Chapter 13
Gabe
Grandmother turned the recipe book over in her lap, her weathered fingers tracing the embossed wolf upon its worn leather cover. The playful light that so often danced within her eyes gradually faded into something quieter, touched with remembrance.
“It appears the old stories have finally found their way back to us,” she murmured.
My breath caught and I leaned forward. “You’ve seen that crest before?”
She rested both hands upon the book as though greeting an old friend.
“Oh yes…though only through stories.” Her voice softened into the gentle cadence of a bedtime tale.
“Long ago, before there were enchanted bakeries or magical confections, there were two families. One family baked magic.” She lightly patted the recipe book. “The other wrote it.”
Silence settled over the kitchen, broken only by the crackling hearth.
“The Wolves possessed a rare gift. They could weave enchantments into recipes so intricate that each one seemed almost alive. But they guarded that gift fiercely. Magic, they believed, belonged only to their own blood…but love has never paid much attention to rules.”
A smile ghosted across her lips as she glanced first towards Cecelia, then towards me. “One of the Wolf sons fell hopelessly in love with a young baker.”
I exerted all my willpower not to look at Cecelia…but my gaze strayed towards her anyway, only to linger, momentarily captivated by the effects of the firelight dancing across her lovely complexion. My ears warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the flickering hearth.
Grandmother’s fingertips brushed the worn cover. “They dreamed of building a bakery together. He would write the recipes, she would bring them to life. So he gave her this book.”
My breath caught almost imperceptibly. Cecelia’s eyes widened slightly, but otherwise she betrayed no other reaction.
Grandmother’s smile slowly faded. “They believed magic was meant to bless others, not remain hidden away behind locked doors. When his family discovered what he’d done, they called it a betrayal.
The marriage was forbidden, the bakery was condemned.
And the young Wolf…” She looked towards me, her usually twinkling eyes somber. “…was cursed.”
No one spoke, the popping embers the only sound in the suffocating silence. Grandmother’s gaze drifted back to the wolf on the cover, stroking it once more with wrinkled fingers.
“They say every firstborn son of his line inherited a different burden—some lost their voices, some their memories, and some their strength. And some…”
Her eyes lingered on me. “…could never find their way home.”
Something tightened in my chest; Cecelia had gone utterly still. She swallowed. “And my family?” she asked quietly.
Grandmother smiled, though sorrow lingered behind it.
“The Wolf patriarch could not reclaim the book once it had accepted a new keeper. So instead he cursed the bargain itself.” She reached over and squeezed her granddaughter’s hand.
“Magic would never again come freely to our family. Every enchantment would ask for something precious in return.”
Cecelia seemed to hesitate before her fingers curled around her grandmother’s. “And what of the bakery?” she asked.
Grandmother looked towards the rain-speckled windows, her gaze seeming to follow the distant forest beyond the glass.
“The old stories say it never settled again. Each full moon it journeyed somewhere new, forever staying just beyond the reach of those who wished to possess the book.” She smiled faintly.
“Whether the bakery protects the book—or the book protects the bakery—I’ve never known. ”
The kitchen fell silent once more. Cecelia sat still, occasionally shooting me inquisitive glances as she doubtless felt my turmoil through the bond. It took me several minutes to sort through my whirling thoughts to hesitantly speak. “So the Wolves have been searching for the recipe book?”
Grandmother nodded. “So the stories say.” Her eyes twinkled with renewed intrigue. “Though curiously, they never seem to know that's what they're searching for.”
A shiver ran down my spine.
"They’re simply…restless. They wander and search, convinced something important is missing. And when the bakery appears, they always find it.”
I frowned. This revelation seemed to strike me harder than the rest of the story combined.
That couldn’t be true. All my wanderings had taken me to random locations; I never encountered this enchanted bakery until I arrived in this forest. Unless…
I felt my expression slowly change, as though pieces of a puzzle I’d spent years carrying were finally beginning to fit together.
“So that’s why…” I murmured. “So that’s what I’ve been searching for.”
