Chapter 6
Gabe
The draw towards the recipe book that had been quietly consuming me ever since Cecelia had withdrawn it from the locked cabinet seemed to strengthen the moment she stepped from the room.
What had begun as a whispering lure grew, like a gentle rain swelling into a storm, beckoning me closer with a persistence that grew increasingly difficult to ignore.
Unconsciously, I rose and approached the cabinet she had left standing slightly ajar.
With each careful step, I listened intently to the sound of Cecelia’s retreating footsteps disappearing down the hallway until they reached her grandmother’s room.
The door opened, followed by the soft murmur of their voices.
A moment later it clicked shut again, muffling their conversation behind the wooden door.
I wasn’t sure how long she would be gone but surely it would be long enough to…what? The question stopped me. I had no business looking through her belongings, especially after she’d trusted me enough to leave me alone in her bakery. Ashamed, I forced myself to turn away.
Immediately the restless pull awakened within me…the same invisible tide that had ruled my life ever since the curse had fallen upon me—the constant compulsion to move, to search, to follow some destination forever beyond my reach.
It never allowed me to remain still for long before the pressure began to mount, urging me onward with quiet persistence.
Years ago I’d learned it was easier to obey than resist. Fighting it accomplished nothing except exchanging restless wandering for outright misery.
Yet this felt...different. For once, the unseen force wasn’t urging me away—it was drawing me towards something.
I looked back at the cabinet. Something about that book stirred a slumbering memory buried so deeply I could scarcely distinguish it from imagination.
Ever since Cecelia had placed it upon the table, an uncomfortable familiarity had lingered at the edge of my thoughts, like identifying the first unfurling leaves of an oak in spring without remembering how the tree would look in summer.
When she’d unlocked the cabinet, I’d scarcely heard the questions she’d been asking me.
My attention had remained hopelessly fixed upon the worn leather cover, the intricate silver embossing curling around its edges, and the strange crest pressed into its center.
Though I couldn’t recall where I’d seen that symbol before, something inside me had responded instantly.
Even now I could remember fighting the absurd impulse to reach across the table, pull the book towards myself, and begin turning its pages.
While Cecelia searched for the proper recipe, my gaze had repeatedly drifted back to it.
Once, when she’d crossed the room to retrieve an ingredient, my hand had even lifted of its own accord before I caught myself.
I had hastily clasped both hands together beneath the table like an unruly child, appalled that the thought had crossed my mind at all.
I wasn’t going to steal it; the very idea filled me with shame. I only wanted a single glance—just enough to satisfy the strange pull that refused to leave me alone, perhaps discover why the book felt so inexplicably familiar, or ascertain what other recipes it concealed within its enchanted pages.
The reassurances sounded increasingly hollow the longer I stood there. Ignoring the sharp prickle of my conscience compelling me to ignore the siren’s seductive call, I took another tentative step closer. I slowed in front of the cabinet and waited, listening with bated breath.
The bakery had fallen quiet, save for Nutmeg drifting amongst the shelves with singular determination, investigating each jar as though convinced one of them must surely contain hidden sugar.
Judging by her complete absorption in her task, she paid me no attention whatsoever.
Even so, the tiny ember sprite felt strangely like a watchful guardian; I shouldn’t even be considering touching the book while she remained in the room.
Yet the power drawing me forward seemed to care very little for my conscience. It pressed insistently against my resolve, as though it possessed a will entirely separate from my own. You may never have another opportunity, the seductive temptation rationalized.
I cast one final glance towards the hallway before, heart beating loud enough I feared Cecelia might hear it from the next room, I reached for the cabinet door.
In her distraction the last time she’d put it away, the lock hadn’t quite clicked all the way in place, carelessness that acted as a personal invitation for me to steal my coveted peek.
Guilt pierced me far more sharply than temptation ever had. Even after she’d agreed to help me, here I stood preparing to repay that kindness by violating the trust she’d placed in me.
I should have stepped away. Instead, with trembling fingers and a heart that could no longer distinguish curiosity from compulsion, I slowly pulled the cabinet door the rest of the way open. Despite its age, the door swung silently on well-oiled hinges, as though encouraging me in my venture.
