It was a chilly winter’s evening in Sherborne St. John. The air clawed at William’s face as he stood outside the bakery. Its owner, Ms. Azalea, was famous for making some of the sweetest cakes in all of Hampshire; something from Ms. Azalea would warm your heart, put a bounce in your stride, and make the troubles of the world seem so far behind you.
William suspected there was something more to Ms. Azalea, however. He lived next door, and from his bedroom window he could see down into the bakery’s garden. On more than one occasion he could have sworn Ms. Azalea was conversing with her cat. Not just in the casual way so many people in England do, but with a reciprocal understanding with her cat, as if she could speak to it. She owned a very pointy black hat and was inclined to sweep her store with a broomstick made of willow. William was convinced she was a witch (or a wizard — he wasn’t an expert in these sorts of things).
“William, why are you standing there in such ghastly weather?” came a call from the door of the bakery.
It was Ms. Azalea.
He had been caught.
“I was just coming to ask a favour of you, Ms.,” he sheepishly responded.
“Of me?
Come inside, my dear, out of the cold.
I’m just closing up,” she said, her voice oozing the sweetness her baking was known for.
She guided William inside, past the counter, into a small kitchen.
Not the one where she baked; this one was far cosier.
A kettle clicked on the countertop, its job complete.
“Now, what was this favour you’re so worried about?”
“Well, as you know, Ms., it’s the cake competition tomorrow at school, and, well, I kinda left it to the last minute,” he said. “You see, we don’t have any sugar in the house, and the shops are all closed. Could I borrow some sugar from you?”
“Oh, William, I’m so sorry,” Ms. Azalea said, beaming a smile back at him.
“I would love to help, but I use a…special…type of sugar in my baking.
It’s very particular about who uses it.”
William sat, confused.
“It, Ms. Azalea?”
“Do you believe in magic, William?” Ms. Azalea asked out of nowhere.
“I guess I do, Ms. Azalea,” he admitted, but he wasn’t sure if this was a lie or not.
William thought himself far too old for that sort of nonsense, but sat here in front of Ms. Azalea, who seemed very magical indeed…
“The sugar I use is magic sugar,” she said, the word magic sounding like it was covered in icing.
“You can only use it if you bake with love,” she continued, “and a baking competition is more about competition than love, don’t you agree?”
William nodded; he knew he shouldn’t have asked.
“If you demand something that isn’t love from the sugar, it will demand something from you,” she finished.
If she didn’t want to share, she could have just said no, instead of making up magic sugar.
“Now, would you like a cup of tea?” Ms. Azalea said, standing, turning her back on William.
“No, thanks, Ms.,” he shouted, halfway out the door already.
“Well, wrap up warm before you go standing outside any other bakeries, OK?” she called after him.
As William walked down the hallway to the front of the bakery, a glimmer caught his eye.
A cupboard to his left had its door ajar, and inside sat a shelf adorned with tens, maybe hundreds, of bags of sugar.
The pressure of the competition pressed hard on William’s chest.
He had come dead last the year before, and he refused to come last again.
“She won’t miss one,” he thought to himself, and he slipped away with the bag of sugar into the night.
Back home, William stared into the bag of sugar; each granule seemed to reflect a different colour of the light. “Maybe it was magic,” he thought as he poured the ingredients into a bowl. Although he couldn’t see it, a black cat watched silently through his kitchen window.
An hour later William had the most perfect-looking, sweet-smelling cupcakes he had ever seen. He laid them out on the side to cool.
“What smells so good?” he heard his dad call from the doorway.
Without asking, he strode over and grabbed one of the cupcakes from William’s cooling rack.
“Dad, they’re for school tomorrow,” William protested.
“Put it back!”.
William’s dad looked at the perfect little cupcake, eyes wide, nostrils savouring the freshly baked smell.
“We have to taste-test them before we let your mates try them,” he said with a sneer.
“It’s just science.”
Without another word he pulled back the paper case and popped the cupcake whole into his mouth.
