Chapter 5 #3
Grandmother was waiting for me, leaning heavily on her cane, when I finally lifted my head.
Though I recognized her from her occasional childhood visits, in that moment she still felt more stranger than family.
I stared at her wrinkled face and hair that was now nearly snow-white, and she gave me a tender smile.
I still carried remnants of the fever. My limbs ached weakly, and the room tilted slightly whenever I moved too quickly. With some effort, Grandmother knelt beside me and held out a small pastry dusted with shimmering sugar.
“It’s enchanted,” she told me gently.
At first I refused; nothing could possibly matter besides the terrible emptiness inside me. But the mention of magic stirred the faintest spark of childish curiosity still surviving beneath the grief.
I hesitantly accepted the pastry. It tasted of cinnamon and warm honey. As I swallowed, the healthy color faded slightly from Grandmother’s cheeks while exhaustion deepened around her eyes, as though the magic itself had demanded something from her in return.
“There,” she murmured softly, stroking damp strands of hair from my face. “That’s a good girl.”
Years of estrangement seemed to fade away under her loving touch. For the first time since waking, some small measure of warmth broke through the unbearable coldness consuming me.
“Would you like to come live with me?” she asked. “It’s a magical place—a bakery that travels beneath the full moon and creates enchanted treats capable of all sorts of wondrous things.”
“Like flying?” I asked hoarsely. “Or turning invisible? Or breathing underwater?”
A sad smile touched her face. “I’ve never made recipes for those specifically. But with the right ingredients and a sprinkle of magic, almost anything is possible.”
Wonder unfurled weakly through my grief-numbed imagination, possibilities waltzing through my mind to paint images of possibility and promise. A traveling bakery. Enchanted sweets. Endless new places waiting beyond the horizon.
Then another possibility struck me with sudden, desperate hope and I grasped her hand with both of mine. “Which recipe brings people back from the dead?”
Grandmother fell silent. Pain entered her eyes so deeply that I knew the answer before she spoke it aloud. “No magic exists that powerful, child.”
Her words cut through me more sharply than the fever ever had, slicing open the wound I was certain would never heal.
I lowered my gaze to the untouched crumbs resting in my hands while grief tore open all over again inside my chest. Yet somewhere amidst the agony, another feeling quietly took root beside it.
Determination seized hold of my weakened posture. “Then I’ll find the recipe myself.”
Grandmother neither encouraged nor discouraged the impossible declaration—perhaps because she understood I needed something to keep me moving forward through the grief, or perhaps because part of her still wished such magic truly existed too.
All she whispered, so quietly I scarcely heard the whispered words: “Magic always demands a price.”
But to me, nothing I might be forced to sacrifice hardly sounded like a price at all.
Grief had already hollowed me so thoroughly that I would have surrendered anything if it meant escaping the pain of losing my parents.
I didn’t yet understand the true cruelty of numbness—that eventually even the happy memories became distant and blurred, softened around the edges until they no longer felt entirely real.
Yet at the time, that sounded far kinder than hurting forever.
I closed my eyes, willing the faint memories back to their places. I had never truly regretted my decision, even when I could still experience regret. Grief and sorrow had no place in the life of someone who had no true place in the world, who was loved by only one person.
A faint sigh caught my attention and I opened my eyes again.
Grandmother was watching me with deep sadness, as though she sensed the memories that no amount of magic had been able to cause me to forget completely.
I hastily handed her the cup I’d poured before finding myself transported to the haunting past magic had almost entirely erased.
Grandmother accepted the steaming teacup from my hands, though her attention never fully left my face. “You, better than anyone, understand what it’s like to lose someone,” she observed softly. “And yet, you still invited him to tea.”
I opened my mouth with several entirely logical explanations. Hospitality. Professional courtesy. Storm conditions. Customer relations. None of my excuses emerged.
Grandmother’s knowing smile returned in full force. “Oh dear,” she murmured. “You really are interested in him.”
“I absolutely am not.”
The denial escaped far too quickly to sound convincing. From somewhere beyond the bedroom doorway came the faint sound of Nutmeg’s delighted chirping laughter. Traitor.
Grandmother watched me with far too much understanding for comfort. She reached over and patted my hand gently like one might soothe a child in the midst of some obvious realization. “There’s no need to be embarrassed,” she said warmly. “This is called attraction, dear.”
I stared at her, unconvinced. “I’m fairly certain attraction is supposed to feel significantly less alarming than this.”
A soft laugh escaped her. “Not at first.”
I knew what attraction was in theory, of course. My bakery had long been a favored destination for courting couples and shy admirers. I always ensured we remained well stocked with courage-inducing carrot cakes and honey-heart biscuits for nervous suitors hoping to confess feelings over tea.
I had imagined attraction as something pleasant and gentle, not this chaotic whirlwind steadily dismantling my ability to think rationally every time Gabe looked at me with those quiet dark eyes. If these troublesome sensations truly were emotions, I wanted absolutely no part of them.