was assigned as the dorm’s baker, not a single day missed. He took his signature apron off the hanger, tying it tightly to keep it in place before starting the long baking session ahead of him.
After casting a silencing spell on the room to avoid waking the others up, he turned on the old radio on the counter and pulled out the list he had written last night with his fellow Heartslabyul students. Humming softly to some classic rock from the north of the Queendom of Roses, he read through the requested desserts, crossing some out to prepare during the week rather than that day. Following the music’s rhythm he went on to grab his trusty recipe book, mentally organizing the rest of his morning, and noted down the ingredients and proportions. Before the song had even finished, he finally got to work.
Before anything he decided to prepare the main breakfast cookies, to give them enough time to cool down until the first student decided to start their day, an easy and quick recipe to prepare. Sugar, butter and flour, the base combination for nearly every sweet baked good to exist, in different proportions depending on the dessert to be baked. On their own they could be used on different foods and serve plenty of purposes, but together they worked like no other combination ever could. If one appeared, the other two were sure to follow soon, unusual to hear from one on their own.
To start the recipe Trey mixed the room-temperature butter with the sugar, mixing consistently until it got a creamy texture, a fool’s proof essential step. Trey mused to himself how someone he knows would find a way to spoil it because of his stubbornness and wanting to march to the beat of their own drum, how another one would be too eager to bake and find a way to accidentally ruin it, only to both be corrected and helped out by a third, one who picked up on most details quickly and tried to damage control everything before it all derived into bigger problems.
He went on to add the flour to the bowl, integrating it with as little mixing as possible, and then took the dough and divided it into thirds, weighing them on a scale to make sure they were even. He stopped for a second to take out the homemade cherry jam, the homemade blueberry jam and the dark chocolate chips out of the pantry. Making sure every piece was about the same, he made smaller buns out of dough and gave them cookie forms with his hands, pressing with his thumb down on the ones that were going to have jam in the center, and then filled them with their respective jams. The other third got mixed with chocolate chips and then molded, making sure to add three chips on top of the cookie.
He wondered when the trio in his mind would get into some more trouble, and just how destructive it would be for them and the rest of the school. Only once by genuine fault, most of the incidents began by just one of them getting dragged into problems and the other two diving right in to help them out, heading head first and planning the solution later. Trey placed the cookies all on the sheet, making sure to put enough distance between each one to avoid them baking into one monstrosity, and put them on the oven. Setting the timer, he thought about how two very unique but exploding personalities were consistently kept in check by one who only kept their head cool by consequence of circumstances, of unwanted burdens thrown into their shoulders.
Trey wondered for a second if there even is anything he could do to help them out, to ease their pain, to protect them from fights that were never theirs to begin with. He knew that most of the fault lay with the Headmage himself– twisting and manipulating the situations to knowingly leave one of them at their most vulnerable, inevitably leading the other two behind. Maybe he could invite them over for dinner once again, or sneak some extra cupcakes for them to take to their dorm. As he took out the cookies and cooled them with magic to drizzle them with milk chocolate, he assured himself he’d talk to them during breakfast, once they were awake enough, and maybe pitched in some advice to the other two as well. After all, his freshmen trouble-doubles Ace and Deuce were having a sleepover with Yuu themselves, sleeping away in the bedroom after a long night of card games, easy-going conversations and hushed laughter. He wished he’d find the strength within himself to help all three of them out, and he promised to do so later. Until then, he put the cookies away in the fridge.
The first actual dessert was tiramisu, expected to be served at that day’s dinner after the lasagna. It wasn’t exactly Trey’s favorite to prepare, but he knew quite a few of the students were partial to it. Outside of the homemade ladyfingers, which he could simply grab from the leftovers of the last tea party, he only had to prepare the coffee and mascarpone. As he prepared the espresso, putting aside his own cup to drink while working, he allowed his mind to wander and reflect some more, tapping with his foot alongside the rhythm of the metal song that was playing.
He remembered how, before knowing better, tiramisu had seemed such an overwhelmingly sweet dessert, the misleading appearance contrasting strongly with the intense and deep flavor. He took out the egg yolks and sugar, and started whipping them together until the mixture became a pale yellow, then folding both mixtures together. While having ladyfingers and mascarpone did tone the bitterness down, the sudden dark rich coffee always took him by surprise, no matter how many times he tried it. Though at first he had been so shocked by it he simply decided to stay away from it, over time he found himself more and more comfortable with the dessert, the peaceful convenience shaken each and every time someone unexpectedly added cognac or rum, but was always quickly restored.
