Chapter 8 #2
Another feeling stirred briefly behind the wall surrounding my heart—a faint disappointment that his reason for accompanying me on our foraging outing and helping me bake was apparently so practical, rather than because he enjoyed my company and wished to spend more time with me.
Merely because the spell mattered to him.
Thankfully the feeling vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, swallowed once more by the familiar numbness.
When I remained trapped in indecision too long, Grandmother spoke from the adjoining room where she’d unsurprisingly been eavesdropping. “If he’s offering, Cecelia, it would be impolite to refuse him.”
Through the open doorway she winked at me from behind Gabe’s back. I was tempted to continue refusing, yet she had been so much brighter since my return from the forest that my resistance softened against my will. I sighed. “Very well.”
I resisted the urge to shut her door. For some unexplainable reason, I felt a twinge of discomfort at the thought of her observing my interactions with Gabe.
I pushed away the ridiculous idea; I would simply fulfill my duties to a paying client as usual…
even if working side by side was far from the usual method.
The warmth that immediately flooded Gabe’s expression made it difficult to hold his gaze for long.
I quickly nodded towards the basket of berries resting on the counter.
“Would you wash the berries?” It seemed the safest task to assign him.
Besides, the enchanted fruit would likely benefit from being handled by the person the spell was intended for.
He brightened and rolled up his sleeves before carrying the basket to the wash basin.
My gaze lingered longer than necessary on the muscles shifting beneath his sleeves as he worked the hand pump.
Despite the late hour and the amount of work still required before the tart could be baked, I found myself watching him…
although I quickly busied myself with gathering ingredients when I heard an amused snort from the next room.
It was strange seeing Gabe become a part of my world. Not as a customer standing on the opposite side of the counter, or as a traveler passing briefly through one of the bakery’s monthly homes. But here in the kitchen that had been my refuge ever since my parents died.
I had found what comfort I could amongst flour-dusted countertops, warm ovens, and well-loved recipes.
Baking relied upon certainty—a tested recipe, precise measurements, ingredients combined in exactly the right order to create something dependable and delicious.
It required none of the emotions I had gradually surrendered to magic over the years.
There was something reassuring about the rhythmic kneading of dough, the scent of bread rising beside the hearth, and the simple satisfaction of transforming ordinary ingredients into something sweet.
While I may not be able to take true joy in my work anymore, I could attain some sense of pleasure and safeness in the routine and the dependable results.
Yet now Gabe stood amidst it all, washing berries as though he belonged in a world that previously had only existed between me, the magic, and the confections I baked—no longer simply someone I had met in the woods, but someone who had somehow crossed the threshold into a part of my life I rarely shared with anyone.
I gave my head a small shake and opened the recipe book to once more consult the ingredient list: flour, butter, fresh cream, wild honey, freshly squeezed lemon, enchanted sugar, eggs, extract from rose petals, vanilla, three drops of rainwater gathered beneath moonlight.
Concluding with fresh raspberries gathered beneath a briarthorn tree at dusk.
I silently repeated each to myself while gathering each one from the shelves, trying to focus on the recipe rather than my unexpected helper standing only a few paces away.
Unfortunately, concentration proved difficult.
Every few moments I caught myself stealing another glance toward the wash basin, where Gabe carefully cleaned each berry with an attentiveness that suggested he considered the task just as important as the spell itself.
I hastily looked away. Moon-sugar, star anise, wild honey, powdered rosemary, three drops of rainwater gathered beneath moonlight, fresh cream…
My hands trembled ever so slightly as I measured the ingredients into a large mixing bowl.
The honey flowed like liquid amber beneath the candlelight while the moon-sugar sparkled amongst the flour like scattered starlight.
After whisking together the dry ingredients, I worked cold butter into the mixture until it formed soft, golden crumbs before adding the cream and beginning to bring the dough together.
Nearby, Nutmeg floated upon her usual perch, glowing softly as she supervised. I expected her to steal a taste the moment my attention wandered, but she remained unusually well behaved, her bright eyes darting back and forth between me and Gabe with suspicious interest.
