He staggered backward. “What isthat?”
“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, shedarted 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.”
Nutmeg paused midair at that accusation, looking almost offended I wasn’t participating in her game of tag. With exaggerated reluctance, she floated downward and carefully deposited the leaf, unharmed, back into his waiting hands.
The relief that crossed his expression afterward was so immediate and unguarded it almost startled me. His fingers closed around the leaf with extraordinary gentleness before he slid it carefully back between the notebook pages. I caught sight of the inscriptionWillow’s favorite, taken from the tree whose branches we spent hours sitting beneath.
An unsettling twinge stirred my heart upon noticing the female name, a feeling deeper and much sharper than my usual curiosity. I found myself wanting to ask about the woman it belonged to. But I had no reason to be so nosy, especially when the poor hunter had been tormented enough by my mischievous ember sprite.