Taking out the heavy cream to whip it until soft-medium peaks were achieved, he thought of how the dessert was one of his first experiences with learning to expect the unexpected, of unsweetened but gratifying memories, and the loud laughter of his father at his unintentionally disgusted face at the bitterness. While dipping the ladyfingers on espresso and placing them on the tray and layering them with the mascarpone, he thought of deep yet mischievous laughter, ground-shaking music performances, strangely-worded anecdotes and jokes alike, and burnt abominations trying to pass off as meals to receive advice.
He wondered if some tiramisu would be left to give Lilia to try out, maybe even trying to teach him how to do the recipe with store-bought ladyfingers and ingredients from the cafeteria, even if he would probably find a way to turn it into one of his signature atrocities. His classmate, who had been consistently scaring him, lightheartedly laughing at his reactions and helping him academically through the period of recovery after Riddle’s overblot. His confusing nature, the fine line between stories of his presumably youth and pulling on his leg, the terrifying displays of advanced magic and sudden wise words. He wondered for a second how he might be doing, either gaming in his room or roaming around the campus looking for the stoic and chilling Malleus, even so early in the morning. Trey finally let the tiramisu chill in the freezer, and carried on.
The following one was croquembouche, the designated dessert for that day’s lunch. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles, knowing how physically demanding the recipe was. It was still quite early, and the radio had been consistently playing upbeat songs to keep his rhythm steady. Taking out the biggest pot in the kitchen he started by boiling water with butter while stirring constantly, throwing in flour once it had melted and left it for a couple of minutes on the fire, getting a compact dough as a result. Putting it away from the stove he cracked four eggs, adding one at the time, and mixing each one until he was left with an homogeneous dough. It started out terribly dense, needing both of his arms to move the spoon around and taking quite a while until the egg was integrated, but it got better the longer he did it, never exactly easy but he could clearly feel the difference. He was reminded of someone who seemed terribly cryptic and complicated to understand, only to be easier to read as the encounters went on, usually being about trivial matters or gardening, but enough to little by little crack his mask.
He left the dough to rest for an hour, preparing the filling in the meantime. In a casserole he added egg yolks, cornstarch, and sugar, mixing until he got a spongy consistency, and then poured the milk in. He then turned on the fire as low as it was needed, stirring until it was dense enough. The process always took a while, being one of the inevitably longer parts that always tested his patience and stamina. He remembered last week during the obligatory Housewarden meeting, how the vices were expected to wait outside, how he could’ve spent his time scrolling through Magicam but instead got to catch up with someone elusive. Their whole conversation was akin to a strange game, dancing around the point and showing off how the other knew more than what he let on, but never feeling condescending or aggravating, rather intriguing and entertaining enough to make him lose track of time. Just as he scoffed while thinking about the shady farewell, he realized the filling was ready.
He turned off the stove and added the vanilla extract, checking the clock only to realize the dough was completely rested as well. Letting the filling cool out, he took his piping bag out and put the dough in. Piping mounds into the baking tray he tried to recall if his own plantings from the Science Club were watered last time he was in the greenhouse, and then promised himself to check up on both his own and the terrariums placed right next to them, both as an excuse to make small talk frequently and maybe try to convince Trey to join the owner on some hikes, which he had only turned down every time due to scheduling issues. He put the baking tray on the oven, cleaned the piping bag to put the filling in, and waited.
Until the pastries finished baking he poured himself another cup of coffee, taking his time to stretch his arms and crack his joints. Just as he had done practically every Saturday since joining the dorm, he’d have two cups of coffee between baking, and when the rest of the students woke up he’d have a cup of black tea with them, sometimes eating a fruit as well. Trey wondered how working in a restaurant would alter his routine, knowing that much like a bakery they started their day way earlier than the opening hour. Looking outside the kitchen’s window into the slowly rising sun, tinting the gardens golden and bringing warmth into the cold outside, he tried to imagine how the sunrise would look in a dorm under the sea, if visible at all.
The pastries were finally done, cooled off with a simple spell, and he started piping the custard into them, leaving them to the side. He went on to prepare caramel with equal parts of sugar and water, briefly thinking about how the golden color looked akin to someone’s mismatched left eye, and then dipped each puff into the caramel, piling them up on a platter to look like a tree. He dipped a fork onto the remaining caramel and twirled it around the pile, looking much like the spiderwebs he and Jade had put up on the Botanical Gardens during Halloween. He made a mental note to catch up with him the next time he visited the greenhouse, maybe even sharing the recipe with him or trying to coordinate going hiking with him. He scoffed while thinking about the bad reputation Octavinelle itself had, Jade taking a big part in keeping it up.
