Grandmother listened with soft attentiveness, her eyes distant with memory. “I used to love forest locations,” she murmured wistfully. “Especially the old evergreen woods in the north. Do you remember them?”
I nodded faintly. “You made chestnut pastries there.”
“And nearly set the entire kitchen ablaze,” she added with a weak laugh. A small smile lingered between us before fading into comfortable quiet.
At first I wondered whether I should mention the cloaked figure I’d glimpsed amongst trees, but decided against it. It was difficult to judge what should and should not be worrying when fear itself had become so distant to me. There was little reason to trouble her over what was likely something harmless; she already had enough to concern herself with.
Grandmother’s brows lifted thoughtfully. “Another forest. I wonder if this one is near the others we visited over the years.”
“I’ll know more after sunrise.” My thoughts immediately drifted towards the morning ahead. If I worked early enough, I could explore the surrounding area before opening the bakery.
Though if the nearest village proved too distant, we might need to open late so I could advertise our arrival first. Then there was Grandmother’s medicine to prepare, the ovens to heat, the counters to arrange, inventory to sort after the transport, herbs to forage, and ingredients to catalogue in case the forest contained unfamiliar magical flora…
My orderly task list broke apart when Grandmother’s hand rested lightly against my arm.
“You work too hard,” she said quietly. “I worry about you, Cecelia. I didn’t adopt you so you could spend your childhood caring for an ailing old woman. You should be making friends, falling in love someday.Living.” Regret filled her eyes.
She more than understood how little interest I held towards other people, so there seemed little point reminding her that friendships were difficult to maintain when we abandoned each home after only a month. Besides, I no longer experienced loneliness strongly enough to miss companionship; that emotion had left me long ago.
Plus I had Grandmother. Nutmeg. My maps. That was enough. “I’m perfectly content.” Despite my assurance, the worry lines etched into her brow deepened. There was scarcely any need for me to experience emotions when Grandmother seemed capable of feeling enough for the both of us.
She sighed softly. “Only because you no longer remember how to feel any differently.” Her fingers tightened slightly around mine. “I wish you wouldn’t sacrifice so much of yourself for the magic. There were other prices you could have chosen.”
My gaze drifted instinctively towards the old cabinet in the corner where the weathered recipe book remained locked away. I vaguely remembered the day Grandmother had first opened it before me after my parents died. The book had offered countless bargains for its magic. Memories. Dreams. Years of one’s life. One’s voice. The ability to lie. The sense of taste. Sleep.
Or emotions.
At the time, grief had still felt sharp enough to split me open from the inside. Fear and loneliness had haunted every waking moment after being sent to live with a grandmother I barely knew. Emotions had seemed less like gifts and more like unbearable burdens.
So I had surrendered them willingly.
I gave her hand a reassuring pat, the motion more habit than feeling. “I can survive without emotions. I fear it’syouwho sacrificed too much over the years.”
Magic demanded different prices from everyone. Grandmother’s had been her health. Though she had stopped baking enchanted goods after taking me in, in fear that the strain would worsen before I reached adulthood, the damage had already been done.
If only I could bake her a restorative confection—I’d flipped through those pages of the cookbook more times than I could count—but she refused to allow me to sacrifice any emotionon her behalf. Even now, frustration at her stubborn refusal remained one of the few emotions capable of surviving my spells.
At the sight of that flicker of feeling, sadness briefly eclipsed her expression before she carefully smoothed it away beneath a gentle smile. “What’s done is done,” she murmured. “But it’s not too late for you. We could survive as an ordinary bakery.”
We both knew otherwise. Whatever ancient spell lingered over our bakery ensured we could never remain in one place for long. Without enchanted confections, we would simply become strangers arriving every month to compete against established bakers who already possessed loyal customers. We had learned that lesson intimately during the years Grandmother tried to abandon magic entirely. I could still feel the hollowness of the hungry weeks when too few people came to buy our goods.
“Good health means little if you never truly live,” she continued softly. “And I fear that’s what’s happening to you.”
“I’m content,” I insisted once more. Yet even as I said the words, I found myself wondering whether contentment was becoming less an emotion I genuinely experienced and more an idea I repeated because I no longer remembered the alternative.
The room fell quiet after that. Nutmeg floated sleepily near the hearth, the candlelight flickering through her pink flames while the bakery settled around us with familiar creaks. Outside, the forest whispered softly in the darkness beyond the windows.
Then unexpectedly, I felt an emotion—not my own emotion, but Grandmother’s.
The lingering magic from the perception candy still clung faintly to my senses, subtle enough I’d nearly forgotten about it. Yet now it brushed against me like the ghost of warmth—regret. Not for herself, but for me. It radiated from her so quietly, so deeply buried beneath years of love and endurance, that I realized she must carry it constantly.
Grandmother lowered her gaze before I could react, as though afraid I might somehow read the thoughts she kept carefully concealed. Perhaps she sensed the traces of magic lingering in the air between us, or she simply knew me too well.
“I only wanted to ease your pain,” she whispered.
The confession lingered heavily in the dim room. For a fleeting moment, something inside me threatened to stir—an emotion achingly close to grief—but the feeling slipped away before I could grasp it.
Without another word, I slowly stood and adjusted the blanket around her shoulders before extinguishing the bedside candle.
