Just Desert

She lowered the knife and it grew even brighter. Astonished, she took in a breath, and her eyes widened further still. The fruit she had cultivated all these years, fed with the herb of despair and the tears of the wicked, deceptively shone in her dark kitchen. An accomplished practitioner of the art of dark sorcery would be awed at what she was about to do. Baked into a pie, the juices of this herb would create an oasis of melancholy in the heart of a bright individual, if said individual would partake in a piece of it.

Although she had no enemy for which she reserved this treat for currently, she probably would in the future. The woman had spent so many years honing her skills of dark magic, and dark magic always came with consequences.

Deftly, she slid the knife into the fruit, cries and screams echoing from the cut she had created. Without further delay, the now darkened fruit had scoops of its innards removed from its walls. The sorceress combined the fruit, sugar, and eggs, satisfied in her work. It wasn’t that she truly wished for her magic to harm someone, oh no. It was simply that the darkest parts of magic were the most fascinating, unpredictable, and powerful. As a child she had wrestled with the question of whether or not someone could be a good person and yet practice dark magic. The woman still didn’t know the answer.

A knock at her kitchen door stopped her actions, and she moved from the bowl.

“Speak your name, or I will be your bane.” She hoarsely intoned the incantation over the door, placing a hand against its cedar wood.

“Hector.” The deep voice made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. The door opened without either person touching it, and her mentor entered, his visage flickering like that of a candle or a wayward phantom. He was large, broad-shouldered, and strong, his eyes black as coal, his head bald. She felt dwarfed standing in front of him, with her short poufy black hair and substantially smaller frame.

She bowed to him, and adjusted her apron quickly and quietly. Hector approached the mix of ingredients on the counter and appraised it.

“Not acidic enough.” He commented, staring at it hard. Nonetheless, he dumped the ingredients into the pie crust his student had ready.

 “But not bad.” The sorceress smiled ruefully. A man of few words, but valuable words.

“I have so little time to experiment, I have to take it while I can get it.” Although she wanted to, the student didn’t lean against the counter or slouch in her mentor’s presence.

“Indeed.” The slip of paper he handed her was a patch of ebony, emerald writing in an elegant hand adorned it. The woman slipped the pie into the oven and took the epistle.

“What is it?” She asked as she glanced down at it.

“Certification.”

The note fluttered to the floor. The sorceress was speechless.

“Present that pie to the elders, and it’s yours.”

Hector was a man who rarely offered praise, and she’d believed he’d never give her certification. In doing so, he would be saying she had skills that matched his own and was now capable in mentoring the dark arts to her own students! Trembling hands clasped over her heart. The elders would see the strives she had made in this branch of magic!? It was too much!

Hector leaned against the countertop, almost weightless in his action. He hadn’t raised an eyebrow at her stupefied countenance.

“…Thank you, Hector.” She finally managed to say.

“…..Your pie is burning.” He noted.