Regardless, Trey sincerely thought well of him, even with all the shady and scary performances, and highly respected his attention to detail and carefulness upon acting. Maybe he could ask him to give him some advice on how to manage the explosiveness of Heartslabyul, or which mushrooms to add to the dinners to get some of the students to eat more vegetables. Once he was done, he put the plate on the fridge, and moved on.
The next item was a traditional southern Queendom of Roses-styled vanilla flan. Trey took the needed ingredients in their proportions, and pre-heated the oven before he got to work. He started by beating the eggs in a bowl, thinking about how such a simple-looking dessert could have so many details and technicalities to keep track of, misleading anyone who didn’t think much of it. When he was done he took out the vanilla beans and his sharp knife, placing the beans on the cutting board.
He remembers how for the longest time he hadn’t liked that specific style of flan, both due to the consistency and simplicity of the flavor, how it had taken him some time to get used to and even more time to get to enjoy it, which coincided with the time where he started appreciating the simpler aspects of life, those that he hadn’t given much thought to before. Almost holding his breath he stilled himself as much as he could to cut the pod in half lengthwise, the straightest cut he could do, and in a swift movement he scraped off the flecks inside with the spine of the knife. Something about the ritual-like procedure reminded him of someone who, to those unaccustomed to his quirks and mannerisms, was just as simultaneously complex and simple, a cryptic message and an open book to read, confusing and straightforward.
He added the vanilla flecks, evaporated milk and condensed milk to the eggs, stirring until it looked silky smooth. He thinks how that person managed to see exorbitant beauty in the ordinary, how he treated each and every aspect of life as a blessing, going as far as reciting poetry to things that most wouldn’t bat an eye to. Trey put the mixture aside and went on to prepare caramel, the slow process reminding him of the value of patience and observation, coinciding with the person he was thinking of.
He vaguely recalls the time his clubmate had gone on and on about the time he spent three days and three nights completely still, if only to see an uncommon species’s mating ritual, and wonders if, had Trey been a man as in love with life as his clubmate was, he would’ve done the same, in the name of seeing love in its purest and most invaluable forms. His train of thought was cut short by the caramel turning golden, which was when he took it out of the heat and poured it in the glass baking dish destined for the flan. As it cooled down enough he added the previous mixture to the dish and covered it in aluminum foil. He then put it in the oven on another dish with water, and set the timer for it, the romantic ballad on the radio reaching its bridge.
He thought how Rook would probably shower the simple flan with compliments, going off on a tangent about how such a simple but well done dessert showed off the years of mastery and generational talent, and how he’d make sure everyone knows about it. He wondered if some day he’ll listen to Rook’s true honesty, not the one carefully hidden under webs upon webs of poetry and extravagant actions, but he won’t be the one to rush it. They both were men of great patience, after all.
Trey knew he didn’t even need to check the ingredients for the following dessert, the berries pavlova. The freshly picked berries from the Heartslabyul’s gardens, the task delegated to some clueless students and a certain harmless intruder picking out a few stray fruits as no one was watching the baskets, the heavy cream and the crisp meringues he bought from Mr. S’ shop as well as sugar and vanilla extract. In theory the dessert was considered easy, plain even. Trey cared to disagree, although he did acknowledge most of his opinion came from a place of nostalgia.
He washed the berries and diced them, evenly cutting them, not too fast but not too slow. To the untrained mind, simple ingredients resulted in basic desserts, not too much to write home about or necessary precautions to take. But he knew the recipe by heart, and he knew each and every outcome to be just as exciting and unique as the last one, even if in essence it was the same dessert. Everytime the pavlova seems to cater to the situation it was prepared for– familiar and hilarious reunions in his hometown, an omen of unexpected encounters at parties, or a tight hug and cryptidly comforting words during late nights, never failing to leave a sweet taste in his tongue.
He took out the electric whisk to prepare the cream, not worth doing so by hand or with magic. The buzz reminded him of the cats in his neighborhood, the soft purring as they got scratched behind the ears while sunbathing, afternoons spent on colorful parks while trying to find them with someone not as silently as the cats, but just as deceivingly loving. That was the part that always took the longest– chantilly cream was a test of patience. A part of him recalled how the first time he attempted to do so by hand he had a mischievous smile and cat puns to keep him company, a striped tail that tickled him and quick fingers that tried to take a taste every few minutes or so.
