#pastr

[aravind4mech]

Best Baking and Pastry classes

Description:

      Knead and Frost Culinary School of Excellence offers acclaimed proficiency to aspiring home bakers, ambitious pastry chefs, craftsmen, cooking aspirants and new business owners worldwide. The academy is built with advanced facilities and well trained and high quality experienced chef to train and support a vibrant and fun learning atmosphere for students. The academy is fully furnished with high quality machinery and ample work station with eco-friendly environment.

World-class educational destination for students, Professionals, and entrepreneurs who wish to learn about the culinary arts.

For more information

[fullcravings]

Italian Sfogliatine with Ricotta - Ricotta Puffed Pastries

[sosnastudios]

Snakes of New York

[i-dont-eat-drywall]

*appears*

”?”

[tolupas]

[shoe109]

I haven’t slept a full 8 hours in days I am seeing visions of men

[hopefullyababe]

that coffeeshop on campus has such mediocre pastries. like. they arent BAD. the taste ranges from mid to pretty damn good. but theyre dryer than camel spit and stick to your mouth in an unpleasant way. the real upset comes when you get yourself a pretty looking pastry that tastes mid and puts your mouth square into the sahara desert. the coffee dudnt even help.

[chronographes]

ZRC Grands-Fonds 300 m Série 1 : entrée en matière

ZRC Grands-Fonds 300 m Série 1 : entrée en matière

[bromfieldhall]

Dear Family

Set the day after A Family of Their Own

Colin tells his family that Penelope is expecting.

Just a bit of domestic fluff with a dash of humour

Rating: General

Part of Love and Life Collection

DEAR FAMILY

Colin held the stick of red sealing wax in the flickering candle flame and watched as it slowly melted. Once satisfied it was ready, he deftly held it over the folds of his recently finished letter and allowed several drips to fall onto the paper. Putting the stick to one side, he picked up his silver seal and pressed it firmly into the rapidly cooling wax for several seconds until he was certain that it was set.

Flipping it over, he wrote his sisters name and new address upon the front before adding it to the small pile of other missives he had written that morning.

Satisfied with a job well done, he gave a slight nod of his head and returned his quill to its holder.

Glancing at the clock he noted that it was almost nine thirty and he had yet to breakfast. He had been waiting for Penelope to awaken but it seemed that all the emotional upheaval from the previous evenings’ Ball had taken its toll. His wife was bound to be exhausted.

Standing up, he walked around his desk over to the door of their bed chamber then entered quietly and padded towards the bed. Coming to a halt by her side, he gazed down at her and a soft smile touched his lips. Lovingly, he reached out and gently brushed back an errant curl that was resting upon her cheek.

She was on her back, head turned towards him, an arm flung out to the side and those perfect, perfect lips of hers were slightly parted.

A gentle snore reached his ears and his smile widened. It only happened if she lay on her back, which really wasn’t often as she was invariably wrapped in his arms. He found it endearing. Penelope, however, did not and so, like any good husband, he’d made the very wise decision never to mention it again.  

She shifted slightly in her sleep and his hopes that she might be awakening were dashed when rolled onto her side away from him.

His pang of disappointment was only matched by the pang of hunger that swirled in his gut. As if to reinforce its need even further, his stomach gave a low grumble and Colin sighed.

He needed to eat.

He also needed to get those letters to the post as soon as possible. They had a fair way to travel and he wanted their good news to reach their destination as soon as possible.

With one last lingering look at his wife, he left their bed chamber and picked up his letters then headed out of their suite.

He’d just reached the bottom of the stairs when Penelope’s maid, Rae, appeared and gave a quick curtsey.

“You have visitors, Sir,” she informed him with a smile, gesturing towards the sitting room.

“Visitors?” he replied in surprise, glancing over at the closed door. Wondering who it could be so early in the morning, he took a couple of steps before remembering the letters and turned back to Rae holding them out. “Please see that these are sent out by morning post.” He turned away again as she took them with a nod and headed to greet their unexpected guests.

“Mother!” he exclaimed when he opened the door and saw her standing in front of the fireplace. “What are you doing here at this hour? Is everything well with you?”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” grumbled Benedict from where he lounged on the sofa perusing a newspaper.

“Brother,” Colin acknowledged with a cursory nod as Violet smiled at her son then walked over and gave him a hug.

“All is fine, Colin,” she told him reassuringly. “We have just come to see how Penelope is this morning. Does she feel better?”

“She is not yet awake,” he told her regretfully and gestured for his parent to sit. “Would you like some tea?”

“I’ve already asked for some,” Benedict put in helpfully, still reading.

Colin shot him a mildly irritated look then, as if on cue, there was a knock at the door and a maid entered with a tray. When she put it down, he was grateful to note that there was a plate full of pastries alongside the china teapot and cups.

“It is good that Penelope is resting still. Hopefully whatever malady she is suffering from will pass quickly,” his mother stated kindly as she watched him pour tea for them all.

Colin paused and stared at her with a slight frown. He was sure that Penelope had told him that his mother had guessed her condition. He was about to say as much when he suddenly also remembered that she’d also suggested that they may consider delaying their announcement.