The familiar scents of cinnamon, vanilla, old paper, and dried herbs drifted out to meet me, growing in strength as my fingers brushed across the wolf embossed into the weathered leather.
The moment I touched it, the world seemed to still.
A voice surfaced from somewhere deep within my childhood memories, so unexpected I almost looked over my shoulder in search of its owner.
“If you ever find the Book of Hearth Magic…” Grandfather’s words came wrapped in the scent of cedar smoke and crackling fire, spoken during long winter evenings when I was still young enough to believe every family story ended happily.
The memory flickered like a candle struggling against the wind. “Our family has searched for generations…”
I frowned, trying to grasp the rest. Searched for what? The answer hovered just beyond reach before dissolving once more into frustrating emptiness, leaving only a single sentence.
“It is the only thing that can free a Wolf.”
“If we’ve been looking for years, then why hasn't anyone found it?” I remembered asking.
Grandfather had smiled sadly as he stared thoughtfully into the fire. “Perhaps because the book isn’t waiting to be found. Perhaps it's waiting for the right Wolf.”
The memory vanished as suddenly as it had come, leaving only the embossed wolf beneath my fingertips. The book, the cure, the answer I’d spent years wandering, lost, for. A voice echoed through my memory. “If you ever find it…do not let it slip away again.”
My hand tightened around the cover. I looked toward the door, then back to the book. Slowly, almost against my own will, I opened the book.
But before I could flip through its pages, a rosy amber streak shot across the kitchen in a flurry of agitated sparks.
Nutmeg barreled into the cabinet with enough force to rattle the shelves, scattering sparks in every direction.
A light dusting of sugar coated her cheeks, evidence she'd successfully raided the pantry. A crazed gleam in her eyes told me she’d passed her limit of safe consumption and I watched her uneasily, wondering if I should call Cecelia but trapped by my own actions.
She darted in front of the book, spreading her body wide as though her tiny frame alone could shield it from me. I immediately stepped back, releasing the cabinet door as though it had burned me. “I wasn’t going to steal it,” I whispered quickly.
She regarded me with undisguised suspicion.
“I mean it,” I insisted. “I was just…curious. I only wanted to learn more about the tart we’re about to bake…and to understand why it feels so important.”
She gave an exaggerated little huff that suggested she didn’t believe any of my explanation, and a shower of sparks erupted from her mouth.
Typically these were harmless, losing heat by the time they touched anything.
But this time, fueled by her unauthorized sugar consumption, a few sparks landed on my arm and burned.
“Ouch!” I quickly muffled my exclamation, rubbing at the sore spots.
With a sigh, I reached into my pocket and withdrew the last bunchberry from those I’d gathered that afternoon.
Her eyes immediately brightened. She floated cautiously closer, clearly torn between her distrust of me and her love of sweets.
“You drive a difficult bargain.” The moment I opened my hand, she snatched the berry, hugged it possessively to her small frame, and devoured it in one delighted spark.
She floated thoughtfully in front of me while chewing, then glanced from me to the hallway where Cecelia had disappeared.
A mischievous smile slowly spread across her tiny face.
Instead of returning to guard the cabinet, she drifted towards me and gave my sleeve a decisive tug. “What is it?” I asked. She pointed emphatically down the hallway. “Cecelia?” I mouthed the word, not wanting the baker to hear me.
Nutmeg nodded so vigorously that embers scattered from her glowing body. She pointed at me, back towards the hallway, then clasped both tiny morphed hands together beneath her cheek, closed her eyes dramatically, and swayed from side to side with an expression of theatrical bliss.
My ears warmed as her implication settled over me. “I think you’ve misunderstood the situation.”
She rolled her eyes with remarkable exaggeration for someone scarcely larger than a loaf of bread.
The recipe book still seemed to tug insistently at my attention, urging me to remain where I stood.
But thanks to Nutmeg’s interference, I’d regained my senses.
I forced myself to re-lock the cabinet and head towards the front of the bakery.
Each pace felt strangely difficult, as though I were walking against a current determined to pull me back.