Cecelia could no longer feel my emotions. Even so, she looked at me intently. “Are you alright, Gabe?”
I forced a smile. “A little discombobulated, but yes, I should be just fine.” Physically, anyway.
I didn’t realize I’d been staring at Cecelia too long, noticing the way the sunlight highlighted her soft brown hair before I blinked and hastily averted my gaze. Apparently even without the bond, I couldn’t help being drawn to her, a connection Iyearned to explore further…if my wandering curse would allow me to stay long enough to do so.
CHAPTER 14
The smell of cinnamon and toasted oats drifted through the kitchen long before the sun had fully climbed above the trees. I stood over the hearth, absently stirring the pot as morning light spilled through the window. The steady scrape of my spoon against the saucepan should have been soothing, but it was hard to relax with Cecelia standing so near.
She moved quietly around the kitchen with the effortless familiarity that had once made me feel like an intruder but now somehow invited me into her rhythm. The soft rustle of her skirt brushed against the floorboards as she measured oats into a bowl, tucked an unruly strand of chestnut hair behind her ear, then reached for the spice jar without even glancing towards it, as though every shelf and cupboard had long since become an extension of herself.
I found my attention wandering to her far more often than it should have. It was becoming alarmingly easy to measure the passing of my mornings by the sound of her footsteps instead of the position of the sun.
The folded page tucked safely inside my pocket seemed to weigh more heavily with every passing moment, the curse-breaking recipe I wished I had never read. If I allowed everyreminder of the recipe to poison moments like these, I’d lose them long before the curse ever took them.
For all the heaviness pressing against my conscience, the kitchen itself remained wonderfully ordinary. Cecelia stirred honey into the oats while I sliced bread to toast over the hearth. Granny hummed softly from the table beside the window as she sipped her tea, the melody blending with the cheerful crackling of the fire.
A soft rustling behind the flour bin caught my attention. I glanced over just in time to notice a single raisin disappear from the jar. I turned towards Cecelia, eager for the chance to break the cozy silence. “I’ve discovered a raisin thief.”
Nutmeg froze mid-chew before giving an indignant spark at my betrayal. She floated behind Cecelia’s shoulder, as though seeking protection from my accusation, her suspiciously round middle making innocence rather difficult to believe.
Cecelia sighed. “She seems to believe she has full reign over the pantry. You’ve spoiled her.”
I deserved the censure—I had acquired the unfortunate habit of winning the little ember spirit’s loyalty with food whenever she looked at me with those impossibly hopeful eyes.
I held up my hands. “I’m not the one who chose a sweet-driven sprite as the bakery pet.”
The corners of Cecelia’s mouth lifted almost imperceptibly, causing my heart to lift. It wasn’t quite a smile, but compared to the woman I’d met only days ago, it felt miraculous.
My own smile faded almost as quickly as it had appeared.You might lose that because of me. That tiny smile, her growing wonder, her joyous laughter. The recipe demanded the deepest remaining desire within her heart. Whatever that ultimately proved to be, I already knew it would cost far too much.
I couldn’t bring myself to let her see the recipe and its impossible cost…although I hadn’t been able to ensure her safetyentirely by burning it. But my conscience pricked me, reminding me that it was not my right to keep her own property from her.
I took a slow breath, gathering my courage. “Cecelia…”
The confession rose to my lips, but my resolve faltered when her soft, brown gaze met mine. I should tell her everything about the recipe I’d stolen and its impossible price.
Yet the moment I pictured the quiet determination that always settled into her eyes whenever someone needed help, I already knew what her answer would be. I’d watched her surrender precious pieces of herself for complete strangers without hesitation. If she believed this recipe would free me from my curse, she would bake it before I’d finished explaining the cost and call it a simple sacrifice.
I could never live with myself if I allowed her to give up the last piece of herself for me. I swallowed hard. “Would you please hand me the honey?“ I asked instead.
Without a hint of suspicion that I’d almost confessed something entirely different, she reached towards the shelf. Our hands brushed as she passed me the jar.
The contact lasted only an instant, nothing more than the fleeting warmth from our fingertips. Yet it seemed to echo through me long after she’d withdrawn. My pulse gave an absurd little leap that made me grateful she could no longer feel my emotions through the broken enchantment, while she returned to measuring oats as though nothing unusual had happened.
We settled once more into the comfortable rhythm we’d somehow built together over ordinary mornings. Without speaking, we moved around one another as though we’d rehearsed this domestic dance for years instead of days. When I reached for bowls, she’d already set them on the table.
When she crossed towards the cupboard, I quietly opened the door before she reached it. She thanked me with the smallest nod, yet the simple exchange warmed me far more than it oughtto have. My heart clenched as the image of doing this domestic dance with her day after day, not just until this month ended, floated through my head.
Across the room, Granny watched us over the rim of her teacup with a knowing smile, undoubtedly noticing my every stolen glance, every excuse to help, and every ridiculous attempt to linger beside Cecelia just a little longer than necessary.
Heat crept into my ears. I risked a glance towards Cecelia. She remained entirely absorbed in spooning oats into bowls, blissfully unaware of both Granny’s observations and the embarrassing ease with which my heart betrayed me. Part of me found relief in her composure, while another part wished she wasn’t quite so oblivious.
Breakfast passed with the same peaceful familiarity. Nutmeg attempted to steal a spoonful of honey before Granny distracted her with half a cinnamon biscuit.
As we ate, Cecelia quietly slid the last of the strawberries we’d sliced together onto mine without comment. At my questioning look, she shrugged. “They’re your favorites.”
My heart rose that she’d noticed. She noticed everyone’s favorite things, always seeming far more interested in watching others enjoy her cooking than eating much herself. Another quiet kindness, another piece of herself freely given, making the berries taste infinitely sweeter.
