Chapter 4
The bell above the door had been tinkling cheerfully throughout the shop all morning, a welcome change from the bakery’s usual stillness.
Though the forest remained drenched in mist and steady rain, a small handful of villagers had nevertheless braved the woods these past few days, following the carefully marked trail Gabe had carved through the trees—bits of red cloth tied around branches and subtle charcoal arrows along stones now guided wary travelers safely to our clearing.
Most arrived nervous and skeptical; few left empty-handed.
This morning alone, I’d sold three loaves of rosemary bread, a box of lavender sleep biscuits to an exhausted mother with shadows beneath her eyes, and an enchanted honey candy to an elderly man hoping to soothe aching joints before winter settled in.
“The hunter told us about your bakery,” several customers had explained cautiously, as though still uncertain whether they truly believed the place existed.
I always answered with polite professionalism while pretending not to notice how often my gaze drifted towards the rain-streaked windows afterward.
Not waiting for him, simply…observing. Yet the hunter had yet to return.
He had promised he would, and I had the impression he wasn’t the type to go back on his word, so I kept watching.
As if answer to my unspoken longing, the bell above the door chimed again. I turned from arranging jars of gumdrops, lollipops, and other sweets—both enchanted and ordinary—and faced the new arrival. My heart gave a strange, uneven patter I couldn’t account for. Gabe.
He looked much as he had during our first meeting, except now his black hair was windswept from the storm and droplets of rain clung to the shoulders of his dark cloak.
His piercing dark eyes met mine across the bakery, causing warmth to rise unexpectedly into my cheeks despite the cold weather outside.
For a moment we simply stared at one another.
He lingered near the doorway as though uncertain whether he should remain, glancing around the bakery with the air of someone who had wandered somewhere they had not entirely meant to go.
Though he didn’t retreat back into the rain, neither did he approach the counter, as if trapped in some awkward limbo between staying and fleeing.
“Can I help you?” I finally asked, my voice sounding strangely strained.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his attention settled on a plate of cooling lemon scones whose steam curled upward in warm, fragrant ribbons promising comfort to anyone fortunate enough to eat one fresh from the oven. He pointed towards them cautiously. “Are those enchanted?”
I shook my head. “They’re one of our most popular regular wares, often purchased to accompany tea.” I hesitated, the words feeling strangely difficult to say aloud. “Would you…like to try one? I just set the kettle to boil.”
The tips of his ears immediately reddened. “Are you…inviting me to tea? With you?”
I’d grown accustomed to people avoiding the company of the awkward, emotionally stagnant baker whose wares were useful, but who otherwise ought to be ignored whenever possible.
So the strange prickling sensation that stirred unpleasantly in my chest at his obvious surprise caught me off guard.
It almost resembled…hurt? Whatever the uncomfortable feeling was, I wanted it gone immediately.
“Do you dislike my company?” I voiced the question with more briskness than I’d intended, concealing any vulnerability I felt.
His eyes widened in alarm. He quickly held up his hands in a placating gesture. “No—that isn’t what I meant.” He shuffled awkwardly beneath my stare. “I’m just…surprised.”
He was the first person I’d met who somehow seemed even more socially awkward than myself.
Ordinarily such nervousness should have made conversation more difficult, but instead it gave me an odd sense of confidence, as though I’d sampled one of our valor-berry tea cakes—the enchanted pastries famous for lending courage to anxious hearts.
“It’s simply a gesture of gratitude,” I explained. “You came all this way despite the weather. Tea seems appropriate before you venture back out into the rain.”
I attempted to soften my expression and infuse warmth into my tone. Unfortunately, the effort only made me sound as though I were reciting definitions from a dictionary.
He studied me silently for another extended moment, brow faintly furrowed. Then, after visible hesitation, he tentatively nodded.
I crossed to the front window and turned the hanging sign to Closed before motioning for him to follow me into the kitchen in the back.
He obeyed, though with the same awkward uncertainty as before, ducking his head slightly as he stepped through the doorway and settled stiffly into the chair I indicated at the table beside the hearth.
I tried to distract myself from his looming presence—which seemed to fill the entire kitchen despite how quietly he sat—by busying myself with preparing tea.
