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I would have preferred any number of zombie frogs to a corpse.
but dying with mismatched socks seemed especially sad somehow.
Dough is very amicable to persuasion if you know how to ask it right.
pulled it off, and the starter settled back and began digesting the flour. He doesn’t seem to mind me taking bits to make bread, and it’s still the best sourdough in town. We just don’t tell anybody about the eating-rats thing.
I can turn flour and yeast into tasty bread, on a good day. And occasionally make carnivorous sourdough starters.
The gingerbread man began to dance a very respectable hornpipe. Don’t ask me where the cookies get the dances they do—this batch had been doing hornpipes. The last batch did waltzes, and the one before that had performed a decidedly lewd little number that had even made Aunt Tabitha blush. A little too much spice in those, I think. We had to add a lot of vanilla to settle them down.
Frankly, an iron skillet would be a lot more dangerous than my magic at the moment. I could at least hit Oberon with it.
They already suspect you of murder, let’s not add public urination to the list.
Molly was, like me, a very minor wizard, but her talent was even weirder. She could make dead horses walk.
There’s a fairytale about a girl who could talk to tornadoes, which would be pretty impressive, but we haven’t had a tornado in Riverbraid in a hundred years, so how often does it really come up?
“If you don’t mind me saying so, love, you look like the ass end of a seagull.”
There was probably a moral lesson in there somewhere, but I had given up on moral lessons for today.
She hates the government now. She mutters about that a lot, but then again, she also mutters that the fleas are the ghosts of ancient philosophers and they’re trying to suck out the truth from her ankles.
I was a baker, and you don’t punch dough every day for two years without developing some pretty hefty forearms. I may not be very big, but I’ll bet you a tray of cinnamon buns that I can out-arm wrestle any girl my age.
My little gingerbread familiar was fairly benign, but what if I was upset or nervous and wound up creating some kind of berserk gingerbread golem?
Attack is not a command I’ve ever given to bread before, but if those rats last winter were any indication, Bob knew exactly what to do.
The gingerbread man climbed right up Nag’s tail and sat on one of the horse’s hip bones. He kicked his heels as if to say, “Giddyup!”
I mean, you may think it’s strange crying over a bucket of yeasty sludge—I know Spindle probably thought I was crazy—but it wasn’t just any sludge, it was Bob. He made amazing bread, and he liked me, insomuch as sludge likes anybody.
When you spend most of your time with a dead horse, you learn to respect other people’s weird pets.
If you have ever tried to stay afloat on a pair of magic bread slices, then you know what it was like. Otherwise, all I can say is that I don’t recommend it.
The smells coming out weren’t promising, but since the smell coming off me was truly apocalyptic, who was I to judge?
If grown-ups were trying to kill you, did that make you an honorary grown-up? If so, I would have preferred to just grow up and get my period like a normal person.
One ran into the gingerbread man’s card house and got thrown out the window. My cookie had a temper.
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.
This is crazy. I told you this is crazy, right?” Which is how we wound up, five nights later, climbing out of the Duchess’s toilet.
Hopefully it would be “Plot against magickers uncovered!” and not “Poop-covered assassin foiled in Duchess’s bathroom!” Really, of all the ways to go…
He grinned and gave me a quick punch on the shoulder. For Spindle, that was an incredible display of affection. I got a little choked up, but that might just have been the smell coming off the cesspit.
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. Or try to fix it.”
It is nearly impossible to be sad when eating a blueberry muffin. I’m pretty sure that’s a scientific fact.
Making cookies that were bad and horrible and that no sane person would eat was…well, it was like being an Anti-Baker. It was the opposite of what I was supposed to do.
Death by sourdough starter. Not a good way to go.
The golems could do a pretty good high kick. It
Aunt Tabitha whacked him with the hammer so hard that his helmet got knocked halfway around his head, and he fell down. She kicked him a few times. Aunt Tabitha had very definite opinions about people who tried to invade her city.
(It is completely and utterly unfair that when you are a fourteen-year-old girl, even if you have amazing forearms, your wrists are still small enough for somebody else to hold with one hand.)
