The recipe had been followed correctly, the ingredients had been correct, the payment had been successfully made. Everything should have worked…which left only one troubling possibility.
I slowly closed the book. “The tart didn't fail because I baked it incorrectly,” I murmured.
Gabe straightened. “Then why did it fail?” he asked.
I looked towards the door, where moonlight filtered through the glass panes.
For the first time since Gabe’s return, I allowed myself to consider the possibility I had been avoiding—an answer far more frightening than any mistake I could have made.
My breath caught. “No.”
By Grandmother’s growing delight, a similar possibility had just occurred to her. “The spell isn’t drawing him to the bakery, but to to something within it…or perhaps someone.”
She grew thoughtful as she studied us both carefully before her gaze settled upon me. She pushed herself to her feet again, and her cane clicked on the floorboards with each slow, wobbly step as she approached me and leaned close, this time keeping her tone to a discreet whisper. “Tell me something, dear: what emotion did the tracking tart take?”
The teasing vanished from her voice, which immediately captured my attention. The answer should have come easily, considering I paid emotions all the time, yet for some reason, I found myself strangely reluctant to answer. “I don't remember,” I admitted softly.
The confession felt strangely significant. Once the magic took an emotion, the feeling itself disappeared. Yet no matter which feeling the magic claimed, I usually remembered what it was. But this time was different, as though I had misplaced something valuable and only just realized it was gone.
Grandmother’s brows rose. “You truly don’t remember?”
“Why does it matter whether or not I remember which emotion it was when it’s no longer mine?”
“Because powerful emotions leave powerful impressions upon magic.” Grandmother studied me for a long moment through narrowed eyes. “I wondered…which leads me to suspect that whatever emotion it was, you didn’t want to give it up.”
The certainty in her voice irritated me. “Of course I did,” I said sharply.
“Did you?” The question settled heavily between us.
I couldn't answer immediately. Memories stirred to life from baking the tart that until now I’d forgotten—I remembered resisting, of asking the magic not to take its chosen price—though the reason escaped me entirely.
My hand drifted unconsciously towards my chest whose hollow absence felt larger than usual. “If I didn’t want to give the emotion up…what does that mean?”
She glanced towards the forest where thebriarthorn berrieshad grown. “I think it began when you gathered the ingredients together, berries which themselves respond to companionship.”
I already didn’t like where this conversation was heading.
“And then you paid for the spell with an emotion you were unwilling to surrender.” Her cheerful warmth softened; for the first time that evening, she looked genuinely thoughtful. When she next spoke, she raised her voice to include Gabe into our conversation. “Whatever happened, I don’t think the tart failed.”
An uncomfortable silence settled over us. “If it didn’t fail,” Gabe said. “Then what did it do?”
Grandmother’s gaze moved between us. “I believe it connected you.”
The word lingered in the night air, giving life to the fear I hadn’t been able to voice aloud after Nutmeg’s skit. I immediately shook my head.
“We can’t be,” I protested. “And if we are…connectedhow?”
“Heavens if I know,” she said with an innocence I was certain was entirely fabricated. “I’ve made a few love potions in my day, but never anything quite like this.”
I wasn't certain whether I wanted to know more about Grandmother’s youth.
She became suddenly serious and lowered her voice. “Your spells are different from mine, Cecelia. Paying with emotions instead of health changes things. Magic has a way of adapting itself around what is offered.”
I stared first at her. A connection. The idea was ridiculous. And yet, standing there with the moonbeams slanting through the window to illuminate us with the strange tug still lingering whenever we separated, I found myself unable to dismiss itentirely. For the first time since Gabe had returned, I began to suspect the problem wasn’t a failed spell—it was a successful one.
CHAPTER 10
I stared at Grandmother, certain I’d misheard her.Connected. The word lingered in the air long after she’d spoken it, settling over the room like the scent of baked bread after the oven door had been opened.
