I shot her alook, which she returned with an entirely unrepentant smile. Suppressing a sigh, I forced my lips upward, pretending that this was a normal service for evening customers.
“Certainly. I’ll heat up some leftover stew from lunch, and you can have it with fresh bread while I work. It shouldn’t take much more than an hour. You may wait in the parlor.”
I reached for the basket of berries. Gabe surrendered it almost reluctantly. “I would hate to intrude.”
My brow furrowed. Had my displeasure somehow shown? Had I even felt such an emotion?
“It’s no trouble at all,” Grandmother answered before I could speak. “We insist.”
After another brief hesitation, Gabe bowed his head. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
At Grandmother’s expectant look, I finally conceded defeat. Leaving him alone with her seemed far riskier than allowing him to remain under my supervision while I baked.
Doing my best to ignore the satisfied smirk following me from across the room, I led Gabe into the kitchen. I startedto seat him at the table where we’d shared tea earlier, but if he was there while I baked, we would have to speak loudly enough that Grandmother would doubtless hear every word that passed between us. Not that I planned anything of the slightest impropriety, but somehow I felt more comfortable having him closer, where we could communicate easily…though I convinced myself it was simply to make things simpler.
Nutmeg trailed after us with a spark of excitement that suggested she considered herself an essential participant in whatever happened next. She hovered over my shoulder as I pulled a tall stool up to the end of my flour-dusted worktable, and then settled herself next to Gabe as he sat.
I set the pot of stew over the fire to warm, then tied on my apron and prepared to get to work. Gabe watched me with his dark eyes for a moment before rising from his seat. “May I help?”
I paused in gathering the bowls from the cupboard and looked over my shoulder. His earnest expression tempted me to sway from my usual preference for baking alone, a habit I’d developed as Grandmother’s illness worsened over the years…with the exception of Nutmeg’s supervision and her frequent attempts to steal samples of sugar, heedless of the discomfort it would cause her.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“But…” He looked away.
I tilted my head, studying him for clues that might reveal the hidden motive behind his offer. Hunched shoulders, avoiding eye contact, shuffling feet. Was he…nervous? But why? If he doubted his abilities in the kitchen, why volunteer in the first place?
The longer I watched him, the redder the tips of his ears became, though that particular symptom had become so commonplace around me it provided very little usefulinformation. Offering assistance hardly seemed like the sort of thing that should inspire embarrassment.
I…didn’t understand. Normally I paid little attention to what emotions others were feeling beyond what was necessary to recommend the appropriate enchanted confection. Yet for some reason my inability to decipher him created an uncomfortable tightness in my chest. Hopefully that would be the emotion the magic chose to take for the spell I was about to bake.
He looked so unexpectedly dejected by my refusal that I found myself offering additional explanation. “It wouldn’t be right for me to allow a customer to help create something they’re paying for.” I did my best to soften the words.
“That’s precisely why I want to help,” he said. “This spell is important to me. It only seems right I assist in its creation.”
He lifted his chin with quiet determination. The expression reminded me so strongly of Grandmother whenever she resolved to be stubborn that I almost smiled. It was not the emotion I would have expected from the quiet hunter, nor was it one I encountered often anymore. Yet I recognized it all the same.
It reminded me of the same unwavering resolve that had once driven me to make my bargain with the bakery’s magic all those years ago. I could no longer remember what that fierce determination felt like; all that remained was the knowledge that I had once possessed it. Even so, it was a quality I respected.
Another feeling stirred briefly behind the wall surrounding my heart—a faint disappointment that his reason for accompanying me on our foraging outing and helping me bake was apparently so practical, rather than because he enjoyed my company and wished to spend more time with me. Merely because the spell mattered to him. Thankfully the feeling vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, swallowed once more by the familiar numbness.
When I remained trapped in indecision too long, Grandmother spoke from the adjoining room where she’d unsurprisingly been eavesdropping. “If he’s offering, Cecelia, it would be impolite to refuse him.”
Through the open doorway she winked at me from behind Gabe’s back. I was tempted to continue refusing, yet she had been so much brighter since my return from the forest that my resistance softened against my will. I sighed. “Very well.”
I resisted the urge to shut her door. For some unexplainable reason, I felt a twinge of discomfort at the thought of her observing my interactions with Gabe. I pushed away the ridiculous idea; I would simply fulfill my duties to a paying client as usual…even if working side by side was far from the usual method.
The warmth that immediately flooded Gabe’s expression made it difficult to hold his gaze for long. I quickly nodded towards the basket of berries resting on the counter. “Would you wash the berries?” It seemed the safest task to assign him. Besides, the enchanted fruit would likely benefit from being handled by the person the spell was intended for.
He brightened and rolled up his sleeves before carrying the basket to the wash basin. My gaze lingered longer than necessary on the muscles shifting beneath his sleeves as he worked the hand pump. Despite the late hour and the amount of work still required before the tart could be baked, I found myself watching him…although I quickly busied myself with gathering ingredients when I heard an amused snort from the next room.
It was strange seeing Gabe become a part of my world. Not as a customer standing on the opposite side of the counter, or as a traveler passing briefly through one of the bakery’s monthly homes. But here in the kitchen that had been my refuge ever since my parents died.
I had found what comfort I could amongst flour-dusted countertops, warm ovens, and well-loved recipes. Baking relied upon certainty—a tested recipe, precise measurements, ingredients combined in exactly the right order to create something dependable and delicious. It required none of the emotions I had gradually surrendered to magic over the years.
There was something reassuring about the rhythmic kneading of dough, the scent of bread rising beside the hearth, and the simple satisfaction of transforming ordinary ingredients into something sweet. While I may not be able to take true joy in my work anymore, I could attain some sense of pleasure and safeness in the routine and the dependable results.
Yet now Gabe stood amidst it all, washing berries as though he belonged in a world that previously had only existed between me, the magic, and the confections I baked—no longer simply someone I had met in the woods, but someone who had somehow crossed the threshold into a part of my life I rarely shared with anyone.
