Chapter 10 #4
His words hung between us. I sensed there was more he wanted to say, but was struggling to find the courage to ask. For several moments neither of us spoke.
“I remembered something that happened after I ate the tart,” he said, pausing to scrutinize my expression.
I pushed myself up onto one elbow and waited for the inevitable words that were sure to follow. For a moment I thought he might retreat from the conversation entirely. Then he drew a slow breath.
“When the magic first took hold, I felt something.” His gaze dropped to the blanket gathered loosely in his hands. “Or more accurately, I felt the absence of something. Nothing, as though every emotion I had ever felt had suddenly vanished.”
My breath caught. The room fell silent as I stared at him, neither of us seeming willing to continue. When the silence stretched too long, I found myself speaking before I could reconsider. “Is there something you want to ask me?”
His head lifted. Even through the darkness I could see the uncertainty in his expression, the question had clearly been troubling him for some time that even now, he seemed reluctant to voice. He took another wavering breath. “Do you feel emotions?”
The question should have startled me, but instead I felt strangely relieved.
Even if I thought I could get away with lying with this new acute awareness between us, I didn’t want to.
Whether it was the late hour, or whether I was simply tired of pretending, I wasn’t entirely certain.
The night seemed to enfold us like a cocoon, concealing us from the rest of the world.
In the darkness I didn’t have to watch his reaction and witness the pity or confusion that was sure to follow.
If we hoped to understand what had happened to the spell, then secrets would only complicate matters further. “That is correct,” I admitted quietly. “They’re the price of the enchanted confections I bake.”
The wave of emotion that followed the admission struck me so strongly it stole my breath—not the fear or disgust I’d expected, but horror. As though he had suddenly realized the true cost of something he had previously dismissed as harmless.
“Cecelia...” His voice faltered. “I’m so sorry. I—had no idea. If I’d known, I never would have commissioned the tart.”
The sincerity of the apology startled me. “There’s no need to apologize,” I said. “The sacrifice is nothing to me. Emotions are burdens that I have no need to carry.”
With every word, I felt his horror deepen, as though my answer disturbed him far more than the truth itself.
Suddenly a new emotion stirred within me, one that wasn’t borrowed through the spell. “Don’t look at me like I committed an unforgivable act.” My voice hitched defensively. “I chose to give them up. Why would I want them back?”
The agony of his emotions that had kept me awake all night only confirmed I’d made the correct choice to rid myself of such an albatross.
“Because…they’re yours. Without feeling, who are you?”
His words startled me. I had no immediate retort. I swallowed and looked away. “Even so, I don’t miss them. Grief hurts. Fear hurts. Loneliness hurts. Even happiness carries the threat of becoming loss.”
But for the first time in years, I sounded as though I were trying to convince myself rather than him. He was silent a long moment. The storm had quieted outside, leaving only the gentle patter of rain against the windows and the distant ticking of the clock on the downstairs mantle.
Finally he spoke. “That’s true.”
His quiet agreement surprised me enough that I looked up. Moonlight silvered his features, softening the usual seriousness of his expression.
“Emotions can hurt,” he continued. “But happiness also carries the promise of joy. Friendship carries companionship. Love carries belonging.” His gaze lowered briefly before returning to mine. “And grief only hurts because something mattered enough to be missed.”
The words settled heavily between us. I wanted to dismiss them, yet they lingered in my thoughts long after he finished speaking.
For years I had viewed emotions as expendable ingredients, utilitarian assets to be spent. Tonight was the first time I’d wondered if perhaps I'd been sacrificing something far more precious than I’d realized.
The silence that followed felt different than before. Not awkward or uncomfortable, but thoughtful. Eventually Gabe shifted beneath his blanket.
“You should try to sleep,” he said quietly.
I almost pointed out that he was equally awake, but something about the gentleness of his tone stole the words from my lips.
I quietly bid him goodnight and nestled back beneath my blankets.
The room gradually settled into stillness, the rain softened to a whisper against the windows.
Across the room, I could still sense the steady presence of Gabe through the bond between us.
For the first time all night, the feeling didn’t seem suffocating—it felt comforting. I closed my eyes. And somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, I found myself wondering what other emotions I had forgotten.