But surely she didn’t mean to the family?

“I rather think Penelope’s malady will last a few months yet considering she is with child,” he finally remarked with a smile.

“Oh! Colin, that is wonderful news!” Violet exclaimed, a study in perfect surprise. Colin was quite impressed. She rose from her seat and crossed the room to embrace him again.

He managed to put the teapot down before he spilled anything and when his mother released him, Benedict was there to offer his own felicitations.

“My heartiest congratulations to you both,” he said, pulling Colin into a hug that almost took his breath away. Then he stood back and added with a knowing smirk, “It seems it all did happen very swiftly indeed, brother.”

Colin felt his cheeks warm.

“That is not…we didn’t…”

He stopped and glanced at his mother’s mildly reproving face then to Benedict’s amused one and let out a heavy sigh of resignation.

“What I mean to say is that the news should remain within the family for now. We’ll put a formal announcement out in a few weeks in Pen’s column.”

“That is probably wise,” Violet commented meaningfully.

“Mama…” he began, even more heat flooding into his cheeks.

He felt the need to come up with some kind of explanation that could possibly excuse such ungentlemanly behaviour from him in regards to Penelope before they were married.

Violet held up her hand and shook her head. “Please, Colin, you do not need to say anything more. I am not so naïve as you’d like to believe,” she assured him hastily as she picked up one of the teas he had poured out. Raising the steaming brew to her lips, she added with a wry mutter, “And you are your father’s son, after all.”

The brief, shocked silence that followed her comment was broken by Benedict all but choking on his own sip of tea and a clatter of china.

“Mother!” Colin groaned in embarrassment.

He didn’t want to know.

Violet merely resumed her seat and continued to drink her tea with a serene smile.

“Yes, well, I too think it a good idea that you delay any announcement to the rest of the Ton,” Benedict suddenly declared in an overly bright voice, breaking the slightly awkward silence that had once again descended over them.

Colin shot him a grateful look and nodded in agreement, eager to steer the conversation away from the mere hint that their parents had done anything untoward before they were wed.

“I would not want people to speculate upon our marriage.”

“You should not concern yourself with that. You know the truth, that is all that matters,” Benedict commented dismissively.

“Yes, but ever since Whistledown was revealed, there are some that have been unpleasant even with the Queen’s endorsement,” he replied on a sigh.

“You can hardly blame them, brother.”

“I do not, but that does not mean that I wish for Penelope to hear such things,” he retorted, bristling at the thought of his wife being the target of malicious untruths.

Whistledown sheets might have been harsh at times, but there were never lies.

“That is understandable,” Benedict agreed and reached out to give his younger brother’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “And you can be assured that I, for one, will defend my dear sister’s good name should I overhear even the faintest suggestion that your marriage is anything other than a true, love match.”

For once, Colin didn’t see the usual whimsical smile or hear the lightness in his voice that he was so used to with Benedict and he knew he’d meant what he said.

“Thank you, brother.”

Benedict nodded then poured himself another tea and picked up one of the pastries before adding with a grin, “Except for Anthony. You’re on your own with him.”

Colin let out a huff of laughter at that and picked up the plate to offer a pastry to his mother who was watching them in amusement. She shook her head and he plucked a sweet treat for himself.

“I have already written to him. I thought it better that he receives the news whilst in another country.”

“For you or for him?” Benedict queried, still smiling.

“Probably both,” Colin admitted with another chuckle.

The men took their seats and they all spent another half an hour chatting before Violet and Benedict took their leave.

He saw them out with a promise of giving Penelope their best regards, then called a maid to arrange for tea and toast to be brought to his and his wife’s suite. Eagerly, he headed upstairs to see if she was awake and found her sitting on the edge of their bed, in her robe, looking a little pale.

She visibly brightened when she saw him and smiled happily.

“Good morning, my love,” he greeted and bent over to give her a brief kiss. Sitting down by her side, he took hold of her hand and laced their fingers together. “How are you feeling?”

Exhausted. And a tiny bit queasy. And she couldn’t be happier because it was a reminder of the tiny life that was growing inside of her.

“I am well.”

His gaze ran over her wan features and noted the tiredness that still lingered in her eyes in concern.

“Are you sure? I’ve asked the maid to bring up a tray for you so there’s no need to hurry, our day is quite clear. We can stay here as long as you like.”

In truth, some time alone with her husband did sound wonderful. She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it softly enjoying the slight hitch in his breathing at the simple act. It was a heady thing to know that she affected him as much as he did her.

“Have I told you lately just what a very good man you are?”

“Yes, but I am always happy to hear you say it one more time,” he revealed with a grin.

She laughed and he captured her lips with his again. A slow, tender kiss that promised more but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

It was the tray he’d requested and Penelope joined him in the salon where he, very attentively, poured her a cup of tea and buttered some toast. She ate her food, relieved when she felt her stomach settle and listened as Colin told her of Violet and Benedict’s visit.

