Chapter 14
The smell of cinnamon and toasted oats drifted through the kitchen long before the sun had fully climbed above the trees.
I stood over the hearth, absently stirring the pot as morning light spilled through the window.
The steady scrape of my spoon against the saucepan should have been soothing, but it was hard to relax with Cecelia standing so near.
She moved quietly around the kitchen with the effortless familiarity that had once made me feel like an intruder but now somehow invited me into her rhythm.
The soft rustle of her skirt brushed against the floorboards as she measured oats into a bowl, tucked an unruly strand of chestnut hair behind her ear, then reached for the spice jar without even glancing towards it, as though every shelf and cupboard had long since become an extension of herself.
I found my attention wandering to her far more often than it should have. It was becoming alarmingly easy to measure the passing of my mornings by the sound of her footsteps instead of the position of the sun.
The folded page tucked safely inside my pocket seemed to weigh more heavily with every passing moment, the curse-breaking recipe I wished I had never read. If I allowed every reminder of the recipe to poison moments like these, I’d lose them long before the curse ever took them.
For all the heaviness pressing against my conscience, the kitchen itself remained wonderfully ordinary.
Cecelia stirred honey into the oats while I sliced bread to toast over the hearth.
Granny hummed softly from the table beside the window as she sipped her tea, the melody blending with the cheerful crackling of the fire.
A soft rustling behind the flour bin caught my attention. I glanced over just in time to notice a single raisin disappear from the jar. I turned towards Cecelia, eager for the chance to break the cozy silence. “I’ve discovered a raisin thief.”
Nutmeg froze mid-chew before giving an indignant spark at my betrayal. She floated behind Cecelia’s shoulder, as though seeking protection from my accusation, her suspiciously round middle making innocence rather difficult to believe.
Cecelia sighed. “She seems to believe she has full reign over the pantry. You’ve spoiled her.”
I deserved the censure—I had acquired the unfortunate habit of winning the little ember spirit’s loyalty with food whenever she looked at me with those impossibly hopeful eyes.
I held up my hands. “I’m not the one who chose a sweet-driven sprite as the bakery pet.”
The corners of Cecelia’s mouth lifted almost imperceptibly, causing my heart to lift. It wasn’t quite a smile, but compared to the woman I’d met only days ago, it felt miraculous.
My own smile faded almost as quickly as it had appeared. You might lose that because of me. That tiny smile, her growing wonder, her joyous laughter. The recipe demanded the deepest remaining desire within her heart. Whatever that ultimately proved to be, I already knew it would cost far too much.
I couldn’t bring myself to let her see the recipe and its impossible cost…although I hadn’t been able to ensure her safety entirely by burning it. But my conscience pricked me, reminding me that it was not my right to keep her own property from her.
I took a slow breath, gathering my courage. “Cecelia…”
The confession rose to my lips, but my resolve faltered when her soft, brown gaze met mine. I should tell her everything about the recipe I’d stolen and its impossible price.
Yet the moment I pictured the quiet determination that always settled into her eyes whenever someone needed help, I already knew what her answer would be.
I’d watched her surrender precious pieces of herself for complete strangers without hesitation.
If she believed this recipe would free me from my curse, she would bake it before I’d finished explaining the cost and call it a simple sacrifice.
I could never live with myself if I allowed her to give up the last piece of herself for me. I swallowed hard. “Would you please hand me the honey?“ I asked instead.
Without a hint of suspicion that I’d almost confessed something entirely different, she reached towards the shelf. Our hands brushed as she passed me the jar.
The contact lasted only an instant, nothing more than the fleeting warmth from our fingertips.
Yet it seemed to echo through me long after she’d withdrawn.
My pulse gave an absurd little leap that made me grateful she could no longer feel my emotions through the broken enchantment, while she returned to measuring oats as though nothing unusual had happened.
We settled once more into the comfortable rhythm we’d somehow built together over ordinary mornings. Without speaking, we moved around one another as though we’d rehearsed this domestic dance for years instead of days. When I reached for bowls, she’d already set them on the table.
