A Spoonful of Spells and Secrets (Enchanting Confections #12)

Chapter 1

Steam curled from the tart lightly kissed with golden brown, rich with the scent of raspberries and magic. With practiced care, I sprinkled a pinch of enchanted sugar before adding a single drop of glimmering honey, sealing the spell to perfection.

As the magic took hold, I felt it reach inside of me to claim its price.

I stood still, waiting with bated breath for the moment when the stolen emotion departed.

I used to be able to feel each one as it vanished, but lately I scarcely felt anything at all—whether I’d become too accustomed to the loss or I’d grown too numb to notice.

The magic curled around my heart, taking some of the self-deprecating annoyance I’d felt towards myself when a careless mistake had caused me to spill half a jar of crushed moon-thyme as I concocted a muffin meant to boost the eater’s confidence—one of the rarer herbs we reserved for our most delicate enchantments.

This morning’s regret and frustration gradually faded until none remained, leaving my heart a little lighter… and emptier.

I released a relieved sigh that this spell’s price had been one I was all too willing to pay, something that was growing less frequent when so few of my emotions remained. I looked around the bakery that had been my home these past ten years, taking in the familiar surroundings.

The space was small and neatly organized but lovingly worn, its stone walls softened by years of warmth and flour-dusted hands.

Wooden beams stretched overhead, darkened with age and the memory of countless fires lit before dawn.

Copper pans and iron hooks lined the walls, catching the last of the evening light, while bundles of dried herbs—lavender, rosemary, starflower, and foxglove—hung from the rafters, their scents mingling with sugar and spice until the air itself felt steeped in comfort.

The long wooden worktable bore the marks of years of use—knife scores, flour stains, the faint shimmer of magic pressed into its grain.

Each corner of the bakery held a quiet story.

The shelf by the window, where sugared plum pastries rested, had cost me an afternoon of laughter I could no longer recall.

A tray of honeyed oat biscuits near the hearth had taken the edge of my fear during a storm that never seemed quite as frightening afterward.

And the small row of neatly wrapped dream-tarts—reserved for those desperate enough to seek forgotten memories—had been baked at the cost of something deeper still, though I could no longer name what had been sacrificed.

My gaze rested on the shelves previously laden with our wares.

Considering today was our final day in this seaside village, the trays of baked goods I’d set out this morning were nearly depleted, even after I’d stayed up late baking extras—from my commissioned treats, to the array of spelled goods, to the sampling of non-enchanted confections for those seeking to satisfy no other desire than their sweet tooth.

I stretched my limbs, aching from being on my feet all day.

We’d closed late afternoon just after tea time so I could immerse myself in preparations for when we opened in a new location tomorrow…

and so as not to risk any lingering customers overstaying their welcome and accidentally traveling with us when the magic took hold once night arrived.

I’d used the extra time to stock our most beloved favorites—moonberry lullaby tarts that coaxed restless minds into peaceful sleep, sugared rose macarons that softened grief into something gentler, spiced courage buns that steadied trembling hands, and honey-glazed memory cakes that returned fleeting moments long thought lost.

Magical treats kept fresh twice as long as their ordinary counterparts, so while I could prepare our enchanted confections in advance, I would still need to rise with the sun to ensure our daily breads and simple pastries were warm for the morning crowd.

I glanced out the window at the settling dusk, casting glimmers of golden light across the tranquil seascape that had been home this past month. My heart beat in anticipation. Night had almost arrived, bringing with it the full moon…and a new setting.

Despite tomorrow’s early start, I liked to stay awake during the full moon to watch the magic at work and to ensure the journey went smoothly—though it always did. And, if I were honest, because I was eager to discover what place would become our next temporary home.

I carried my freshly baked raspberry tart to cool beneath the open window and moved to the front door, wiping the flour from my hands on my floral apron.

I didn’t venture beyond the threshold so there was no chance of being left behind when the moon rose and the bakery moved; I couldn’t bear to consider the consequences if it transported without me, leaving Grandmother alone.