She agreed that announcing their news in her column would be the best idea, although she supposed there would be talk. For the first time, though, she found herself quite uncaring about what other people thought. Her life was different now. She was no longer that shy wallflower who stuttered when someone deigned to speak to her, living on the outskirts of life.

Now, she was a part of something more.

She had a man who loved her; all of her. Her own family were closer than they’d ever been and her extended family were the most loving, forgiving souls she’d ever met.

And, amazingly, she was expecting a child. One borne out of love. A love that had the strongest of foundations – friendship. 

Considering how the season had started, she could hardly believe at times how it had ended; with her having everything she’d ever wanted.  

“Are you finished?” Colin enquired as Penelope placed her cup down. When she nodded, he got up to call for the maid to come and remove the tray.

“Leave it,” she said, grabbing hold of his hand as he walked by. He turned to look at her, brow raised questioningly. She stood up and began walking towards their bed chamber, tugging him along behind. Looking over her shoulder at him, she smiled mischievously. “You did say our day was clear, did you not?”

“Utterly,” he confirmed, matching her smile.

“Good, because I have a need to lie down again.”

“Oh? Are you tired, love?” Colin asked, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her flush against him as he kicked the bedroom door shut behind them.

“Not at all,” she replied, wrapping her arms around his neck and tilting her face up to gaze at him lovingly.

Her husband laughed and muttered a fervent, “Thank God!” before kissing her thoroughly and taking her to bed for the rest of the day.

A few days later, two letters arrived at the Kilmartin estate in Scotland. One addressed to Francesca and one to Eloise.

Francesca opened hers and shared the delightful news of a future niece or nephew with her husband John and his cousin Michaela. Both were suitably pleased and Fran hoped against hope that she, too, would soon be able to share similar news of her own.

Elosie was in her room when she received her letter from one of the maids. True to her word, she kept to herself as much as was polite so that her sister wouldn’t regret the decision to allow her to join them.

She opened it eagerly, keen, as always, to hear from home and smiled when she read her brother and best friends’ happy news. Grabbing some paper she quickly penned a reply congratulating them and added her hopes of it being a girl.

Once finished she placed it to one side and fiddled with the quill debating whether she should write another. They hadn’t been in Scotland a week before a friend of John’s had visited and mentioned in passing that a neighbour of his had recently lost his wife – one Lady Crane.

Although Eloise hadn’t known Marina very well herself, she had been Penelope’s cousin and now, by extension, family. Therefore, after she’d sent a missive to her friend informing her of the sad news, she’d also sent a short note to Marina’s widower offering her condolences.

While she had half expected a polite reply to her message, when it came, she certainly hadn’t expected a pressed flower to fall out into her lap. Marina’s favourite, he’d written. It was a touching gesture that had her wanting to acknowledge it.

So far, she had restrained herself. She knew it wasn’t the proper thing to do, she didn’t know the man. But now, seeing how everyone was moving on around her, she felt an urge to have something for herself.

The flower lay nestled in the folds of the letter as she carefully opened it up and reached out to run a finger gently along one of the delicate petals. Red Campion, he had called it but, despite its name, the flower itself was a vibrant pink.

She let out a soft sigh and folded the letter again, keeping its precious contents safe, then, decision made, she took a piece of paper and dipped her quill into the ink.

It was only a letter after all. There was nothing to say he would reply a second time and very likely it would come to naught.

With that in mind, she began to write:

Dear Sir Philip-

Thank you so very much for the charming pressed flower…

A few weeks after that, a letter arrived for the Viscount and Viscountess Bridgerton in India.

Anthony’s first reaction was one of joy. Another niece or nephew was always a welcome thing and he knew his brother would be a good father.

Truly, he was most pleased for them both.

Then Kate had pointed out, with a knowing smile, that it was likely they’d be having an early baby.

As he’d continued to read and his wife’s words had sunk in, his own smile had slowly faded from Anthony’s face.

He hadn’t.

They hadn’t.

Oh, but they had.

And as he read Colin’s parting words, Anthony was very glad he wasn’t still in England because although a part of him wanted to laugh at his younger sibling’s flaming audacity, a larger part would dearly have loved to wring the blighter’s bloody neck…

“In truth, I wanted to thank you, brother. For if it wasn’t for you encouraging me to tell Penelope of my feelings that day, we would not now be celebrating such a happy outcome.

Yours gratefully,

Colin”

[chinomiko]

Hello Chino!

First of all I wanted to thank you for the great work you've done to made Eldarya and Dolce flirt (is the name of the Italian version☺️).

I wanted to ask about something that was never really explained...if you can of course!

Why does Ezrael dislike to be touched? Is it because he is germophobic or because of some past trauma😩😩?

hi ! thank you 🥰

I must say there is not always a super deep explanation for everything. And here is the case. Ez just doesnt like being "surprised" by someone entering his private space and touching him. He prefers being the one to initiate a contact, being in control of a situation overall. But nothing about being germophobic or a pastr trauma or anything so peculiar. Have a nice day !