When she crossed towards the cupboard, I quietly opened the door before she reached it.
She thanked me with the smallest nod, yet the simple exchange warmed me far more than it ought to have.
My heart clenched as the image of doing this domestic dance with her day after day, not just until this month ended, floated through my head.
Across the room, Granny watched us over the rim of her teacup with a knowing smile, undoubtedly noticing my every stolen glance, every excuse to help, and every ridiculous attempt to linger beside Cecelia just a little longer than necessary.
Heat crept into my ears. I risked a glance towards Cecelia.
She remained entirely absorbed in spooning oats into bowls, blissfully unaware of both Granny’s observations and the embarrassing ease with which my heart betrayed me.
Part of me found relief in her composure, while another part wished she wasn’t quite so oblivious.
Breakfast passed with the same peaceful familiarity. Nutmeg attempted to steal a spoonful of honey before Granny distracted her with half a cinnamon biscuit.
As we ate, Cecelia quietly slid the last of the strawberries we’d sliced together onto mine without comment. At my questioning look, she shrugged. “They’re your favorites.”
My heart rose that she’d noticed. She noticed everyone’s favorite things, always seeming far more interested in watching others enjoy her cooking than eating much herself. Another quiet kindness, another piece of herself freely given, making the berries taste infinitely sweeter.
I scarcely tasted the remainder of my breakfast. I found myself watching Cecelia while she listened to Granny’s stories with that same thoughtful stillness she gave everything.
She tucked another loose strand of hair behind her ear, paused to refill Granny’s teacup before being asked, and absentmindedly scratched beneath Nutmeg’s chin as the little sprite floated past.
None of the gestures were remarkable on their own. Yet together, they made up all Cecelia was. And somehow I found that infinitely more captivating than any grand display of beauty.
When breakfast was finished, Cecelia gathered the bowls and carried them towards the sink. I rose automatically. “I’ll do the washing. Would you…like to join me?” The words escaped before I could stop them.
The tips of my ears warmed as she glanced over. For the briefest instant, something softened in her expression. Not quite happiness or even surprise, only that same tiny warmth that seemed to be appearing more often these days.
She gave a hesitant nod. “I’d like that.” The simple words filled me with entirely unreasonable satisfaction.
She picked up the drying towel while I filled the basin.
For several peaceful minutes only the gentle splash of water and the clink of pottery filled the kitchen.
She reached for each dish just as I finished washing it, our movements naturally finding the same companionable rhythm we’d discovered everywhere else, a companionship I found myself wishing could last forever.
After the last dish had been dried, Cecelia folded the towel with the same careful precision she seemed to apply to everything she touched. Comfortable silence settled around us, a cozy atmosphere that had become one of my favorite things about the bakery.
I was just mustering up the courage to invite her to spend the rest of the day with me when she spoke first. “I’ve been thinking about your curse.”
I felt a twinge of disappointment that her thoughts hadn’t wandered somewhere more romantic, though it was quickly eclipsed by warmth at the realization that she’d given the problem so much consideration—mixed with dread as I wondered if I could keep my secret from her.
“You have?” It took every effort to keep my voice steady.
My heart beat with sudden trepidation, while the stolen recipe seemed to burn in my pocket.
I silently prayed that whatever solution she was considering wouldn’t require her sacrificing any more of herself.
Our quiet morning together had only confirmed how much of Cecelia remained hidden beneath her reserve—and how precious each newly discovered piece had become to me.
“When your curse compels you to wander, does it choose where you go?“ she asked.
I shook my head. “It simply…pulls, without any sense of there being a particular destination.“
Concentration settled over her, the one she wore whenever she was piecing together a map. “I’ll be right back.“
Before I could ask what she was doing, she’d disappeared upstairs. She returned a moment later carrying an armful of rolled parchment tied together with ribbon, only a small fraction of those that filled her bedroom.
She spread them across the table one after another, until the surface entirely disappeared beneath her maps. Some were new, while others had softened with age. Though I’d glimpsed portions of her vast collection these past few weeks, I couldn’t help being impressed. “You’ve made all of these?“