A Wizard's Guide to Defensive Baking

by T. Kingfisher

I held my breath and stepped over the dead girl’s ankles. Nothing happened. I wasn’t expecting anything to happen, but I was still relieved.

He had a chiseled jaw and wavy hair the color of melted butter and dark eyes like cinnamon and broad shoulders and—look, I’m not doing this well at all, he sounds like a pastry when I do it. He looked heroic, let’s leave it at that. He looked like he should wear gleaming armor and carry a sword that sang.

It seemed like once you agreed that the government could put you on a list because of something you were born with, you were asking for trouble.

You expect heroes to survive terrible things. If you give them a medal, then you don’t ever have to ask why the terrible thing happened in the first place.