Satisfied that the crisis was contained (other than the terrible smell), she sighed, relaxing a little. That was enough baking for one evening.
She yawned and headed for the stairs. Puffcake fluttered behind her, wings drooping in shared exhaustion. Upstairs, she settled herself down in the bed and wrapped the blanket around her like a cinnamon roll. She sank into the mattress as Puffcake settled himself beside her on the pillow next to her head. He let out one final breath, dusting the sheets with a fine layer of powdered sugar.
That night, she dreamt of mistletoe and twinkling lights. Of pie, evergreen-infused air, and laughter. Of someone softly humming Christmas carols in the kitchen, wearing a too-small apron. He twirled her around and around in a red gingham dress that wasn’t hers, flour clinging to her rosy cheeks.
Then, his hands suddenly let go of her. She was spinning out of control. She slammed into the kitchen cabinets, banging her elbow hard on the countertop.
A voice called out to her, and she turned to find no one was there. The room had grown cold. Quiet and stale, like a picture gone wrong and fading out of focus.
A bag of flour thudded to the floor, sending Eliza’s heart hammering. The powdery substance caked where Eliza stepped, leaving a trail of footprints behind. Laced within the flour was the familiar cursive penmanship Eliza knew too well. The same handwriting from the cookbook.
Let love not last here if mine cannot.
Eliza blinked awake to find Puffcake still asleep beside her. He was upside down on his back. For a creature the size of a ferret, he snored like a lawnmower. She stifled a laugh and snapped a picture to show Lachlan before she quietly slipped out of bed. Pulling on her thickest socks and comfiest clothes, she tiptoed her way down the stairs, the warmth of the cottage embracing her like a memory.
Eliza moved to the kitchen with a renewed sense of energy. Morning light spilled across the golden countertops, illuminating the copper alliances.Isadora’s Memory Baking Cookbookwas already on the counter, as if it had been waiting for her. Expectant.
She was sure she put it back up last night.
She didn’t open it, nor did she crack open the tin of recipe cards on the baker’s rack.
She wanted this to be her victory, not someone else’s. Not just a copycat recipe from Isadora. Still, the presence of the book oddly grounded her. It felt like the women who’d baked before her in this cottage were cheering her on as she carried the baton of their legacy. Baking was an eternal art, and she was keeping the wonderful tradition alive.
Eliza pulled out the cranberries and oranges, set them in a mixing bowl, and got to work. She zested the citrus and mashed the cranberries, red staining her fingertips as she added whipping cream to a large mixing bowl. She mixed and measured and poured until she was proud of the consistency. Soon, zest and holiday spices filled the air.
She thought of Isadora’s words laced along the gingerbread floor last night. The dream felt more real, like another memory, only this time it had found Eliza in her sleep. She couldn’t make sense of it. She felt like the house was trying to communicate something to her …
Gretel mentioned that the cottage only became enchanted when couples stayed here. Was it enchantedbecauseof Isadora? Was the cottage showing Isadora’s heartbreak to warn her?
She hadn’t noticed when, but at some point, Puffcake came paddling down the stairs, blinking through his hazy, lavender eyes. He lapped at the extra batter she’d dropped on the floor. “Helping clean up my messes?” She chuckled at him, scratching behind his ear.
Her hands moved gingerly, pouring cream and sugar. A drawer slid open for her, revealing a bundle of cinnamon sticks she’d forgotten to add. A whisk hovered in mid-air, and she grabbed it.
“Thank you,” she said to the house. She swore the flames in the hearth responded with a spark.
Christmas carols crackled from the record player in the corner, and the electric mixer churned in time with the beat. The spice rack spun on its own as she reached for cloves. The cottage was alive, and today it was her baking partner.
She hummed quietly as she worked, sweet contentedness at last.
Come to think of it, the cottage wasunusuallyquiet. She padded onto the patio, expecting Lachlan to be nursing a cup of steaming coffee, but the space was empty. Maybe he was in the shower, she reasoned, but the door was propped open, the light off, and no steam wafting between the cracks. No sign of him.
His boots and winter coat were nowhere to be found, but his bag still lay beside the Christmas tree. Had he left in such a hurry that he’d forgotten it? Or worse, had he not even cared to take it?
She glanced around again, sure that she was mistaken, but there was no trail of footprints across the flour-coated floor. No creaking floors. No one was teasing her about her sleep-tangled hair.
Then it hit her. She was truly alone in the house. He’d gone outsidewithouther.
Had he taken the first opportunity to split when the cottage would let him? She denied the heaviness in her gut, excusing it as hunger pangs. Did she say something wrong last night? Had she shared too much of her sadness about losing her nan? Regret and embarrassment filled her as something sharp spiked within her chest.
She thought of Isadora, of Silent Night Soufflé. Was this the cottage’s way of saying they weren’t right for each other? Was thisLachlan’sway of saying they weren’t right for each other?
Not thatshehoped they were right for each other.
Was this how it ended? Not with a slamming door and yelling choice words, like with Davis, but with silence. With so many unspoken words and left out feelings—just as it’d been for Isadora.
And it was Isadora’s chant that rattled around in her mind:Let love not last here if mine cannot.But who was Eliza kidding? It’d ended before it ever really began, and it certainly hadn’t been love.
Still, her steps were hurried as she crossed the cottage, eagerly parting the sugar-laced curtains. His rental Land Rover was still there, parked in the same spot it had been since he’d arrived.
