Chapter 1 #3
For one suspended moment, neither of us moved.
Then the stranger stepped backward into the darkness and vanished soundlessly amongst the trees, melting into the night.
I stared at the place they’d disappeared, waiting for another glimpse of movement, but none came.
At last, I allowed the curtain to fall closed once more.
A rather peculiar occurrence. Still, fear had long since become unfamiliar to me, and several reasonable explanations presented themselves easily enough.
The figure was likely a local woodsman, perhaps a hunter returning late from a long excursion, or merely someone curious about the sudden appearance of a bakery where none had stood before.
I was more likely to be the suspicious character in this scenario than a person who probably lived here.
After double-checking that the front door remained firmly locked, I returned to the counter.
Bowls of flour rested beside cracked eggs, softened butter, and jars of wildflower honey awaiting the morning’s baking.
Dough clung lightly to the wooden table where I’d left the half-kneaded dough, while sprigs of rosemary and bundles of dried lavender perfumed the air around the waiting bread tins.
The ordinary familiarity of the preparations grounded me after the strange encounter at the window. I dusted the counter with flour, pressed my hands into the waiting dough, and spent the remainder of the night kneading bread beneath the hush of the sleeping forest.
Nutmeg floated nearby while I worked, watching lazily and repeatedly attempting to sneak samples from cooling trays of treats lining the counter. Each time I intercepted her, the ember sprite sparked indignantly in the flickering candlelight.
“You cannot eat tomorrow’s wares,” I gently scolded for perhaps the fifth time that evening. Not that the warning ever discouraged her.
Nutmeg possessed the unfortunate combination of both a relentless sweet tooth and an allergy to sugar.
Even now, she drifted suspiciously close to the nearby sugar jar with the unmistakable look of someone contemplating poor decisions.
Before she could attempt another theft, I plucked a dried clove from a spice bundle and held it out to placate her.
“Here, try this instead.”
Nutmeg brightened instantly, wrapping tiny flame-like hands around the clove before settling down on the counter in a contented flurry of sparks, happily licking it like a child with a prized lollipop.
The scent of rye, wheat, rosemary, and sourdough wafted through the air to fill the bakery as I shaped each loaf with practiced hands. I had just finished arranging the loaves beside the hearth to rise overnight when a soft cough drifted from the adjoining room.
I hastily wiped my flour-dusted hands against my apron and hurried towards the door, easing it open just enough to peer through the narrow gap.
“Grandmother?” I asked quietly, uncertain whether she had merely coughed in her sleep. But her eyes were open and she was struggling weakly to push herself upright.
I crossed to her bedside and slipped an arm gently around her frail shoulders, helping her sit up before carefully adjusting the pillows behind her.
Despite having rested for hours, exhaustion clung to her features.
Her skin looked pale beneath the candlelight, almost translucent in places, while faint shadows lingered beneath her eyes.
Her breathing carried the slightest rasp, and her hands trembled with lingering weakness when she reached for the blankets gathered at her waist.
I catalogued each symptom as methodically as reading notes from a healer’s text.
I vaguely remembered how unbearable her illness had once felt—the worry that used to cinch my heart, the constant fear lingering at the edge of every thought, the quiet terror of someday losing her as I had lost my parents years ago.
Now I observed her condition with a detached sort of clarity, like surveying a landscape and noting its changes. I used to grieve the loss of how deeply her suffering affected me…before that grief too had eventually been claimed by the magic.
Over time, I had come to understand the absence of emotion did not erase love entirely. My regard for Grandmother remained as intrinsic to me as my petite build, chestnut-brown hair, and grey-green eyes. Even stripped of feeling, some part of me still belonged to her.
Perhaps that was worse in its own way. Though my love endured, I could feel it thinning with every spell I baked—wearing away little by little like parchment softened by rain.
Yet not so diminished that I didn’t take her fragile hand carefully within mine and feel the faintest ache at how delicate it seemed.
“How are you feeling?” I asked softly.
