Chapter 14 #3
I squinted through the shafts of sunlight filtering through the leafy canopy.
At first I saw nothing, my usual tracking instincts as unreliable as ever beneath the curse ’s influence.
Then, as though simply standing beside Cecelia steadied my wandering senses, I caught sight of a faint line of moss-covered stones nearly hidden beneath the ferns.
We followed them carefully, each weathered stone appearing just in time to reveal the next, like stepping stones laid for travelers the forest had long since forgotten.
The trees suddenly parted. A quiet meadow stretched before us, enclosed by towering pines. Wildflowers swayed gently in the afternoon breeze, their colors scattered across the clearing like autumn leaves scattered across the undergrowth.
A narrow stream curved lazily through the grass, catching the sunlight in brilliant flashes of silver before disappearing once more beneath the trees. Near its center stood an enormous oak whose sprawling branches seemed old enough to remember every season the forest had ever known.
The entire clearing felt untouched, almost forgotten, as though it had simply been waiting someone to find it again.
Cecelia’s breath caught, her glistening eyes sparkling with wonder. “Oh.” It was barely more than a whisper, yet I wasn't certain I’d ever heard a more beautiful word.
Before I realized what she intended, she hurried towards the stream, dropping to her knees beside it with all the excitement of someone uncovering buried treasure.
She hastily unrolled her parchment. Ink, compass, straightedge appeared almost magically one after another from the endless pockets sewn into her scarlet cloak.
I chuckled. “You carry an entire cartographer’s workshop with you.”
She didn’t even look up as she carefully aligned her straightedge.
“One never knows when inspiration will strike, or what one might find at the end of a trail.” Her lips curved softly as she looked up from her sketch, her usual businesslike expression replaced with a delight that made her more beautiful than any silk gown or jeweled necklace could attempt.
“To think I almost left this forest without seeing this place.”
For several minutes, only the quiet scratching of her quill disturbed the stillness. I wandered slowly around the clearing, though I found myself glancing back towards her, captivated far more by her presence than the surrounding scenery that had transfixed her.
Now and then she tilted her head while studying the curve of the stream before making another careful mark, her brow furrowed in concentration. “The stream bends farther east than I expected…“ She adjusted another line. “If I use the oak as the central landmark…” Another note.
I smiled. There she was, the real Cecelia. Not the careful baker who hid behind routine, nor the young woman convinced she no longer needed emotions. Just someone utterly captivated by discovering something beautiful. I couldn’t look away.
Eventually she seemed to remember my presence and hastily glanced up, looking almost apologetic.
For a fleeting moment, I almost imagined a faint blush dusting her cheeks.
The delicate flush suited her far better than it had any right to, especially knowing I had no promise of seeing it every day for the rest of my life.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I got carried away.”
I smiled. “And I enjoyed every moment. I was hoping you wouldn’t stop.”
The rosy color deepened in her cheeks. She lowered her eyes, suddenly becoming very interested in the contour lines she’d been drawing.
After a while, curiosity overcame me. I wanted to discover every detail about her, as though I were constructing my own map—one I could carry with me the next time the curse forced me to wander. “Will you teach me how to make them?”
Her pen stopped. She stared at me as though I’d asked whether Nutmeg to teach me to bake bread. “You truly wish to learn?”
At my nod, something seemed to brighten inside her. She shifted across the grass to make room beside her, patting the empty space in silent invitation.
My heart gave an altogether unnecessary leap, and I found myself relieved that the bond no longer existed to betray my excitement.
I crossed the short distance between us, suddenly far more aware of how close we would be sitting than seemed entirely reasonable.
I settled beside her, careful not to crowd her, though every selfish part of me wished propriety required just a little less distance.
She placed the pencil in my hand. Her fingers brushed mine as she adjusted my grip before gently guiding my hand towards the parchment. It was such a simple gesture, yet somehow I forgot entirely what she was trying to teach me.
“You always begin with the landmarks,” she instructed.
“If you begin with details, you’ll become lost.” She pointed towards the great oak beneath whose branches we sat.
