“What happened?” Kazimir’s voice, usually a low rasp, was sharp with concern, his hand already on the doorframe, before his gaze swept past Mirela to Florin’s crumpled form. The air in the cramped apartment reeked of stale fear and splintered wood. Mirela didn’t bother with pleasantries. Her own voice, thick with ragged fury, sliced through the quiet. “My brother was beaten. My mother's ledger was stolen.” She thrust out the gilded card, its roaring bear emblem gleaming mockingly in the dim light. “And you arrive, a loyal protector, just after the damage is done. A little too convenient, wouldn’t you say, Judge Barbu?” His elegant brow furrowed, a dark line bisecting the space above his eyes. “Convenient for whom, Mirela?” His gaze was fixed on the card. “You think I arranged this?” “I think you’ve always been too clever for your own good. You saw the magic, didn’t you? The *real* reason my pastries won. And now, under this convenient spell of ‘loyalty,’ you can swoop in, offer your ‘protection,’ and maybe in the chaos, discover the source for yourself.” Her voice rose, raw with accusation. “Was it your men who ransacked this place? Who laid hands on my brother?” Florin stirred, a soft groan escaping his lips. Kazimir looked at him, a flicker of something unreadable in his sharp eyes, then back at Mirela. “If I wanted your mother's book, Mirela Petrescu, I would simply ask for it. Or buy it. I certainly wouldn’t resort to violence against a child, and I could never leave such an obvious token.” He pushed himself away from the frame, stepping further into the room, his long coat swaying. “The loyalty you perceive from my tasting your confection is genuine, if unsettling. But it’s not an enchantment of subservience, only of conviction. A conviction that you possess unparalleled talent, and a conviction that you are owed protection. However, my inquiries into your aunt’s activities began long before any spun sugar touched my tongue.” Mirela blinked, her accusations faltering. “What inquiries?” “The Gabor ledgers. My family once had minor dealings with her late husband. After his death, her acquisition of certain assets, including your family’s former patisserie, was... swift. Too swift, for a widow with no prior business acumen. I’ve suspected financial impropriety for months. It seems we share a common target, Mirela. And a common enemy.” He knelt beside Florin, his movements surprisingly gentle, checking the boy’s pulse. “This was not a simple robbery. They knew what they were looking for, and where to find it. They were thorough, meticulous. And they left this as a deliberate taunt.” He tapped the vellum rectangle with a precise finger. “Ileana Gabor is many things, but she is rarely so… direct, without purpose.” “What purpose?” Mirela whispered, a chilling realization spreading through her. “To stop me from winning the semi-finals. To leave me powerless.” Kazimir stood, his expression grim. “Then we must ensure she fails. Without your notes, you cannot bake. And if you cannot bake, she wins.” He looked around the damaged room. “No, she could never keep it near. Too risky. She would move it to a secure location.” “But where?” Mirela wrung her hands. “She has so many properties, so many hidden vaults.” “Then we find them,” Kazimir said, his voice firm, a newfound alliance forming in the debris of her stolen hope. “I have resources. And now, a very compelling reason to use them.” *** The night air was sharp and cold as Simeon Văduva slipped out of the side alley, the heavy leather-bound volume tucked securely beneath his arm. The sounds of distant sirens faded as he moved through the labyrinthine backstreets, his worn boots silent on the cobblestones. He paused only once, near a sputtering gas lamp, to trace the intricate tooling on the cover of the volume. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. The chaos he had orchestrated, the broken floorboard, the planted card—all perfectly placed. He resumed his silent trek, the stolen knowledge a thrilling weight against his ribs. *** Simeon’s face was a mask of grave sympathy, his hand patting Mirela’s shoulder with a comforting, almost paternal rhythm. “My dear girl, this is truly a monstrous act. To harm Florin, to steal your mother’s legacy… Ileana’s depravity knows no bounds.” Days had passed, days of fruitless searching and gnawing anxiety. Mirela felt hollow, her resolve fraying without the magical recipes. Kazimir’s investigations had yielded nothing, the volume remaining frustratingly out of reach. “I don’t know what to do, Simeon,” Mirela confessed, her voice thin. “The semi-finals are in two days. Without the ledger, I have nothing. I’ll be ruined.” Simeon’s gaze was soft, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Perhaps not entirely. I spent many an hour with your dear mother, poring over those pages. Some of the more prominent enchantments, those that were particularly… vivid, I held in my thoughts.” He reached into his coat pocket and produced a folded sheet of parchment, a faint, almost invisible script adorning its surface. “This, my dear, is what I transcribed. A very potent recipe. Your mother called it the ‘Mist of Oblivion’ soufflé. It causes a temporary, targeted forgetfulness in those who consume it.” Mirela's breath caught, a flicker of fragile hope igniting within her. “Total forgetfulness? For my opponents?” “Precisely. Imagine the disarray. They would forget their next ingredient, their delicate technique, their very purpose in the competition. A moment of confusion is all you would need to secure your victory.” He pushed the parchment gently into her hand. “It’s a powerful enchantment, Mirela. One must be careful with its application. But in times of dire need, drastic measures are sometimes necessary. And who knows,” he added, his voice dropping to a near whisper, a strange glint in his eye, “perhaps a clouded mind might also serve to… loosen a tongue, in the right circumstances. A judge, for instance, speaking past an old silence. Or a relative, blurting out a hidden crime.”

The Bitter Aftertaste of Vengeance