“We only have enough left for one more dose.”
“Use it for her.” It was the last words I heard before darkness swallowed everything again.
When I finally awoke, it was to a world where nothing would ever be the same for me again. The fever had broken sometime during the night, leaving behind only exhaustion and a strange hollow stillness. Weak sunlight filtered through the cottagewindows, the only measurement of the time that had passed while I drifted in and out of consciousness.
At first, I thought the quiet meant my parents had gone outside. But there were no footsteps, no voices. No movement within the cottage at all. Only silence, and the absence of those I loved.
Grief consumed me with a violence I had never imagined possible, hollowing me from the inside out until even breathing felt unbearable. Worse still was the terrible guilt twisting through every thought: I had survived because my parents had used the last of the medicine to save me instead of themselves.
I sat alone on the cottage floor unable to stop shaking, surrounded by the lingering scent of herbs and sickness while the world continued onward as though nothing had changed at all.
Grandmother was waiting for me, leaning heavily on her cane, when I finally lifted my head. Though I recognized her from her occasional childhood visits, in that moment she still felt more stranger than family. I stared at her wrinkled face and hair that was now nearly snow-white, and she gave me a tender smile.
I still carried remnants of the fever. My limbs ached weakly, and the room tilted slightly whenever I moved too quickly. With some effort, Grandmother knelt beside me and held out a small pastry dusted with shimmering sugar.
“It’s enchanted,” she told me gently.
At first I refused; nothing could possibly matter besides the terrible emptiness inside me. But the mention of magic stirred the faintest spark of childish curiosity still surviving beneath the grief.
I hesitantly accepted the pastry. It tasted of cinnamon and warm honey. As I swallowed, the healthy color faded slightly from Grandmother’s cheeks while exhaustion deepened aroundher eyes, as though the magic itself had demanded something from her in return.
“There,” she murmured softly, stroking damp strands of hair from my face. “That’s a good girl.”
Years of estrangement seemed to fade away under her loving touch. For the first time since waking, some small measure of warmth broke through the unbearable coldness consuming me.
“Would you like to come live with me?” she asked. “It’s a magical place—a bakery that travels beneath the full moon and creates enchanted treats capable of all sorts of wondrous things.”
“Like flying?” I asked hoarsely. “Or turning invisible? Or breathing underwater?”
A sad smile touched her face. “I’ve never made recipes for those specifically. But with the right ingredients and a sprinkle of magic, almost anything is possible.”
Wonder unfurled weakly through my grief-numbed imagination, possibilities waltzing through my mind to paint images of possibility and promise. A traveling bakery. Enchanted sweets. Endless new places waiting beyond the horizon.
Then another possibility struck me with sudden, desperate hope and I grasped her hand with both of mine. “Which recipe brings people back from the dead?”
Grandmother fell silent. Pain entered her eyes so deeply that I knew the answer before she spoke it aloud. “No magic exists that powerful, child.”
Her words cut through me more sharply than the fever ever had, slicing open the wound I was certain would never heal. I lowered my gaze to the untouched crumbs resting in my hands while grief tore open all over again inside my chest. Yet somewhere amidst the agony, another feeling quietly took root beside it.
Determination seized hold of my weakened posture. “Then I’ll find the recipe myself.”
Grandmother neither encouraged nor discouraged the impossible declaration—perhaps because she understood I needed something to keep me moving forward through the grief, or perhaps because part of her still wished such magic truly existed too.
All she whispered, so quietly I scarcely heard the whispered words: “Magic always demands a price.”
But to me, nothing I might be forced to sacrifice hardly sounded like a price at all. Grief had already hollowed me so thoroughly that I would have surrendered anything if it meant escaping the pain of losing my parents. I didn’t yet understand the true cruelty of numbness—that eventually even the happy memories became distant and blurred, softened around the edges until they no longer felt entirely real.
Yet at the time, that sounded far kinder than hurting forever.
I closed my eyes, willing the faint memories back to their places. I had never truly regretted my decision, even when I could still experience regret. Grief and sorrow had no place in the life of someone who had no true place in the world, who was loved by only one person.
A faint sigh caught my attention and I opened my eyes again. Grandmother was watching me with deep sadness, as though she sensed the memories that no amount of magic had been able to cause me to forget completely. I hastily handed her the cup I’d poured before finding myself transported to the haunting past magic had almost entirely erased.
Grandmother accepted the steaming teacup from my hands, though her attention never fully left my face. “You, better than anyone, understand what it’s like to lose someone,” she observed softly. “And yet, you still invited him to tea.”
I opened my mouth with several entirely logical explanations. Hospitality. Professional courtesy. Storm conditions. Customer relations. None of my excuses emerged.
Grandmother’s knowing smile returned in full force. “Oh dear,” she murmured. “You reallyareinterested in him.”