[soopsiedaisies]

Hey!! Hey!!! Do you want to bake an easy snack?? Do you want something sweet and fruity, but not too sweet?? Boy have I got the thing for you

APPLEFLAPS

This is a treat that, as far as I know, is rather common in Belgium, The Netherlands, and some parts Germany. It’s one of the first baked goods that Dutch kids learn to make, shortly followed by peppernuts and apple pie and poundcake. It’s easy, only requires a couple of ingredients, and has quite a short baking time. You literally cannot go wrong with this I promise. Recipe under the cut

INGREDIENTS NEEDED:

Square puff pastry sheets, but round ones work as well. About 12cm by 12cm preferably (like 4 and half inches by 4 and a half inches). Each sheet will be one (1) pastry. If you get one massive sheet, cut it into smaller squares with like a pair of scissors. Idc I’m not your dad. 

Apples, for the filling. Ones you use for apple pie work best but any apples will do. Make sure you’ve got at least 4 large ones (you can eat the leftover filling by the spoonful) 

Lemon (or lime) juice, to prevent browning of the apples (and to prevent overwhelming sweetness, if the apples aren’t a bit sour themselves)

Sugar (to taste and for decoration) 

Ground cinnamon

An egg for the eggwash (if vegan or allergic to eggs or without eggs, water works as well)

Some lukewarm water

Optional: Vanilla sugar

Optional: (rum-)soaked raisins 

UTENSILS NEEDED

Baking sheet

Baking paper

Bowl (large enough for at least 4 cut-up apples)

Knife

Cutting board (covering my bases here) 

Spoon

Fork 

Lil brush for the eggwash

Your fingers

A fucking oven. 

To start

Preheat the oven to 175 Celcius, or about 350 Fahrenheit. If you got the kind of puff pastry that’s frozen, take that out to thaw a little bit. Line your baking sheet with baking paper. 

The filling:

Peel the apples. Cut them in half, then in quarters. Core them. Cut the quarters in half lengthwise, then gather a few together and cut these width wise: you want to end up with little triangles. The thickness of these triangles depends wholly on how chunky you want the filling to be. I usually go for about 5 millimetres, which means there’s still some chunk after baking. 

Throw the pieces in a bowl. Add a dash of lemon juice, maybe a bit more if the apples are really sweet and you don’t really like that. Throw in the (totally optional) raisins, add some sugar, and pound the bottom of the ground cinnamon jar. Mix with a spoon and give it a little taste. Not sweet enough? Add more sugar. Not cinnamon-y enough? Add more cinnamon. Is it too sweet, or too cinnamon-y? Don’t worry, if you’ve got another apple cut that one up and throw it in. Give it a taste. Still too sweet? Lemon juice. It’ll help. Not more apples? Just roll with it. It’ll taste great either way. 

You can heat the filling a little bit if you want, but it’s not necessary and will only result in extra dishes. 

Folding and stuff

Filling’s done, and puff pastry’s thawed? Great. Let’s get to filling and folding. 

The common shape of the appleflap is a triangle because we tend to use square puff pastry sheets. It doesn’t really matter what the shape ends up being, as long as it’s folded in half and forms a little pocket (you don’t want the filling to spill out a whole lot). 

What you do is grab one of the pastry sheets, put it down flat, and put a spoonful (a little less, a little more. It’s a bit of fiddling) in the middle of it. Avoid the edges. Then you use that jar of lukewarm water: using the brush or your fingers, wet one half of the edge of the pastry sheet. Then pinch the dry half and pull it a bit, folding it over. The filling shouldn’t burst out of the pocket or tear the dough: if it does only a little bit, it’s fine, but if it’s far too much simply peel the pocket back open and take some of the filling out. 

You’ll notice that when you press the wet edge to the dry edge, it’ll stick shut. Decorate/further secure the edge by crimping it with a fork. There. You’ve done it. That’s a fucking pastry. Carefully place it on the baking sheet, and just continue on until you’re out of pastry dough. 

(There will usually be some filling left. This is for you to eat, or for the kiddos you’re making it with) 

Finishing touches 

Stand before the overfull baking sheet and determine whether or not the pastries will touch as they bake. If they do, take some out. Two rounds of baking is also doable. It’s kind of like cookies. 

Brush the top of the pastries with the eggwash or water, then sprinkle some sugar on top. At this point you throw them into the preheated oven for about 25 minutes and just wait. Keep bit of an eye on them though, you don’t want them to burn. 

…and that’s it. That’s all there’s to it. They’re fantastic to eat when still warm, and they’re still fantastic when cold. The sugar melts and comes a bit caramel-y so the pastry is a bit tacky, yet the puff pastry itself is still fluffy and dry. The apple pie filling is just fruity goodness. Easy, fun. You can replace the apple filling with different fruits if you want (cherry and apricot is also brilliant). Enjoy!

[marylandaccountx4]

:D

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[probablyasocialecologist]

In drylands and montane systems, these are often what are called ‘non-equilibrium’ systems, driven by variations in rain or snowfall, rather than the population pressures of animals. When a drought occurs, for example, very often, annual grasses disappear, grazing is short, and animals are lost, but when the rain comes again, the system bounces back, and so do animal populations. Concepts such as carrying capacity and stocking rate control, designed for stable grasslands in more temperate settings, are largely irrelevant in such highly variable environments. The traditional conservationist plea to return to a balance of nature simply does not apply. This makes regulating livestock populations according to fixed numbers for ‘conservation’ purposes inappropriate – as has been imposed on reindeer herders in Norway or Maasai pastoralists in Tanzania.

