No one moved for a moment.
What filled the great kitchen was not silence but pressure—like the air itself was listening. The machines slowed. The copper pipes ceased their humming. Even the steam seemed to hang midair, suspended.
Felix stood frozen by the open tray, the broken seal still glowing faintly on the counter. The sweet, dark scent that had enchanted him moments ago had turned cloying—too rich, too thick, as though it wanted to crawl into his lungs.
Vellum approached, his footsteps barely audible on the tiled floor. "Tell me," he said softly, "how did it taste?
Felix tried to speak, but his voice wouldn't come. His mouth felt coated, like the chocolate was still there, clinging to him. Finally, he managed, "It… it was beautiful."
"Ah," Vellum murmured, his head nodding. "Beauty is dangerous when it asks for nothing in return."
He reached out and touched the edge of the tray; the glow dimmed instantly. "You've woken something that sleeps beneath sweetness. The city does not take kindly to theft."
Felix frowned. "I didn't steal—
Vellum lifted a single gloved finger. "Did it offer itself to you?
Felix hesitated. "No."
"Then it was taken."
The voice of the Confectioner remained quiet, almost soft, but it seemed as if every word vibrated in the bones; the air became heavy.
Aya took a step back, whispering to Nia, "Do you feel that?"
Nia nodded. The warmth beneath the floorboards had changed-it pulsed faster now, almost frantic. The same heartbeat that had throbbed under their beds last night now ran through the entire room.
Felix swayed on his feet. His reflection in the caramel wall looked wrong—his skin a shade too pale, his eyes catching the light in a strange way, like glass instead of flesh.
Vellum regarded him thoughtfully. "What the city gives, it marks. What it marks, it remembers."
He snapped his fingers once. The sound cracked like sugar glass breaking.
A soft rustling began from above, like paper unwrapping, like foil crinkling. The children looked up and saw hundreds of ribbons unfurl from the ceiling. They glittered faintly, silver and gold, curling through the air in graceful spirals before descending toward Felix.
First, it looked beautiful. Then the ribbons touched him.
They didn't bind or hurt—just adhered, like syrup. They wrapped around his wrists, his shoulders, his chest. When he exhaled, the ribbons pulsed faintly, as though matching his breath.
Felix's eyes widened. "What's—what's happening?"
Vellum's face didn't change, yet "The city is learning your flavor."
The ribbons tugged once, then let go. The glow on the tray finally went out. The heartbeat slowed. The pipes began to hum again.
When it was over, the ribbons detached and melted away into nothing but air. Felix staggered, gripping the counter. His reflection still looked strange, but the others weren't sure why—it was him, but something about his shadow moved a second slower than his body.
Vellum touched his shoulder lightly. "You live because the city is merciful. Remember that, Mr. Moreau."
Felix opened his mouth then closed it.
"The lesson," Vellum went on, turning back to the others, "is this: creation demands respect. Every sweetness has its cost. Every rule, its reason."
He glanced at each of them in turn-Aya quivering, Tomas pale, Nia still and wide-eyed. His gaze lingered on Nia longest of all, and for the space of a heartbeat she thought she saw something behind those golden eyes-pity, maybe, or sorrow.
Then the warmth returned in his voice. "Clean your stations. We dine at sunset."
The class moved wordlessly about. Felix scrubbed the marble slab until it shone, but the stain where his hand had rested wouldn't disappear. No amount of wiping would remove the faint outline of his fingers, dark and shiny as oil.
When they left the kitchen, Nia ventured one last look at the sealed tray; it sat quiet and cool again, but she could have sworn she heard a faint whisper rise from it as the door closed behind them-soft as breath, almost amused.
"Sweetness remembers…"