Long into the night I pored over them, trying to place where the bakery had landed and retrace the path to the forest. At last, as the eastern horizon lightened, I sighed and rolled them up. I couldn’t make any real progress until I had seen our new home.
Granny insisted that I rest for a few hours and eat a meal before heading out, but by mid-morning I’d laced my boots andtied my cloak around my shoulders, its pockets restocked with everything I needed for exploring and mapping.
My first discovery was surprising. The bakery sat in a daisy-filled meadow flanked with aspens, but just beyond the trees I found a small village, bustling with life. Eagerly I approached the center of the village towards the bustling market, questioning the villagers about the local geography. I pieced together the information to surmise that the bakery had moved north of the forest, though I wasn’t sure how far.
I was about to turn back towards home when I spotted a wizened woman sitting at a tiny booth where she sold knitted socks and scarves. Her work reminded me of Granny’s, and I paused to admire it.
“Passing through?” the woman asked conversationally.
“No. I’m new to the village, but I now live here. My grandmother and I own a bakery.”
The woman looked up, a spark of interest brightening her faded blue eyes. “It wouldn’t happen to be theWandering Hearth Bakery, would it?”
I stared at her in shock. “You’ve heard of it?”
“This was its original home, many years ago. It used to be in a little meadow.” She pointed a gnarled finger in the direction I’d come from.
Beneath my surprise, I realized that this new location was quite logical. The magic bond had broken and the bakery had returned home, as though theHomecoming Loafhad helped it find its way. And now I had the freedom to try to find my way as well.
That evening back home at the bakery, I moved restlessly from room to room. I began heating a pot of stew, but burned it because I forgot to frequently stir it. I swept half the floor before pausing to stand motionless before the window that faced south towards the forest.
Finally Granny sighed. “You need to find him.”
I whirled towards her. “I can’t leave you! Gabe’s curse is broken. Surely he can find his way now, somehow.”
“Cecelia.” Granny’s voice was firm. “I am home. I have friends here who can visit me to make sure I’m alright. Gabe needs you…and you need him.”
The next week was a whirlwind of baking, packing, and organizing my maps. Every morning I gazed towards the south, hoping to see a familiar figure emerge from the trees. On the morning I planned to leave, I rose early, mixing Granny’s favorite muffins for our last breakfast together.
As I slid them into the oven, I heard a cough from Granny’s room. I froze, listening, fear cinching my chest until I was nearly breathless. I’d heard that sound before, from my parents.
I ran on shaky legs to the bedroom, my heart sinking when I saw her flushed face. Her eyes met mine and she mouthed “Go” before surrendering to another fit of coughing. I smiled soothingly, but when she fell into a restless sleep, I put my knapsack away before walking to the village to find Elmira, Granny’s knitting friend who had a deep knowledge of herbs.
The weeks that followed settled into a rhythm. Granny improved, steadily but very slowly. It was nearly a month before she was able to sit up and hold her knitting needles in trembling fingers. For the first time in my life, the bakery remained following each full moon. Familiar paths gradually formed through the surrounding meadow, as though the earth itself had finally decided to stop wandering.
Gradually I resumed my baking duties, needing the income to continue buying medicine. I baked fresh bread, banana muffins, and cream-filled pastries from Granny’s nonmagical recipes because our new neighbors enjoyed them, not because a spell demanded another sacrifice. Children laughed over honey buns, travelers lingered over cups of cocoa. No enchanted sugarshimmered across the counter, no bargain waited between the pages of the recipe book.
Magic, I discovered, had never been the true reason people returned. They came because someone remembered how they liked their tea, because Granny always asked after their families, because Nutmeg enjoyed playing hide and seek with the children, and most of all because of the delicious nourishment found in baked confections shared around a table.
Yet every afternoon, after the last customer had departed, I gathered my maps and continued my search, always pressing southward. My heart ached that I couldn’t journey more than a few hours from home, but I continued to interview villagers, trying to create a mental path towards where I’d last seen Gabe. As often as I could, I moved in that direction, leaving small clues that I desperately hoped he would come across—leaves tied to twigs with bits of red thread that matched my cloak.
Whenever I discovered something beautiful as I explored, my thoughts still turned instinctively towards Gabe. He would enjoy this view, he would know the name of that flower, he would insist the stream sounded different after rain. Gradually I began to anticipate the time when we would be able to experience these things together once more.
My emotions returned much the same way.
Quietly and patiently, like spring unfolding after a long winter. Some mornings I woke with unexpected joy, others carried grief sharp enough to steal my breath. I welcomed them all, because every feeling reminded me that my heart was no longer borrowed.
It belonged to me.
One ordinary afternoon as twilight approached, I was kneeling beside a stream south of the bakery, adding the final bends of its shoreline to my newest map.
“Cecelia?”
The familiar voice drifted across the water. For one impossible heartbeat, I thought I had imagined it. Then hope lifted my eyes. My breath caught. Gabe stood upon the opposite bank. His cloak bore the dust of many roads, his boots were worn nearly through, and a withered green leaf protruded from the pocket that held his journal, a red thread tied around its stem.
He looked thinner than when I had last seen him, more tired. Yet his eyes held the same quiet warmth as always whenever his gaze found mine.
For an extended heartbeat, neither of us moved. The breeze stirred the grasses around our feet, carrying with it the soft murmur of water over smooth stones. For an instant, the months between us seemed to disappear. We were standing in that hidden meadow again, a half-finished map spread between us, his hand brushing mine as he quietly waited for an answer I had never realized he was asking.