“Oh, so hot,” William heard through what little space in his dad’s mouth not occupied by the cupcake.
His dad almost swallowed it whole—or at least, that’s what it seemed like to William.
“This tastes amazing, William!” he exclaimed.
“You’ve outdone yourself, my lad.”
William, although filled with annoyance that his dad had stolen a cupcake, brimmed with pride. The prize was certainly his, this year.
Without warning, his dad snorted.
He wiggled his nose.
“I feel awfully funny,” he stated.
A loud popping sound filled William’s ears, and in the blink of an eye, where his dad once stood, was a full-bodied pig.
It began squealing and frantically thrashing around the kitchen.
William jumped on the worktop, narrowly avoiding being pinned under a flying kitchen table.
“She did warn you,” came a calm voice from behind him.
William pulled his eyes and ears away from the chaos that was being unleashed in his kitchen, to see Ms. Azalea’s cat perched in the open window.
“She said it will demand something from you,” it continued, “and it seems it has rewarded your father’s greediness instead.”
“You can talk?!” was all that came from William’s panicked brain.
“Help me, what can I do?”
“Don’t ask me. I’m not the witch,” the cat said.
“You need Ms. Azalea’s help.”
Behind him, William’s father had found the bin and had spilled its contents across the floor.
It seemed to be distracting him from breaking more of the kitchen.
“But I stole the sugar. She won’t help me,” William said, tears welling up in his eyes.
“I rather think you don’t have a choice,” said the cat, “unless you like bacon,” his eyes darting towards William’s dad.
A loud banging at the door startled Ms. Azalea.
She grinned knowingly, and headed towards the front of the bakery.
Opening the door, she was greeted by William, tears spilling from his face, snot running from his nose.
“Ms., Ms., Ms. Azalea, I’m so sorry,” he sobbed.
“I wanted to win so badly.
I needed to bake something, and your cakes always smelled the sweetest.
I stole a bag of your sugar,” he said, words spilling out between tears.
Ms. Azalea smiled a sweet, soft smile.
“Tell me what has happened,” she said.
“My dad,” William cried, “he’s a pig.
Like a real pig.”
“It’s all right; we can fix this together.”
She reached her hand into her pocket and pulled out a packet of Polos.
“Show me the way,” she demanded.
William led Ms. Azalea into his garden, pointing through the window at the pig with its head in an overturned fridge.
“Look,” he said, “there he is”.
She took a single Polo from the top of the pack and said, “Sometimes when you have too many sweet things, you need a palate cleanser”.
She threw the mint through the window, landing it perfectly in front of the pig.
Its nose picked up the scent of the Polo immediately.
Turning, it hoovered up the small white circle.
“Give it a minute,” Ms. Azalea whispered.
A loud popping sound filled William’s ears once more, and in another blink of an eye, where a pig once stood, was his dad.
“What is the meaning of this?” he roared.
“William, why is the table knocked over? My goodness, the fridge,” he said in disbelief.
His gaze moved to the window, noticing William and Ms. Azalea standing outside.
“Hello,” Ms. Azalea said, waving, “William had just popped over to ask for a recipe, and we heard a terrible bang.”
She glanced at William for an almost imperceptible moment; he thought he saw her wink.
“We thought it was an earthquake, and by the state of your kitchen, I think we were right.
Would you like a hand cleaning up?”
The rest of the evening was a blur of cleaning, putting things back the right way up, and convincing William’s dad that small localised earthquakes were a thing.
When all was said and done, Ms. Azalea stole a moment alone with William.
“Now, about the sugar you took,” she began.
“I know, it was wrong,” William interrupted, “and I won’t do it again. I promise.”
A smile spread across her face.
“I hope we can keep this little secret between the two of us?” she said.
“Oh, yes, the magic sugar. Between the two of us,” he confirmed.
“Well, the three of us,” he thought, side-eyeing the cat.
“True magic comes from love, William,” she said warmly. “Maybe you could come round to the bakery in your holidays, and I’ll teach you how to bake with it?”
“That sounds nice,” said William.