When he lifted up the whisker and the soft peaks kept their form, he took the board with the cut berries and the glass cups with rose decorations out of the pantry. He crushed the meringues in the bag and then opened it, setting it right beside him. Assembling the cups with layers of chantilly cream, crushed meringues and berries was barely any challenge at all, only needing to watch out not to put too much of either part to keep everything balanced, but it entertained him enough. He remembered running around his hometown with baskets full of containers with strawberry pavlova, his childhood friend by his side causing just enough mischief to keep him entertained but not so to get them both in trouble. The almost mindless motions of layering followed the rhythm of a song he once was taught, one about singing flowers and flying glasses.
As he put together the last touches right before the timer for the flan went off, he thought of Che’nya, his closest friend, the one who knew him the best, who could read him perfectly without any words needed, his biggest confidant, and the one he thanked the most for being brought together by destiny. He supposed if he set aside one of the cups and it disappeared from the fridge under mysterious circumstances, he wouldn't be the one to question it.
After taking the flan out of the oven and putting the pavlova cups on the fridge, he stretched his arms and his back, finishing his cup of coffee and fully pulling the curtains open, letting the soft morning sunlight fully illuminate the kitchen. The next recipe was a special request, one made by bright smiles and an upbeat attitude, saved for much later after the first batch of cookies to surprise the requester, knowing he slept in on Saturdays more often than not. He started by mixing equal parts of sugar and butter until it was creamy, the upbeat song on the radio making him work faster than usual, and then added an egg. Grabbing one at the time from the cabinet, he added nutmeg, ginger, cinnamon and salt, making sure to put as much as he could without making the finished product inedible.
He thought of the one who specifically asked for them, of his toothy grins and rapid-fire comments, and how relieved he looked the time Trey made him those cookies for an Unbirthday party with the recipe to take home with him during winter break. Trey grabbed the honey and flour, adding them bit by bit to the bowl while mixing. He remembered the first time he talked with him– scared of the wave of unknown faces after a lifetime without much disruption, intimidated by the ominous voice sorting them through and finding himself doubting his own abilities and worth as a future mage, only to be calmed down by a nice fellow freshman standing next to him, who proposed playing a little game to predict which dorm would the next person end up sorted on. The little game then turned into walking to their new dorm together, to picking the beds right next to each other in their room and spending the lunches for the next years together.
As Trey rolled the dough thin on the counter he recalled the many hours shared, the heartfelt conversations paradoxically still leaving them at arm’s length, the winter break spent together during their freshman year where he saw him at his most vulnerable and relaxed, and the many posts where he was tagged praising his own baking as a gift from the Sevens themselves. He grabbed the cookie cutters, each with different forms of the card soldier’s symbols, and made sure to have an equal quantity of cookies. When he couldn’t keep cutting more cookies, he made a bun with the dough and rolled it thin enough once more, repeating the process as many times as needed.
Trey wondered if they’d see each other on the summer break, knowing how complicated it might be to coordinate and meet up, but he won’t lose hope. They both were aware that the following year, with the internships, they’d have even less chances to do so, but he knew his friend tended to travel around as much as possible. As he put butter on the baking sheet he doubted for a second if his friend would even want to meet up with him, knowing his tendencies to grow apart with past friendships, but Trey knew he himself will do as much as he could to keep the friendship.
Placing the cookies on the baking sheet, a maze-like puzzle of symbols far apart enough not to stick together but close to save as much room as possible, he mused some more about Cater. His closest fellow junior yet keeping his own distance as well, a cheery easy going student who was constantly working as his own one man army, the one who expressed his amazement and wonder regarding Trey’s skills almost as much as Rook, making him blush from time to time. He really hoped they’d stay friends even outside of Night Raven College– until then, he’d bake as many cookies with various spices as it took to counter the sweetness inherent to the dormitory’s traditions.
At last, he got ready for the final dessert to be prepared. A strawberry tart. One he had baked thousands of times, enough to be able to do so with a blindfold and with his right hand tied on his back. Ever since the beginning of the year he has found himself feeling anxious before preparing it, almost fearing to receive consequences if an unlikely mistake were to be made. He knew well enough where the paralyzing hesitation came from, deep-rooted guilt set firm on his heart for seemingly forever. Summer had always come with similar feelings, but that year had only amplified them and made him feel powerless against them. Trey had always wondered how it felt on his end, but the incident in September was enough of an answer.
