Beneath the Sugar Sky (Wayward Children, #3)

“Oh, my dear,” said the Baker, and let go of Rini’s hands. “Nonsense returns to where it’s made, that’s true, but it’s like flour in the air: you can’t just pull it back. You have to let it settle. It goes back into everything. It makes the world continue turning. If your mother’s nonsense is here, I can’t reclaim it.”

“Well, can you make more?” asked Cora. “You’re the Baker. You’re the one who makes this world what it is. Can’t you just … whip up a new batch of nonsense?”

“It’s not like gingersnaps,” said the Baker.

“So it is like flour and it’s not like gingersnaps and you’re still the person in charge of this whole world, so why can’t you just decide that what you’re baking now is a happy ending for everyone involved?” Cora folded her arms, resisting the urge to scowl. “I’m tired, I’m confused, and I’m not made for a Nonsense world, so I’d be really pleased if you’d just fix it.”

“Sometimes you say ‘nonsense’ like it’s an idea and sometimes you say it like it’s a proper name,” said the Baker. “Why is that?”

“You found a door,” said Kade.

The Baker turned to him, blinking. He shrugged.

“Maybe it was in the back of the pantry, or maybe it was in your bedroom, or heck, maybe it was in the middle of the street, but you found a door, and when you went through it, everything was different. You had a kitchen, and all the supplies you could want, and a world that wanted you to bake it a future.”

“I do that literally,” murmured the Baker. “The prophecies that make the future run the way it should? I pipe them onto sugar cookies and toss them to the wind for distribution. It takes a lot of time. Frosting isn’t a good medium for lengthy dissertations on fate.”

“I guess it wouldn’t be,” said Kade. “But you found a door, and it brought you here, and you know you’re not the first person to work in this kitchen, so I’m guessing you’re afraid that the door will come back one day and send you back to wherever you came from.”

“Brooklyn,” said the Baker, and just like that, she wasn’t a god, or a creator figure, or anything of the sort: she was a teenager in a hijab, with flour on her hands and a downcast expression on her face. “How did you know that? Are you here to take me back?”

“We’d never do that to anyone,” said Cora. “Ever. But you asked why we talk the way we do.”

“If your door ever reappears, if you ever find yourself back in a world that you don’t want any part of, look up Eleanor West’s Home for Wayward Children, and see if you can get your parents to send you there,” said Christopher. “You’ll be with people who understand.”

The Baker frowned. “Right,” she said finally. “But that’s not going to happen, because I’m going to stay here forever.”

Cora and Christopher, who both knew better, exchanged a look, and said nothing. There was nothing appropriate to say.

“That’s lovely for you, miss, but we’d like to get back to school and back to the business of looking for our own doors,” said Kade politely. “Can’t you whip up a new batch of nonsense for Sumi, so we can put her all the way back together?”

“I don’t know how,” said the Baker, sounding frustrated. “Nonsense happens on its own. It’s in the air, the water—the ground.”

“Which is made of graham crackers,” said Cora.

“Exactly! It makes no sense, so it makes more nonsense. I can’t just whip up a batch of something that doesn’t have a recipe.”

“Can’t you improvise?” Cora shook her head. “Please. We’ve come so far, and we’ve already paid for this. Sumi needs help. Sumi needs a miracle. Right now, you’re the one who makes the miracles. So please.”

The Baker looked to each of them in turn, finally stopping on Rini, who was still weeping, even as she seemed less and less tethered to the world.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll try.”

*

WHEN THE BAKER had beckoned to Sumi, Sumi had gone willingly. How could she do anything else? This was the divinity of her chosen world calling her home, and even as a combination of skeleton and shade, she knew where she belonged.

Kade had helped the Baker lift Sumi up onto a long metal table that looked, if seen from the right angle, disturbingly like the autopsy table that used to occupy the basement, the one where a girl named Jack had slept and dreamed of a world defined by blood and thunder. Then he had stepped back, along with the others, and watched as she got to work.