Grandmother said nothing more, merely watched me with quiet compassion.
After a long moment, she slowly pushed herself to her feet with the help of her cane.
I rose to help her, but Cecelia was faster, wrapping a gentle arm around her, her movements filled with a tenderness that contradicted her apparent emotionless nature.
Grandmother smiled at us both. “I’ll leave the two of you to decide what part of old fairy tales you choose to believe.”
With Nutmeg faithfully fluttering after her, she disappeared down the hallway, leaving only the crackle of the fire behind.
The silence that settled over the kitchen felt different than before. I was no longer staring at the recipe book but down at my hands, as though seeing myself for the very first time. I’ve been searching for this my entire life.
I had forgotten what hope felt like. It wasn't loud or triumphant, but quiet, like finally seeing smoke after wandering a frozen wilderness.
For years I’d taught myself never to expect an ending. Every trail disappeared, every answer led to another question. Yet for the first time...the road ahead no longer vanished into mist. I had spent so long wandering that I no longer remembered what it felt like to believe I was close to home.
I looked up at the sound of Cecelia’s footsteps. I waited for her to say something, but she only regarded me in silence. I searched her expression, wondering what she thought of the revelations from Grandmother’s story, but her lovely features remained as unreadable as ever.
Though it might have been my imagination, I thought I detected a hint of concern lingering in her eyes as her gaze rested upon me…though not distrust, for which I was profoundly grateful. I longed to ask what she was thinking, but my thoughts remained too tangled to unravel.
Cecelia was first the break the silence. “The hour’s grown late. Perhaps we should go to bed.” Yet something in her voice made me wonder if she wasn’t quite ready for the evening to end.
For all my disappointment, I welcomed the chance to be alone with my thoughts.
But the moment Cecelia extinguished the candle, plunging the room into darkness, I became acutely aware of her presence only a few paces away.
Rather than growing accustomed to sharing a room with her over the past week, each passing night had become increasingly torturous, making sleep nearly impossible with her so near.
I pressed my hand against my chest, willing my heart to slow.
I lay staring at the faint outline of her silhouette in the darkness.
She lay quietly, outwardly seeming unbothered by the knowledge that had turned my own thoughts into a restless storm.
A small, shameful part of me envied that peace.
But as I watched, she shifted restlessly, then moved back into her original position as if uncomfortable.
The rhythm of her breathing and the occasional rustle of her movement filled the quiet stillness.
I wondered whether she had truly forgiven me for yielding to the recipe book’s tempting lure.
Even if she hadn’t sacrificed resentment through her magic, I suspected she would have extended mercy all the same.
It simply seemed to be woven into who she was, regardless of her ability to feel.
I smiled faintly into the night. Without my ever noticing when it had happened, the ordinary moments had quietly become my favorites.
Measuring flour while she searched for spices.
Carrying sacks of grain simply because it lightened her work.
Pretending not to enjoy sweets while secretly relishing my job of tasting every failed tart she placed before me with an apologetic look.
Somehow even washing mixing bowls beside her had become something I looked forward to.
Somewhere along the way, I’d stopped counting the days until I moved on.
I had started wondering what we’d bake tomorrow.
Whether Nutmeg would find another ridiculous disguise.
Whether Cecelia would smile again. Whether she’d finally let me convince her that burnt pastries still counted as breakfast. None of those things had anything to do with breaking my curse.
Somehow...they’d become the things I looked forward to most.
Warmth built inside me as my anxiety ebbed, and I heard Cecelia give a little sigh and settle, curling into her blankets before lying still as though even in her sleep she could sense what I was feeling. Her peace calmed me further as I reflected on why things had changed.
The bakery had begun to feel less like a place of business and more like…home.
Perhaps it was because I had once been a tracker. Long before the curse stole that gift from me, I had learned that the forest rarely announced its secrets—a bent blade of grass, a disturbed fern, a single footprint pressed into damp earth. The smallest details often revealed the greatest truths.