“No.” He dropped his gaze. “Just since I—just for the past couple of years,” he amended.
Clearly he wasn’t sharing everything, but I didn’t need to know every detail of a customer’s life, however intrigued I might be.
“So what exactly are you hoping the magic will accomplish?” I asked. “You seek to restore your abilities?”
He frowned thoughtfully. “I’m not sure it’s that, exactly,” he finally said. “I can’t fully articulate what I’m seeking, but I have a strong sense that I need to findsomething, and that if I only knew where to look or what I was looking for, I could find the answers I seek.”
I skimmed through a few pages on seeking lost or stolen items. None of them seemed quite right for someone looking for lost pieces of self, or some undefined need.
“Sometimes I dream of it,” Gabe added quietly. “Of finding what I’m looking for. I can never quite see it in my dreams, but I know that I’m about to be whole again.”
“Dreams are their own form of magic,” I explained. “Often sharing insights of our secret longings hidden from our conscious selves. Thankfully magic is an expert tracker that will lead you to where you need to go.”
I slowly turned several more pages until one particular recipe caught my attention: a raspberry guidance tart. The illustration beside it shimmered faintly beneath the firelight: crimson berries woven into delicate pastry crust dusted with enchanted sugar.
Beneath the title, elegant script described its purpose:to guide the lost towards what their heart seeks, even when the mind cannot name it.
I wordlessly angled the book in his direction. His breath caught softly. For a moment, neither of us spoke.Instead we simply leaned over the glowing recipe book, while Nutmeg pretended very badly not to eavesdrop from atop the rafters.
With a soft sigh, I traced my finger down the ingredient list:flour, butter, fresh cream, wild honey, freshly squeezed lemon, enchanted sugar, eggs, extract from rose petals, vanilla, three drops of rainwater gathered beneath moonlight. Concludingwithfresh raspberries gathered beneath a briarthorn tree at dusk.
I frowned faintly at the final line, adapted for the bakery’s current location. Everything else remained well stocked within the bakery pantry, but according to the earlier glimpse I’d captured of Gabe’s map, thebriarthorn hollowrested several miles north through dense forest terrain, and the berries themselves spoiled quickly if not gathered fresh before baking.
Beyond the windows, the overcast afternoon had already begun darkening towards evening. If I left soon, I would likely reach the hollow before dusk fully settled over the woods.
Though strangely, I found myself reluctant to bake the tart too quickly. I gave my head a small shake. No, I had already decided these distracting emotions needed to disappear before they rooted themselves any deeper. Another enchanted confection would take them eventually, just as all the others had before.
I looked back up at Gabe, watching me with quiet anticipation. I closed the recipe book. “I have all the ingredients except for the raspberries, which means I’ll need to forage for them now.”
Gabe immediately straightened. “Now?” His gaze darted towards the rain-streaked windows where mist blurred the forest beyond into shifting shades of silver and green. Rain still fell steadily beneath the darkening afternoon sky, soft and relentless against the glass. “But…it’s pouring.”
I shrugged. Rain often strengthened magical properties by washing away impurities and heightening their natural enchantments. Storms were inconvenient for ordinary baking perhaps, but ideal for gathering spelled ingredients. “The berries must be plucked at dusk for their magic to be strongest,” I explained. “I would lose a full day if I waited for the rain to stop.”
Not to mention the sooner I completed his request, the sooner I could rid myself of of the thoroughly confusing emotions this hunter kept awakening inside me and return to the peaceful numbness I’d enjoyed before meeting him in the forest.
It was especially unwise with his unfortunate sense of direction. Though I kept that observation to myself, he seemed to sense the argument lingering unspoken behind my words. His tips of his ears reddened again, yet stubborn determination settled across his features all the same.
“I still don’t think you should go alone in weather like this.”
I looked at him in surprise. “I’m used to foraging in all kinds of weather. This will be a matter of hours to find the ingredients and bake the tart. I can deliver it to you tomorrow, or you can come pick it up in the morning if you like.”
He hesitated, looking as though he wanted to argue, but wasn’t sure what to say.
Logically I knew I ought to dread an excursion into the cold. Yet I had always welcomed time outdoors and any opportunity to further explore a landscape still unfamiliar to my maps. I returned the recipe book to its cabinet and locked it away before crossing to the coat rack near the door where my cloak hung beside the hearth.
Gabe stared a moment at the locked cabinet where the book had disappeared before he followed. “At least allow me to accompany you,” he insisted. “The forest becomes difficult to navigate in heavy rain. I could be useful.”
I swung to face him; a customer had never offered to help gather supplies before. I nearly reminded him of the spectacularly poor navigation skills he’d demonstrated during our first meeting, but the earnestness in his expression stayed the teasing remark before it escaped.
I paused with my fingers curled around the scarlet fabric of my cloak, my pulse fluttering strangely at the thought of his company. “That won’t be necessary.”
I spoke without turning towards him, afraid that if I met those dark, quietly pleading eyes directly, my resolve might dissolve entirely. Even without looking, I could still feel his hopeful gaze fixed upon me, dangerously difficult to refuse.
In an uncharacteristic moment of weakness, I found myself tempted to accept. Yet no good could possibly come from allowing a handsome, mysterious hunter I would only know for a handful of fleeting weeks to disrupt the carefully ordered solitude of my life. I always worked alone. Before meeting Gabe, I had preferred it that way.
He stepped closer, boots soft against the wooden floorboards. “Please, Cecelia.” Something about hearing my name in his voice made my heartbeat stumble. “I know I’m likely slowing you down more than helping,” he admitted with reluctant honesty. “But if something happened to you out there because of a request I made…” He lowered his gaze briefly. “I wouldn’t forgive myself for it.”
The quiet sincerity of the confession pierced straight through the last of my resistance. Not politeness or obligation, but from what my hindered emotions could tell, genuine concern, simply because he couldn’t bear the thought of me wandering alone into the storm on his behalf. The realization stirred something warm and frighteningly tender inside my chest, crumbling the last of my stubborn defenses.