My gaze traced the landscape’s intricate lines drawn by nature’s masterful hand one last time, committing it to memory—the rolling green hills stretching gently inland, dotted with grazing sheep, and beyond them, the endless sweep of the sea.

I would miss the picturesque beauty’s quiet harmony, the way the countryside and coastline met as though neither could bear to exist without the other.

The salty breeze carried inland across the fields, tangling with the scent of grass and wildflowers, while the distant rhythm of waves crashing against the shore offered a lullaby that softened even the longest days.

I didn’t need to walk the shore or wander the fields to remember them—they had become a part of me this past month, woven into my being through every stolen moment I wasn’t in the kitchen.

I knew the curve of the cliffs where seabirds nested, the tide pools that shimmered like scattered glass at low tide, and the narrow paths winding through tall grasses that whispered secrets in the wind.

I had traced the edges of wildflower meadows bursting with buttercups and bluebells, followed the hum of bees drifting lazily between blossoms, and watched the horizon melt into gold each evening as though the world itself were steeped in honey.

Such a tranquil, peaceful place, one of my favorites we’d lived in…

or at least it had been when we’d first arrived a month ago.

Back then, everything had been new, untouched by routine or quiet loss.

I’d spent hours wandering the meadows, trailing along narrow paths and weaving between wild grasses, determined to uncover every hidden nook and secret corner.

With each excursion, I’d returned with ink-smudged fingers and a fuller map, capturing the land one discovery at a time.

I withdrew the well-worn leather book safely tucked into my apron pocket and opened it to the page marked with a green ribbon, its edges frayed from years of use. My gaze drifted across each charcoal stroke that formed the pathways and landmarks I had committed to memory.

The map stretched across the page in delicate detail: winding footpaths threading through tall grass, the jagged curve of the cliffs overlooking the sea, clusters of trees sketched in varying shades to mark oak from ash, grove from thicket.

I had marked the shallow tide pools with small crescent shapes, the wildflower meadows with scattered dots of ink, and the narrow trail that led to a hidden cove with a tiny star—my own private notation for places that felt like secrets.

And yet, for all its intricacy, my records were incomplete.

There were things no ink could capture—how the breeze shifted just before sunset, carrying salt and wild thyme in equal measure; the hush that fell over the cliffs when the tide receded; the warmth of sunlight lingering on stone long after dusk.

Those details lived only in memory, meaning created through wandering and discovery.

I had also marked the places where ingredients required for my spells could be foraged—the patch of silverleaf near the northern hill, the wild honeycombs hidden within the hollow of an ancient oak, the delicate blue star-petal flowers that only opened beneath moonlight.

Each of these would have to be rediscovered once the bakery settled somewhere new.

My fingers traced each twisting trail, lingering over markings that held meaning only to me.

As much as I adored maps, the inky lines could never fully capture the sensation of standing beneath that vast blue sky, the distant sound of the sea, or the soft twittering of birds nesting in the oak just beyond my bedroom window.

These were things I carried within me…for now.

When night descended and the full moon rose in the velvety sky, these pages would be all that would remain of this place—at least for me—and even that felt temporary.

With each passing week, as more of my emotions were given to the magic, my attachment to the places we visited faded more quickly than the last—memories dulling at the edges until even beloved landscapes became little more than sketches on parchment.

Nevertheless, I felt a twinge of bittersweetness at the thought of forever leaving a place I’d truly enjoyed.

I turned a few pages back, glimpsing fragments of the past. Once, I had loved each of those places deeply. Now, I remembered them without feeling much of anything at all. I would never see any of these once beloved places again; we never returned to the same village twice.

The bakery moved as it pleased, lingering for a month before vanishing as though it had never existed, becoming nothing more than a legend in the places we left behind. I had long ceased to make deep attachments to any person or place; it only led to pain when my life was literally uprooted.