It was a simple blend of my own creation: mountain mint, lemon balm, chamomile, and a touch of lavender I’d brought with me from our last location.
I’d gathered fresh lavender from the forest edge the previous morning, and now it hung upside down above the hearth to dry so I could experience the unique flavors of my new home.
The herbs paired perfectly with the bright citrus of the lemon scones I arranged carefully upon a plate.
I kept my back turned towards Gabe while finishing the preparations, doing my best not to look at him as the kettle heated over the hearth. The kettle hissed softly behind me while steam rose upward in soft white curls, the air scented with herbs, citrus, and fresh bread.
I watched each smoky pattern, trying to ignore the man sitting mere meters away. Yet despite my efforts, I kept casting him furtive glances over my shoulder as I worked. It felt strangely surreal seeing a man who seemed part of the forest sitting in my neatly scrubbed kitchen.
Despite the bakery’s warmth, he remained stiff in his chair, posture subtly alert, as though this cozy room were merely another extension of the woods outside and he expected a predator to emerge from the shadows at any moment.
The thought should have amused me. Instead, it only deepened the strange awareness already crowding my thoughts.
As the tea steeped, I arranged cups, saucers, and fresh scones on a tray. The soft clinking of glass drew Nutmeg’s attention.
My ember sprite poked her glowing pink head from a jar of cloves on the counter, where she’d apparently been napping peacefully amongst the spices. Her large eyes darted towards Gabe—still perched awkwardly at the table—and widened with theatrical interest.
With an excited chirp, she floated closer and gave me a pointed look whose meaning I deciphered instantly. “I know what you’re thinking,” I murmured beneath my breath. “Nothing untoward is occurring; I merely invited him inside because of the rain.”
I stubbornly clung to this explanation for my uncharacteristic deviation from my usual antisocial tendencies.
The first few times the bakery had moved, I’d eagerly made new friends.
But the pain of losing them every month—along with the gradual drain of my emotions as I poured myself into my baking—gradually changed me.
Now I isolated myself from the villagers in every place the bakery transported to.
Forming attachments was meaningless when all connections dissolved again within mere weeks.
Yet until another enchanted confection eventually claimed the fragile feeling concealed within the deep, secret recesses of my heart, I could not entirely silence the quiet part of me that genuinely wanted his company, no matter how impractical or temporary the afternoon might prove to be.
Nutmeg responded with visible skepticism, sparks flickering mischievously around her tiny form as she floated towards the rafters overhead. I ignored her and busied myself with pouring the boiling water into the teapot.
Despite the overcast sky, soft morning light still filtered through the floral curtains, illuminating the cozy space in pale gold.
The cheerful popping of embers in the hearth filled the room, the dancing amber firelight casting glowing patterns that shifted with every flicker of flame.
Beyond the windows, rain pattered steadily against the glass in soothing rhythm.
It should have been peaceful, but instead awkwardness crowded the kitchen like an unwelcome guest.
I had to repeatedly remind myself that I had invited him here willingly—for reasons I still could not entirely decipher. It almost felt as though the last remnants of my common sense had been sacrificed in some previous recipe and only now was I beginning to notice its absence.
A soft sound from Grandmother’s room drifted out to us and Gabe startled. “Is someone else here?”
“My grandmother lives here with me.”
Gabe smiled with a touch of wistfulness. “Does she do much of the baking?”
I shook my head. “No. She taught me to bake, but now she’s ill and is confined to her bed or chair almost always. She passes time by knitting, and sometimes giving advice on a recipe I haven’t tried before.”
“I’m sorry.” Gabe looked grieved, which struck me as odd.
He seemed to feel more for a person he’d ever met than I did for my only family member.
Of course, I couldn’t feel so that shouldn’t have been surprising.
But I hadn’t expected this solitary stranger to care about someone he hadn’t even seen.
I began to pour tea, and behind me, Gabe shifted faintly in his chair. My heart immediately answered with an uneven patter so loud I was almost certain it echoed more clearly than the rain against the windows, the crackling fire in the hearth, or even the boiling kettle itself.