Chapter 3 #2
“They’re ordinary cookies,” I assured him. “Though if you’d prefer something enchanted, perhaps a hunter might appreciate a pathfinder biscuit? They sharpen one’s sense of direction and make trails easier to follow.”
His expression became deeply wary. “No, thank you. The regular ones will suffice.”
“I insist, as a way to thank you for your escort.”
Rather than reassured, he somehow looked even more hesitant. “I’m reluctant to accept gratitude I haven’t earned, especially considering I got myself lost.”
His ears reddened again at the memory. Embarrassment, I concluded automatically. Yet there was something else beneath his hesitation—caution, restraint. I studied him more carefully.
The controlled stillness in his posture, the way his gaze flicked briefly towards the cookies before retreating again, the strange uncertainty around accepting something freely offered.
His behavior reminded me of certain customers who lingered too long near the day-old bread shelf while insisting they weren’t hungry.
This was someone accustomed to scarcity—not merely of food, but of kindness freely given.
“I did lure you inside with the promise of free samples,” I reminded him. “And once you taste them, you’ll undoubtedly promote the bakery enthusiastically throughout the village. So really, accepting one only benefits my business.”
That finally seemed to ease some invisible tension from his shoulders. Slowly, as though still half-expecting a hidden consequence, he picked up one of the cookies. The warmth seemed to surprise him.
“They’re fresh,” I explained. “I baked them this morning.”
He broke off a piece cautiously and tasted it. For a moment, all guardedness disappeared from his expression. His eyes widened slightly, and something soft and almost boyish crossed his face before he quickly attempted to hide it beneath composure.
“This is unfairly good,” he admitted after a pause. He looked genuinely troubled by the matter. “If the ordinary pastries taste like this, the enchanted ones are probably dangerous.”
Another faint laugh escaped him then as he reached for a second bite of the cookie, softer this time, less guarded.
And though I did not fully understand why, I found myself wanting to hear the sound again.
His laugh lingered strangely in my thoughts as I moved behind the counter to straighten a tray of pastries that didn’t actually need adjusting.
As though my enchanted companion had noticed my reaction and decided to tease me for it, Nutmeg burst suddenly into view with a cheerful pop of pink flame. The hunter startled violently enough to nearly drop his cookie. Nutmeg circled her head triumphantly, trailing sparks.
He staggered backward. “What is that?”
“My ember sprite,” I answered calmly. “Nutmeg, remember we do not frighten the customers.”
Nutmeg responded with an indignant flare of sparks that made it abundantly clear she disagreed with my assessment of events. The hunter watched her warily while she floated upside down in front of his face with open curiosity, as though conducting an inspection of her own.
“Does she bite?” he asked cautiously.
“Only emotionally.”
His expression froze in alarm.
I blinked. “That was humor.” Perhaps my deadpan delivery had ruined my attempted joke. Feigning emotions could be so troublesome.
A startled sound escaped him—half cough, half laugh. “Of course it was.” His chuckle was encouraging. Perhaps I hadn’t sacrificed all my humor after all. He turned back to Nutmeg and gave a small bow. “My name is Gabriel, but you can call me Gabe.” He shot me a quizzical look. “Does she talk?”
I shook my head. “Not audibly, anyway.”
As he reached an inviting hand towards Nutmeg, I studied him. Gabe. It fit him somehow, just as his cloak and boots did.
Nutmeg, meanwhile, had become fascinated by the notebook tucked beneath his arm. Before either of us could react, she darted forward, seized the edge of one of the pages, and yanked. Before I could stop her, the notebook slipped from his grasp, hit the floor, and fell open.
The hunter dropped to his knees with a gasp and snatched for it so quickly one might have thought the pages themselves were aflame…but not before I caught a fleeting glimpse of what it contained. My lips parted in surprise.
Rather than sketches or written observations, the pages held carefully pressed leaves arranged with astonishing delicacy across the parchment.
Maple. Aspen. Fern. Cedar. Tiny flowers preserved between layers of wax paper.
Each specimen had been labeled in neat, steady handwriting.
Alongside locations and seasons were smaller notes written in cramped script beside the leaves.
Found after first snowfall.
Mother liked these.
Grows near the north ridge where the creek freezes first.
Collected during the autumn the wolves came close to the village.
Pressed before the color faded.
This wasn’t simply cataloguing. He gathered leaves the same way I gathered maps.
Not merely to study the world—but to keep pieces of fleeting moments from disappearing entirely.
For the first time in years, I’d met someone who seemed to understand the strange ache of wanting to preserve things destined to vanish. Something shifted quietly inside me.
The hunter hastily closed the notebook, cheeks crimson beneath the morning light filtering in through the drapes. “My apologies; they aren’t particularly interesting.”
Yet I found myself wanting to steal a longer glance. As if sensing this secret desire, Nutmeg darted downward again and stole a small pressed leaf protruding from between the pages.
The hunter’s composure instantly faltered. “Wait—!”
Real panic crossed his face as Nutmeg zipped triumphantly through the bakery, the delicate leaf clenched between tiny flame-like hands. He lunged after her with startling desperation.
My gaze flicked towards the tiny silver aspen leaf, faded pale with age. Unassuming at first glance, but it clearly mattered to him. Deeply. “Nutmeg,” I said firmly. “Return it.”
But the ember sprite only spun higher, delighted by the chase. Sparks scattered wildly behind her as the hunter reached upward unsuccessfully.
“She’ll burn it.” His carefully controlled voice failed to conceal his distress.
“She won’t,” I assured him. “She likes preserving things too.”