But she felt him looking at her.
The curse lead came that afternoon, nestled between a rush order for wedding cupcakes and Mrs. Whitmore’s daily scone.
Alessandro had been researching again. He was always researching, laptop open on every surface, papers spreading like kudzu across her kitchen table. She’d learned to work around it, stepping over stacks of printed documents like furniture.
“Marina.” His voice was careful. “Your grandmother’s recipe book. How old is it?”
She looked up from the cupcake batter. “Three generations, at least. Maybe more. Why?”
“Selkie magic is hereditary, yes? Passed down through bloodlines.”
“Yes.”
“And your grandmother was particularly powerful.” It wasn’t a question. He’d done his research. “I’ve found references to selkie families embedding magical knowledge in domestic objects. Recipes. Songs. Quilts.”
“That sounds like folklore.”
“Most folklore has roots in truth.” He turned his laptop to show her a scan of an ancient text. “This scholar documented several cases of selkie magic hidden in recipe books. Counter-spells disguised as cooking instructions. Curse-breaking rituals written as kitchen wisdom.”
Marina set down her piping bag. His excitement hummed against her ribs, the energy of someone who’d finally found a promising lead after years of dead ends.
“You think my grandmother’s recipe book might have something about the curse.”
“I think it’s possible. Your family was in Sweetwater Cove when the curse was cast. Your grandmother knew things; you’ve said so yourself. She believed in magic, in fate, in solutions that weren’t obvious.”
The recipe book sat on its shelf, leather cover worn smooth by generations of hands. Marina had opened it twice now: once for the Hendersons’ order, once when teaching Alessandro the honey cakes.
Both times had felt like visiting a grave. Like disturbing something that should be left to rest.
But here was Alessandro, watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle, and she could feel how much this mattered. Not just to him, but to his whole family. Generationsof Dravens, living under a curse they’d never asked for, paying for sins they hadn’t committed.
How could she say no to that?
“That book is private.” But her resolve was already crumbling.
“I know.” He stood, crossing to her side of the kitchen with that predator’s grace she’d learned to expect. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it might matter. But Marina—if there’s anything in there about breaking the curse, it could save my family.”
The bond tightened like a fist in her chest, his desperation, carefully controlled but undeniable.
“We’d look together,” she said. “I’m not just handing it over.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
She retrieved the book from its shelf. The leather was warm under her fingers, familiar as her own skin.
They sat at the kitchen table, shoulders almost touching, and began to read.
The recipes were exactly as Marina remembered: honey cakes, sourdough bread, the elaborate Sunday roast her grandmother had made for special occasions. Notes in the margins about substitutions and improvements. Drawings of flowers and herbs that weren’t quite realistic but weren’t quite fantastical either.
“These measurements don’t make sense,” Alessandro said, pointing to a recipe for “Heartbreak Bread.” “A cup of moonlight. Three drops of dragon’s tears. One verse of selkie song.”
Marina stared at the page. She’d seen this recipe before, had flipped past it dozens of times as a child, assuming it was one of her grandmother’s eccentricities.
“Moonlight isn’t an ingredient.”
“No.” Alessandro lowered his voice. “It’s a magical component. So are dragon’s tears. And selkie song.”
“You’re saying this is a spell.”
