“I will try to teach you what I know, and perhaps you can learn how your own magic responds,” Elden said as he reached out and took my hands in his.
My breath caught in my throat as I held the hands of the Elf King in the midst of a magical snow-covered wood. A forest that had been so loud and full of life last night, yet so cold and stark once the snow had fallen. But with Elden’s hands in mine, I didn’t think I’d ever be cold again.
“It is a very personal thing, magic. But it is also part of who we are. It courses through us as natural as breathing, and yet, if you do not feel it in your heart, then you will fail.” Elden looked deeply into my eyes.
“So magic is something I feel? Like emotion?”
I thought back on when Elden had felt my magic. He had felt hope with my first bake, and peace with my second. Had I infused my baking with emotion as I baked? Had I said those words aloud as I offered them to be eaten? I just couldn’t quite remember.
Everything was so muddled, especially now as a hot blush spread across my cheeks.
“Yes, our magic is very much linked to our feelings, but it works differently for everyone. I must think of which form I wish to take with true intent. Then I have to touch the person or thing with which I am transforming, even a hair will do. Lastly, I must say the words as I touch the item or person.” Elden smiled that side smile that turned my stomach to mush and said, “Terralinel.”
In a flash of white light, Aldaar was standing before me. A wide smile of delight on his sweet face.
“Aldaar!” I giggled. I had to hold myself back from greeting his adorable face with a hug.
That would not be proper at all. “So once you’ve transformed into something or someone…”
“I can take their form whenever I wish.” Elden finished my thought for me. Elden’s voice was no longer his own, but the high-pitched timber of his younger brother. “But our magic works best when we are connected to those around us.”
“You really love your brother, don’t you?”
The twinkle of mischief in Aldaar’s, well, Elden’s eyes couldn’t help but remind me of my own little sister. I loved Daisy, missed her more and more with every passing day. She was probably toddling around the house with her favorite little bag, collecting small trinkets to play with later. She was a little pack rat, her side of the room looked like a down-on-its-luck fairy village complete with crystal shards for light and acorn fairies.
“Yes.” Aldaar’s hand fell from mine as he turned away. “I am worried for his future. For the poisoned lands he will inherit if we are not able to find the cure.”
The king transformed back to his tall, looming self in a flash of white lightning. White gleaming hair and all. My breath caught in my throat. How could I have ever thought that black hair suited this male when the white hair and golden eyes were so superior?
“But what words must I speak? I do not know elvish.” I asked once I regained my composure.
The corners of Elden’s mouth turned down as he thought, “The words are personal to everyone. It must come from the heart. Since you do not speak elvish, I must only gather that your words will be in your own native tongue.”
“My heart?” I knit my eyebrows together. “I can understand why you’d be able to turn into Aldaar if you pulled the wordsfrom your heart, but how would you manage a shade monster? Do you have love for them?”
Elden huffed a laugh, his hot breath pluming before his full lips in a curving tendril. A slight smile lifted his cheek. “Your heart does not only feel love. It feels…passion.” His eyes met mine. “Deep passions whether they be love or anger or sorrow. All of it, the sweet and bitter can be felt in the heart. That is magic in its truest form.”
I nodded, turning away with a deep blush at the…passion burning in the golden eyes of the king. The full force of it about knocked me back, my stomach twisting in knots. There was that tether again. That binding force that seemed to pull me toward Elden. As if all I wanted was to live and breathe within his orbit forevermore.
Did he—could he feel the same pull towards me?
I cleared my throat, needing to shake myself from the trance the king used to drag me under so effortlessly. “Then let’s get to work! We’ve got a kingdom, elves, humanity—a continent to save.”
I busied myself with rummaging through my saddle bags until I found what I needed. Flour, sugar, eggs, buttermilk, rising powder, and vanilla were the ingredients I needed for the recipe I’d be making this morning.
“I thought this might be helpful on our journey.” Elden hauled out a large wooden box from inside one of his saddle bags. He folded the many strange layers until it transformed into an ingenious little worktable. The legs folded in on themselves, allowing it to be portable.
“Genius. So, you were betting on me baking out here in the wild?”
“One can never be too prepared.” Elden smiled as he dutifully stoked the fire, heating up the pan I’d brought. “I hadJacob prepare this the day before we left. He stayed up the entire night to finish the design.”
“He is a good man.” I smiled at the portable table as I pulled in a lung full of fresh, crisp mountain air. Jacob hadn’t always been kind. He’d made a lot of mistakes, but it seemed his time in the land of the elves was fixing a part of him, too.
My heart soared as I took in the beautiful sight surrounding me. Mountains loomed in the distance; their white peaks as jagged as a wolf’s teeth. Enchanted trees covered in snow dripped with sparkling icicles. A large fire crackled. A table stood out in the center of the clearing, laden with flour, buttermilk, eggs, and several other ingredients.
Despite the blight, the black dragging lines of darkness heading toward our hearts, this moment, this baking, well—this was going to be…fun.
I pulled out my cookbook and flipped to an early page. I knew exactly what I wanted to make, my father’s famous buttermilk pancakes. Tabitha had gifted us with a few extra ingredients for our journey, butter, eggs, and buttermilk, before I left the Spindlewood Inn. I thanked her in my heart and followed my father’s handwritten notes, reveling in the familiarity of his writing. The studied beauty of his drawings.