[...]

Rangelands, where pastoralists make a living, are ‘open ecosystems’, mixes of trees and grasses maintained by a combination of grazing and fire. These are highly dynamic ecosystems – savannas, parklands, montane rangelands, and so on – and are important on all continents. Yet they remain poorly understood as many assume that the ‘climax’ vegetation is always a closed forest. This has led some to argue for the planting of trees in rangelands. The assumption is that these are degraded forests and planting trees can return the landscape to its ‘natural’ state, and in the process, carbon can be sequestered and sold. This is a big mistake, rooted in a poor ecological understanding. What is ’natural’ is, of course, unclear given these areas have been used for millennia. Trees planted in such settings often die and tree planting projects have a dismal track record. Tree planting may not be the best method for sequestering carbon, even if above-ground carbon is easier to sell on offset markets, as grasslands and soils are massively important but poorly understood parts of the carbon cycle.

[queersrus]

sweets theme

[sweets theme]

for @seraphim-coinz 's event, prompt one !

partnered with our other blogs @dollilian, @objectumluv, @systiveboxes, @skelatomy

(nick)names:

ambrosia, ambrosios, ambrosius, ambrose, anoush, anika, aynabat, adoncia bonbon, baker, bonnie, biscuit, brownie, blondie

candy/candi/candie, cake, choco, cocoa/coco, chocolate, chocolotte, caramel, cream, creamy/creami/creamie, cookie, candace/candice, custard, cobbler, crumb, cupcake

dessert, desserta, dulci/dulce/dulcie, dulcis, dulcinea, dulcea, donut esti, estin, eclair fudge, flan

gummi/gummie/gummy, gum, ginger, glykeria, gello, gela, gelatin, gelato honey/honi/honie, hedylogos

jello, jelly, jellybean kandaja licorice, loly/lolly/loli/lolie

Madeleine, milis, maire, maple, meli, meline, melina, melita, melite, meliton, mel, meila, miette, mora, mattox nectur/necture, necturine/nectarine

pastry/pastrie, pie, pomona, pamela/pamella/pamila, pamelia, paniz, pudding

sugar, sweet, sweetie, sweetette, sweetetta, sweetelle, sweetiebelle, sweetella, sweetiebella, sweetine, sweetina, sweatiepie, sucrose, sadhbh, shirin, sive, sundae, s'more, sherbert, sherbet, sorbet

taffy/taffie, toffee, tart zis, zisel

1st p prns: i/me/my/mine/myself

bi/bone/bonbony/bonbine/bonbonself ci/cane/candy/candine/candyself ci/cake/caky/cakine/cakeself cri/cre/creamy/creamine/creamself di/desse/desserty/dessertine/dessertself hi/hone/honey/honine/honeyself pi/paste/pastry/pastrine/pastryself pi/pie/py/pine/pieself si/suge/sugary/sugarine/sugarself swi/sweete/sweety/sweetine/sweetself

2nd p prns: you/your/yours/yourself

bo/bonbor/bonbonrs/bonborself ci/cander/candiers/canderself co/caker/cakers/cakerself cro/creamer/creamers/creamerself do/desser/dessertrs/dessertrself ho/honeyr/honeyrs/honeyrself po/pastr/pastrs/pastrself po/pier/piers/pierself so/sugar/sugars/sugarself swo/sweeter/sweeters/sweeterself

3rd p prns: they/them/theirs/themself

bon/bon can/candy, can/dy, candy/candies, crea/cream, cream/creamy des/dessert, des/sert, dess/ert, dessert/desserts ho/honey, ho/ney, honey/honeys pas/pastry, pa/stry, pastry/pastries, pi/pie, pie/pies su/gar, su/sugar, sugar/sugars, sugar/sugary, swe/et, swee/eet, swe/sweet, sweet/sweets, sweet/sweetly, sweet/sweetness, sugary/sweets

titles:

the sweetest of sweets, the sugar king/queen, the pastry baker, the candy maker, the sweetest dessert, the pie baker, the cake eater, the creamy dessert lover

*one who makes sweets, one who bakes the sweetest pastries, one who adores honey filled pies

*one can be replaced with any pronouns

[tolupas]

[marvelmusing]

Total Eclipse

Chapter Two

Pairing: Darklina x Fem!Reader

Summary: After retrieving the candles for your saint, you join Mikhael and Dubrov at the market, only to meet someone unexpected.

Word Count: 3.1K

My Masterlist

“You know, these sure could fetch a pretty penny,” Mikhael remarks, hooking a finger over the edge of the leather satchel sitting beside you.

Not looking away from your book, you swat his hand away before he can reveal the contents of your bag to the prying eyes of the market.