He tapped on the counter, doing his best to snap himself out of the state he put himself in, and decided to start the Sevens-damned strawberry tart. In a bowl he added sugar, butter, flour, and an egg yolk until it all came together. Making sure not to knead it excessively, he rolled it on the counter with flour, making sure for it to be as thin as possible and big enough to fill the tart tin. His mind wandered back to a specific summer, one where he was ten years old and his hometown’s parks were his whole world. How Che’nya and he had spent the days from sunrise until sunset playing outside, figuring out the world on their own and feeling invincible. They had played more pranks than he could remember on Che’nya’s grandfather, trying their best to take the master of pranks himself by surprise, and had learnt many easy desserts with Trey’s parents while his little siblings were the taste-testers.
He put the tart tin in the oven, taking out the ingredients for the filling. Heating up the milk, he had to wait until it was almost boiling to add egg yolks and sugar. He recalled the most important events of that summer, finding their way to the imposing Roseheart’s yard, unbeknownst to the children at the time, and finding a lonely boy, sitting by himself in a spotless room akin to a work studio rather than a child’s bedroom. Gray dulled eyes that shone at the sight of the children, an annoyed expression that masked natural and vibrant curiosity, and one last look at the books and worksheets before accepting the invitation to the outside, forever burnt into Trey’s memory.
He added gradually to the filling the flour and cornstarch to the mixture, and then put it on the stove once again on low heat for a few minutes, adding the vanilla extract once he took it out of the heat once again. Thinking about that summer and the events that went down made him feel warm and nostalgic for the carefree days. But it also made him feel guilty. And so, so much regret. Sour regret, the kind to spoil a perfectly sugary dessert, to overpower the sweetness of trust and love. But how could trust and love be held up without cloying, resulting in repulsion and aversion? Some sourness had to be folded in through lemon zest, regret turned into acceptance of past mistakes and will to change and become better both for his own good and for those around him, to pay back those who were wronged by his own delusional and consciously ignorant behavior. It’s all a matter of balance, enough sourness to help the sweetness grow into an applicable flavor but not enough to hinder and revert all kinds of progress made. As Trey finished grating the lemon peel into the filling, he recalled how they all had felt after the overblot. Lost. Guilty. Stressed. But mostly afraid. He remembered just how he was unable to sleep in peace, baking out of stress so many batches of cookies and cupcakes that it was enough to feed the whole dorm and some of his friends and classmates for a week. How he was dragged out of the infirmary by Cater and Che’nya, how his friend had requested for him to go out and rest but he refused, fearing he would fade away if he was out of sight.
After it cooled out by itself, Trey poured the mixture on the tart tin he had taken out of the oven sometime before, using a spell for it to set itself instantly. He washed the strawberries and took the stems out, cutting them vertically in fourths and arranging them on the top of the tart, doing his best to give it a rose pattern to fit in with the dorm’s main theme. As he heated up some homemade strawberry jam with a bit of water to brush over the tart, he thought about how his friend had changed ever since the incident. How his shoulders had become much less tense, how serenity replaced the near-constant rage in his eyes, how he had heard his laughter much more often than ever before. Trey knew deep inside such changes could’ve happened much sooner if only he had been more determined to set limits, more active in his role as a Vice, a better person, a better friend.
He could almost taste the bitterness of his guilty consciousness, the sourness of his regret, and the saltiness of his accountability. Months ago, he would’ve tried to cover them up with an artificial sweetness, one that only superficially worked, one that only ever fooled those far away enough. But he promised himself to stop doing that, to stop sweeping his mistakes under the rug and carry on. He was still doing his best trying to find the way to integrate those feelings into a form easier to digest, one that could eventually lead into acceptance. As he brushed the strawberries with the jam reduction, he sighed. Riddle was far better at
the time than he had ever been, and he was immensely proud. He simply wondered if he was falling into bad habits once again and no one was calling him out.
Finally done with his routine, he put every dessert in the fridge and put the cookies on display for the ones who were going to have breakfast. Five minutes until eight, he turned off the radio and took out the tea boxes, the teapots, the coffee pot and the cups, setting them up for everyone to prepare their own breakfast.
Right before Riddle was due to enter the kitchen, punctual as ever, Trey prepared for each one a cup of black tea, and waited on the kitchen’s island, humming softly. Another day done, another routine perfectly followed. He took a deep breath, and allowed the warmth of the sunlight to relax him.
Everything was going to be okay.