Grandmother offered me a weak smile that failed to fully reach her tired eyes, but deepened the familiar laugh lines at their corners all the same.
“Never you mind, Cecelia dear. It’s you I’m concerned about.
” Her fingers brushed lightly against my cheek, tracing the exhaustion no doubt visible there.
“You’ve been working too hard again. You should rest.”
I gave a small shrug. “I enjoy the bakery.” That much was true, at least as much as I could enjoy anything.
At first, the endless hours of work had exhausted me.
But over the years, as the magic gradually stole more and more of the emotions attached to the things I once loved, the bakery had become something steady and dependable.
Now my world consisted of simple certainties: baking, caring for Grandmother, mapping the lands we visited, and the quiet comfort of wandering new landscapes beneath open skies.
Most other passions had long since faded into memory.
Grandmother frowned in that knowing way of hers, as though she could hear all the truths I never spoke aloud. “You always say that,” she said gently.
I busied myself fluffing her pillows higher behind her shoulders.
Then I reached for the vase resting beside the bed and carefully adjusted the small cluster of daisies within it—flowers I had gathered from a meadow near our previous home because they’d always been her favorite.
A few petals had begun to wilt at the edges.
Tomorrow, once the sun rose, I would need to explore the forest to see whether daisies grew nearby.
Grandmother watched me quietly as I fussed over the flowers, and when I finally glanced up, I found an expression on her face so unbearably tender that for one strange moment I almost felt something crack softly open inside my hollowed chest.
“You’ve always taken such good care of me,” she murmured.
The words settled somewhere deep within me, lingering in the hollowed space within my heart each enchanted recipe had widened.
Next I checked her cup of herbal remedy, finding it drained empty beside the bed. I started to rise to brew another dose, but her wrinkled hand closed gently around mine before I could stand.
“You should go to bed,” she chided softly. “I know how much you enjoy staying awake during every full moon, but it’s long past midnight.” A faint smile brightened her tired features. “Though perhaps it wouldn’t hurt for you to stay awake just a little longer and tell me about our newest location.”
My lips curved upward despite myself; no matter how emotionless I became, Grandmother always seemed capable of reading me anyway.
“We appear to be in a forest,” I told her.
“A dense one. The trees are so tall they nearly block out the moonlight entirely. I could barely see beyond the bakery windows.”
I found myself unconsciously painting the picture more fully for her benefit—the thick canopy overhead, the endless shadows stretching between the trunks, the hush lingering between the trees like held breath.
I described the faint scent of pine that had drifted through the cracks in the window frame after the transport, the moss-dark earth glimpsed beneath the branches, and the way the forest seemed untouched by lantern light or nearby villages.
Grandmother listened with soft attentiveness, her eyes distant with memory. “I used to love forest locations,” she murmured wistfully. “Especially the old evergreen woods in the north. Do you remember them?”
I nodded faintly. “You made chestnut pastries there.”
“And nearly set the entire kitchen ablaze,” she added with a weak laugh. A small smile lingered between us before fading into comfortable quiet.
At first I wondered whether I should mention the cloaked figure I’d glimpsed amongst trees, but decided against it.
It was difficult to judge what should and should not be worrying when fear itself had become so distant to me.
There was little reason to trouble her over what was likely something harmless; she already had enough to concern herself with.
Grandmother’s brows lifted thoughtfully. “Another forest. I wonder if this one is near the others we visited over the years.”
“I’ll know more after sunrise.” My thoughts immediately drifted towards the morning ahead. If I worked early enough, I could explore the surrounding area before opening the bakery.
Though if the nearest village proved too distant, we might need to open late so I could advertise our arrival first. Then there was Grandmother’s medicine to prepare, the ovens to heat, the counters to arrange, inventory to sort after the transport, herbs to forage, and ingredients to catalogue in case the forest contained unfamiliar magical flora…
My orderly task list broke apart when Grandmother’s hand rested lightly against my arm.