As night faded from the sky early this morning, you had visited the nearest meeting point for the Cult of the Starless One. In exchange for the black candles for your church’s altar, you paint your Saint’s symbol over their candles and wooden icons in shimmering silver.

Due to an old superstition in Keramzin, only the Cult uses black candles. Everyone else believes that lighting one would summon a nichevo’ya – one of the monsters created by the Darkling during the Ravkan Civil War over a century ago.

“I know. Hands off.”

Mikhael shrugs.

“Suit yourself.”

At the sound of his smug nonchalance, you glance up from where you’ve perched yourself on a low stone wall. Dubrov lowers a box onto their makeshift table, the wood creaking as the weight of the box thuds against it. As he opens it up, you spot something vaguely familiar glistening in the late morning sun.  

“What the hell are you doing with that?” you ask sharply.

He grins at you, cradling one of the necklaces from Lord Morozova’s house in his palm.

“Setting up shop.” He gestures to the necklace before he elaborates, “Handmade jewellery.”

You gape at him in half horror, half amusement.

“There isn’t a single person in Keramzin who will believe that you made that.”

He scowls at you.

“Rude.”

Before you can continue to tell him what a terrible idea this is, Mikhael turns to you.

“Your fellow fanatic’s here.”

Eyes scanning through the throngs of people, you smile widely when you spot a familiar face.

“Yuri!”

His smile is equally as wide, excitement evident on his face as he lifts up a book to show you the deep red cover.

“It’s here!” he calls out.

Two simple words, yet you understand his excitement immediately. The new copy of Istorii Sankt’ya has arrived at Keramzin’s only bookshop.

“Already? Show me.”

Shuffling over the wall, you allow Yuri enough room to sit next to you. He’s wearing his usual robes of black, with his token of the Starless One hanging around his neck, visible to everyone. Your own token lies against your chest, hidden safely underneath the layers of your shirt and jacket, accompanied by the token of Sankta Alina.

He sits down beside you, opening up the book and settling it in your lap. Entranced by the glossy pages, you smooth your fingertips over the words printed on the first page. With careful motions, you begin to turn through the pages.

“It’s beautiful,” you whisper.

The faces staring out at you are familiar ones. All painted in vibrant colours, detailing their most holy acts. Continuing through the pages, you soon find your own Saints. The breath catches in your throat as you admire the image of them.

“To your liking?” Yuri prompts with a knowing smile.

The two of you had snuck into the local archive once. All night, you had read through every edition of the Istorii Sankt’ya in their collection.

As an artist yourself, you take the depiction of your Saints very seriously. There is always something not quite right about the paintings you have seen of them, though you are only allowed to paint your Saints to the church’s liking, and you’ve never had enough money for paints of your own to truly capture their likeness as you believe them to be.

“Almost perfect.”

He nods.

“I had a good feeling about this edition. They hired an iconographer from the Os Alta cathedral.”

“That’s the height of devotion,” you murmur softly, tracing the golden rays of sunlight illuminating the face of Sankta Alina.

“Let’s see it then,” Mikhael says, swallowing down the last of an iced pastry. He licks his fingers clean before he reaches for the book. Instinctively, you close the book, folding your arms around it protectively as you press it against your chest.

“Keep your sticky fingers away.” 

He feigns offense, grumbling as he wipes his fingers on the dust covered front of his jacket. There is no chance of you letting him touch this book.

“What are you doing for the summer solstice?” Yuri asks you. Mikhael answers before you can give your own response any thought.

“Same as every year, getting as drunk as we can before they throw us out of the pub.”

“Then move onto the next one,” Dubrov adds with a grin. You shake your head at the two of them with a fond smile.

At times, you feel like the odd one out among them, but you had been raised together in the orphanage on the edge of town and they are practically your brothers.

“I’m not sure,” you say to Yuri. “It falls on an eclipse doesn’t it?”

He nods.

Total eclipses happen once every two years in Ravka, and are a day of celebration for followers of the Starless One. This year you’re rather conflicted as it coincides with the summer solstice – the Saintsday of Sankta Alina.

You have never met someone who follows your two Saints. The majority of Ravka will celebrate Sankta Alina on the solstice as usual, while the Cult of the Starless One will celebrate the eclipse.

“I might just do something by myself.”

Yuri nods again, though you can tell he doesn’t like the idea of you spending such a joyous day alone.

“You know you’re always welcome with us.” You shake your head slightly, looking down at your boots.

“I know I’m welcome with you. The others I’m not so sure about.”

He looks down too, watching as you swing your legs gently, heel scraping against the stone wall.

“You know how it is. They aren’t many of us here in Keramzin. The fact that you follow two opposing Saints worries them.”

As always, you bristle internally at the thought of your Saints being opposed to one another. All of Ravka sees Sankta Alina and the Starless One as polar opposite, you however see them as two perfect halves of a whole - incomplete without the other. Which is why you feel so conflicted about celebrating one of them, whilst neglecting the other.

“I know…” You sigh. “I just…”

As your eyes scan over the crowd, your gaze locks onto a familiar face and your heart beat pounds frantically in a flurry of panic.

“Dubrov. Put the jewels away.”