Just as I finished mixing the dough, Gabe set the washed berries beside me with surprising gentleness for someone who had spent years outdoors, handling axes rather than delicate fruit. “Is there anything else I can help with?” He glanced around the kitchen in search of another task.
“Yes,” came a quavery voice from the adjoining room. Gabe turned in surprise. “Young man, would you help me to my rocking chair?”
Without hesitation, Gabe walked into Grandmother’s room. I followed, puzzled. I was more than capable of assisting her and knew exactly how to help her without causing unneeded pain.
But Grandmother ignored me, stretching out her hands towards Gabe.
He slid a gentle arm around her back and slowly helped her to her feet, then assisted her in a slow walk to the hearth, where her chair awaited.
As though he were handling a basket of fragile eggs, he lowered her into her cushioned seat and tucked her blanket around her before picking up her knitting and laying it on her lap.
His gentle manner stirred something in my heart I couldn’t identify.
Then he turned back to me, repeating his question. “Now may I help you with anything?” Quiet anticipation lingered in his dark eyes. Despite myself, my pulse stumbled beneath his gaze, making him impossible to refuse.
“Would you help me knead the dough?” Hoping he wouldn’t notice the odd higher pitch of my voice, I divided it into two portions and handed him one, trying very hard not to notice when our hands brushed.
He silently set to work. At first he approached the dough with the same serious concentration he devoted to tracking through the forest, as though kneading pastry was a task requiring the utmost precision.
His brow furrowed as he pressed the dough beneath his palms, carefully imitating my movements.
Unfortunately, enthusiasm appeared to be his strongest qualification, and Nutmeg quivered in merriment at his clumsy efforts, showering us in pink sparks.
Silence enfolded us, filled with the rhythmic symphony of kneading, the popping embers in the hearth, the occasional bubble from the stew warming over the fire, the soft click of Grandmother’s knitting needles, and the gentle creak of her rocking chair.
Similar to the quiet that had existed between us within the woods, it wasn’t uncomfortable. Yet I couldn’t fully relax. My attention repeatedly drifted towards Gabe despite my efforts to remain focused upon the recipe.
Why is he still here? Not that his presence was entirely unwanted.
He brought a companionship so different from patient Grandmother’s tutelage during my childhood or Nutmeg’s mischievous supervision.
The kitchen felt somehow fuller with him in it, as though his quiet presence occupied spaces I hadn't realized until now had been empty.
A few minutes later he attempted to roll out the pastry crust. My brow creased as his circle became an oval, then a simply indescribable shape.
“You’re pressing too hard.” I reached out a finger to lightly touch the dough where it swelled far out of bounds.
“This resembles one of the continents I might draw on a map.”
His shoulders immediately straightened and he stared at me with wide eyes. I frowned as I realized my observation must have hurt his feelings.
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to offend you.”
He shook his head. “I wasn’t offended. I’m just not used to hearing you make jokes.”
I pondered whether I should tell him I was plainly stating a fact, not trying to be witty. Instead, I stepped beside him before I could reconsider the wisdom of doing so.
“I’ll show you.” I reached for the rolling pin at the same moment he adjusted his grip. Once again our hands brushed. The contact lasted only an instant, yet my pulse reacted as though I had pressed my hand directly against a hot oven.
I hastily demonstrated the proper pressure while doing my best to ignore the strange warmth lingering in my fingertips. He watched carefully before attempting it again. The second attempt looked only marginally better.
He studied it with a rather endearing tilt of his head. “It appears I’ve created another continent.”
Against my will, my lips twitched. “I regret to confirm that you have.”
His expression brightened at the response, though I couldn’t determine why such a simple observation pleased him so much.
Grandmother watched the entire exchange with poorly concealed delight. Normally she retired early—if she’d left her bed at all—but tonight she appeared entirely awake, her eyes shining with an emotion I could only surmise to be joy or contentment.