“Things that don’t move.” Then to the stream winding through the meadow.
“Things that guide you.” Finally, she gestured towards the tiny flowers scattered across the clearing.
“And only afterward, the beautiful little things that make a place worth remembering.” She added a few delicate strokes.
We spent the remainder of the afternoon working together.
Whenever I drew something crooked she quietly reached across the parchment to correct it, causing our fingers to brush more than once and tempting me to intentionally make mistakes.
I never hurried to move away…and unless it was merely the hopeful wish of my imagination, neither did she.
Each passing moment seemed to coax another smile from her, and at one point she even laughed softly after discovering I’d accidentally drawn the stream flowing uphill.
I admired the map gradually taking shape beneath our hands.
Each careful line seemed to capture more than the meadow before us.
Somewhere between the landmarks and wildflowers, I’d begun tracing the quiet affection steadily growing within my own heart, each stroke preserving feelings I still scarcely dared name.
The breeze stirred the branches, calling a maple leaf to drift onto the forming map.
I reached instinctively to pick it up, another memento to protect the places I could never keep safely within the pages of my journal, proof that this beautiful moment had once existed.
I paused, no longer feeling the familiar urgency I usually did to cling to the places I wandered.
For once, I wasn’t thinking about the moment I’d inevitably leave, but daydreaming of the moment when I would return.
I let the leaf remain where it had fallen and turned to smile at Cecelia. “I think this has become my favorite place,” I murmured.
She looked around the clearing before lowering her gaze to the map we’d only just begun. “Mine as well,” she whispered.
Silence fell between us as Cecelia added the final details to our map. Once again, she had become completely absorbed.
A lock of brown hair had escaped its ribbon and repeatedly drifted across her face whenever the breeze wandered through the clearing.
Every few moments she absently tucked it behind her ear, only for it to escape again almost immediately.
My fingers twitched, aching to brush the stray lock back myself, to discover whether it was as soft as it looked, to let my touch linger just long enough to cradle her cheek.
As though sensing my stare, she glanced up and caught my smile. Her head tilted in that adorable way of hers. “What is it?”
“I don’t believe your hair wishes to cooperate.”
When I’d first met her she likely wouldn’t have played along, but this time she released an exaggerated sigh. “It has always possessed a remarkable talent for ignoring my instructions.”
“So you can infuse magic into your recipes to make them do your bidding, but you can’t command your own hair?”
Her pencil resumed its quiet scratching, but I caught a glimpse of her half-smile before she ducked her head. “I’ve simply accepted defeat.”
“I admire your perseverance.”
She looked up with mock seriousness. “It isn’t perseverance—my hair has remained undefeated for eighteen years.”
“I’ll remember never to challenge it.”
To my delight, a quiet laugh escaped her, as naturally as when we’d picked berries for the tart that had first brought us together. My heart lifted at having coaxed it from her once again, another small piece of herself quietly finding its way home.
All too soon, she finished and held the map towards me. “What do you think?”
I scooted closer beside her and my eyes widened in appreciation.
I traced every careful stroke she’d sketched with quiet reverence—the gentle curve of the stream, each cluster of flowers, the great oak, even the moss-covered stones that had led us into the clearing.
My own markings had been done with little skill, yet she’d somehow fixed even those to be a cohesive part of the whole.
She’d somehow transformed a single afternoon into something that could be carried forever.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmured.
Another blush caressed her cheeks, filling me with cautious hope that perhaps she felt something of what had quietly begun growing between us. “It’s more rushed than my usual maps. I found myself…distracted.”
“As remarkable as it is, I wasn’t talking about the map.” The words escaped before I could stop them.
Her blush deepened. I wasn’t certain whether the rosy color came from embarrassment or something infinitely more dangerous, but I found myself wishing I could reach out and feel the warmth blooming beneath her cheeks.
“You know,” I murmured, unable to look away, “I think your maps have begun making everything around them more beautiful.” Including their cartographer. The thought wisely remained unspoken.