Mikhael frowns at the shift in your tone, sensing something is wrong. Dubrov isn’t as perceptive.

“You see, this is why we don’t like to involve you in this sort of stuff. We know you feel bad, but he really won’t miss this stuff,” Dubrov says, trying to reassure you.

“Lord Morozova is here.”

“What?” He turns quickly, following the direction of your eyes. “Fuck.”

The two of them scramble to shove the jewels back into the box. Some fall on the ground, some land awkwardly in the box, preventing him from shutting the lid properly. They cram brooches and strings of pearls into their pockets. Mikhael kicks a diamond ring under the table.

Once they’ve finished, their table of trinkets looks rather bare but at least they won’t be arrested – or worse. A man like Lord Morozova has the power to turn heads in the opposite direction should he want to punish someone personally.

Whilst the Morozova line has been known to be ruthless during times of war, the man you had met yesterday wasn’t anything like the rumours you had heard about him. Nevertheless, you still think he might react harshly at the thought of you breaking into his house.

Yuri raises a questioning brow, but you shake your head, and he accepts your lack of explanation as he observes the way your fingers run nervously over the spine of Istorii Sankt’ya, subconsciously seeking the comfort of your Saints.

Too busy worrying about what Lord Morozova’s presence here means, you don’t notice the woman by his side at first. When you do, you can’t take your eyes from her.

Her dark hair is pulled back, neatly woven into a series of braids and her eyes are wide as she takes in every sight and sound around her. Occasionally she will pull lightly on Lord Morozova’s arm, pointing something out to him when he ducks his head down to give her his full attention.

When his eyes lock on yours the breath catches in your throat. He tilts his head as recognition sparks in his eyes, then he says something to his wife, and you’re unaware of anything except the pounding of blood in your ears.

“He’s heading this way. Please be normal,” you plead, looking at the two boys who currently look like the most awkward pair of actors thrust up onto stage with only half a script.

Dubrov ducks under the table, pretending he’s lost something, while Mikhael counts their meagre profits of the day so far, fidgeting with the coins to the point in which he drops a few onto Dubrov’s head. With a small sigh, you send a quick prayer to your Saints to protect your idiot friends. 

“Lord Morozova,” you greet him with a smile. Hopefully he is too focused on you to pay them any attention. He says your name softly with a nod of acknowledgement.

“This is my wife - Alina.”

For a moment you’re too busy staring at the way her dark lashes brush over her cheekbones and the way her skin glows soft in the sunlight as she smiles at you. Luckily, you manage a reasonably polite response.

“A pleasure to meet you, Lady Morozova.”

She shakes her head lightly.

“Just Alina is fine, please.”

Clearly Lord Morozova disapproves, his brows creasing slightly as he glances at his wife. Looking down, you wonder how you can agree to her wish without upsetting him.

“Can we compromise on Lady Alina?” you suggest.

She smiles as she hums teasingly, butterflies fluttering in your stomach at the playful glint in her dark eyes.

“I suppose.”

Rather shyly, you smile back at her. Lord Morozova takes this as an opportunity to step back into the conversation.

“We’ve been looking for the local paint shop, and I wondered whether you might be able to point us in the right direction.” You nod.

“I can take you there now. If you would like?” you offer, already pushing away from the wall before they can answer.

“We don’t want to trouble you,” Lady Alina insists. You shake your head, picking up your satchel and shrugging the strap over your shoulder. The candles are a little heavy to be carrying, but you don’t trust the boys not to steal a few.

“It’s no trouble.”

As you go to hand Istorii Sankt’ya back to Yuri, he shakes his head.

“Keep it.”

“Yuri-”

“You deserve it.”

Swallowing hard, you smile gratefully at him. He knows what this means to you. Yuri is one of the only people who accepts your unconventional beliefs. Standing on tiptoe, you press a kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you.”

A shy smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

When you turn back to Lord Morozova and his wife, you find them both watching you intently and warmth flushes over your cheeks. Adjusting the strap of your satchel, you gesture towards a narrow street.

“It’s just down here.”

They both keep pace with you as you stroll leisurely through the small gathering of townspeople. The streets aren’t too busy, which makes you feel less conscious about the attention the two of them gain. Ignoring the eyes, you decide to make some conversation with them.

“Are you enjoying Keramzin so far?”

Lady Alina nods.

“It’s a lot different from the last time I was here.”

Her arm slides from where it had been wrapped around her husband’s elbow, her hand settling into his and you see him offer her fingers a small squeeze. Looking away from the pair quickly, you glance down at the route you’re taking them on before you nod and say,

“It’s still a quiet town, but the market was expanded down to the next two streets last year.”

“Did you grow up here?” Lord Morozova asks you. You nod again.

“There’s an orphanage on the edge of town. Me, Dubrov and Mikhael – the two boys at the stall – we grew up there together and live further in town now.”

“And the other boy?”

“Yuri. His parents own a farm not far from the orphanage.”

A small smile tugs at your lips as you remember how Yuri had been the one to encourage your painting. The look of awe on his face, when you had gifted him the first ever candle you had painted – black of course with golden brushstrokes detailing the creation of the Fold – still keeps you motivated even now.

Before he can ask any further questions, you reach the paint shop.

The shop owner – a sharp eyed old woman with an equally sharp temper – scowls the moment you enter the shop, the bell ringing overhead as you hold the door open.

“If you’re not buying anything, get-“ Her words are halted by the presence of Lord Morozova, and she looks back down at the embroidery she’s been working on.

As always, the shop is silent, and you slide your bag off your shoulder to prevent any unintentional damage to the displays.

Lady Alina eyes the art supplies eagerly, gaze falling all the way to the back of the shop, where the shelves weave out of sight into a labyrinth of paints, brushes and canvases. An artists haven. She glances back at her husband, but he shakes his head.

“Take your time, Alinochka. I’ll wait here.”

She doesn’t hesitate for long before she’s disappearing among the shelves. As silence descends between you and Lord Morozova, you rub your thumb over the cover of Istorii Sankt’ya. You had only offered to take them to the paint shop, now that you had done that you could go. But you don’t want to.

This isn’t your first time in this shop, but it is most definitely the longest period of time spent here. Usually, the owner gets cranky over the fact that you only visit as an opportunity to browse and breathe in the scent of paint. Everything in this shop is far too expensive for you.

Luckily, Lord Morozova tilts his head in your direction as he looks passively at a selection of canvases and decides to initiate a conversation quiet enough to escape the scrutiny of the old woman who keeps shooting looks of suspicion at you.

“I’ve been searching for some black candles, Alina and I have them in our bedroom at Os Alta, but I can’t seem to find any here.”

At the mention of their bedroom, warmth blooms over your cheeks. That feels like intimate knowledge, something you shouldn’t know, and yet now every time you light a candle for the Starless Saint, you will think about how a similar candle might simultaneously be burning at their bedside.

“They are rather hard to find,” you admit. He studies your expression, and you wonder whether he can see how flustered the idea of their bedroom makes you.

“You told the minister you would find some at the market.”

“I didn’t say that.” Before he can disagree, you add, “I told him I would visit the market today. I never said I would get the candles from the market.”

He pauses. The corner of his mouth twitches and you wonder whether you had just impressed him. A thrill runs through you at such a thought. He nods in concession.

“Then where do you get your candles from?”

“It’s a secret.”

He smiles with a twinkle in his eyes as he leans closer to you.

“I won’t tell.”

The warmth of your cheeks runs down your body at his conspiratorial whisper, but you shake your head despite the smile on your face.

“I can’t. But I can give you some of mine.”

At that, he almost looks concerned.

“Don’t you need them?”

You shake your head.

“I don’t let them burn long. Just during prayer.”

When you realise what you’ve said, what you’ve just admitted, you freeze, smile dropping from your face. Black candles are only used for prayer to one Saint – the one that he is supposedly descended from. Concerned about his reaction, it takes you a moment to pull your eyes back to his face.

He nods slowly, his smile softening.

“You’re certain? I don’t want to take them from you if you need them.”

You shake your head.

“I’m just under halfway through my last one. I can spare a few.”

Unless you have an exceptionally lonely night.  After a particularly hard day, when rest alludes you no matter what you do, lighting the Starless One’s candle always helps soothe you. Its scent is the soft creaminess of candle wax and the crisp berries they use to stain the candle black.

There’s nothing that compares to it, though in such proximity to Lord Morozova, you can’t help but observe that he smells remarkably similar to the candles. He must be wearing some sort of cologne. You don’t think you’ve ever met a man who wears cologne, and you’re tempted to turn your face into him and breathe it in.

Lady Alina returns with an armful of paints and longing fills you at the sight of such high quality supplies. The church give you what they can for your work, but it certainly isn’t the best.

At the prospect of a purchase, the old woman at the counter seems more amicable, though you do your best to remain unnoticed.

Once you’re back on the street, you open up your satchel pulling out a worn cloth bag which you shyly offer to Lady Alina. It isn’t the sort of quality a noble would be used to, but it will help her carry her supplies. She thanks you with a genuine smile and you open up your satchel once again and pick up the first candle you can grasp at.

“Will three be enough?” you ask Lord Morozova. 

Amusement touches at his features as he observes you continuing to rifle through your bag in search of more candles. He shakes his head.

“Two will suffice.”

As you’re placing the candles into Lady Alina’s bag, she pulls out a small tin filled with paints – a travel set. She offers it to you.

“Here.”

Looking down at them, your fingers freeze mid-air.

“Lady Alina, I couldn’t-”

“Please, I wanted them for you.”

You blink at her in momentary confusion.

“Really?”

She nods, smiling kindly. You can hardly believe your luck – your own copy of Istorii Sankt’ya and your very first set of paints.

“Thank you, so much.” Your voice breaks a little as you thank her and for a moment you’re tempted to hug her. Then you remember who you’re talking to and step back slightly. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

There’s something sharp that glimmers in her eyes, as if your words had brought back a forgotten memory and she understands your reaction.

“You’re welcome,” she says softly.

-

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