Grandmother nodded with entirely inappropriate approval. “Truly a fine choice for a first courtship outing. Be sure to wear your red cloak; it’s quite becoming and brings out your eyes.”
I nearly choked. Clearly Grandmother had spent far too long confined to bed if her imagination wandered into such outrageous territory. I couldn’t survive another moment of this conversation; my defenses already felt dangerously compromised.
“I have to go,” I informed her hurriedly. “He’s waiting for me, and I’d like to complete his request before nightfall.”
“Have a wonderful time, and stay out as late as you please,” she called cheerfully after me.
I waved vaguely in response without daring to look back, afraid she might correctly interpret whatever expression currently occupied my face—an expression I wasn’t even entirely certain how to decipher myself.
Yet as I crossed back toward the front of the bakery where Gabe waited beyond the rain-streaked windows, I couldn’t ignore the strange realization quietly unfolding inside me. Though I was ostensibly venturing into the forest merely to gather enchanted berries for a spell…it increasingly felt as though I might be searching for something else entirely.
Leaving me to wonder just what on earth I was getting myself into.
CHAPTER 6
Gabe
The draw towards the recipe book that had been quietly consuming me ever since Cecelia had withdrawn it from the locked cabinet seemed to strengthen the moment she stepped from the room. What had begun as a whispering lure grew, like a gentle rain swelling into a storm, beckoning me closer with a persistence that grew increasingly difficult to ignore.
Unconsciously, I rose and approached the cabinet she had left standing slightly ajar. With each careful step, I listened intently to the sound of Cecelia’s retreating footsteps disappearing down the hallway until they reached her grandmother’s room. The door opened, followed by the soft murmur of their voices. A moment later it clicked shut again, muffling their conversation behind the wooden door.
I wasn’t sure how long she would be gone but surely it would be long enough to…what? The question stopped me. I had no business looking through her belongings, especially after she’d trusted me enough to leave me alone in her bakery. Ashamed, I forced myself to turn away.
Immediately the restless pull awakened within me…the same invisible tide that had ruled my life ever since the curse had fallen upon me—the constant compulsion to move, to search, to follow some destination forever beyond my reach.
It never allowed me to remain still for long before the pressure began to mount, urging me onward with quiet persistence. Years ago I’d learned it was easier to obey than resist. Fighting it accomplished nothing except exchanging restless wandering for outright misery. Yet this felt...different. For once, the unseen force wasn’t urging me away—it was drawing me towards something.
I looked back at the cabinet. Something about that book stirred a slumbering memory buried so deeply I could scarcely distinguish it from imagination. Ever since Cecelia had placed it upon the table, an uncomfortable familiarity had lingered at the edge of my thoughts, like identifying the first unfurling leaves of an oak in spring without remembering how the tree would look in summer.
When she’d unlocked the cabinet, I’d scarcely heard the questions she’d been asking me. My attention had remained hopelessly fixed upon the worn leather cover, the intricate silver embossing curling around its edges, and the strange crest pressed into its center. Though I couldn’t recall where I’d seen that symbol before, something inside me had responded instantly.
Even now I could remember fighting the absurd impulse to reach across the table, pull the book towards myself, and begin turning its pages. While Cecelia searched for the proper recipe, my gaze had repeatedly drifted back to it. Once, when she’d crossed the room to retrieve an ingredient, my hand had even lifted of its own accord before I caught myself. I had hastily clasped both hands together beneath the table like an unruly child, appalled that the thought had crossed my mind at all.
I wasn’t going to steal it; the very idea filled me with shame. I only wanted a single glance—just enough to satisfy the strange pull that refused to leave me alone, perhaps discover why the book felt so inexplicably familiar, or ascertain what other recipes it concealed within its enchanted pages.
The reassurances sounded increasingly hollow the longer I stood there. Ignoring the sharp prickle of my conscience compelling me to ignore the siren’s seductive call, I took another tentative step closer. I slowed in front of the cabinet and waited, listening with bated breath.
The bakery had fallen quiet, save for Nutmeg drifting amongst the shelves with singular determination, investigating each jar as though convinced one of them must surely contain hidden sugar. Judging by her complete absorption in her task, she paid me no attention whatsoever. Even so, the tiny ember sprite felt strangely like a watchful guardian; I shouldn’t even be considering touching the book while she remained in the room.
Yet the power drawing me forward seemed to care very little for my conscience. It pressed insistently against my resolve, as though it possessed a will entirely separate from my own.You may never have another opportunity, the seductive temptation rationalized.
I cast one final glance towards the hallway before, heart beating loud enough I feared Cecelia might hear it from the next room, I reached for the cabinet door. In her distraction the last time she’d put it away, the lock hadn’t quite clicked all the way in place, carelessness that acted as a personal invitation for me to steal my coveted peek.
Guilt pierced me far more sharply than temptation ever had. Even after she’d agreed to help me, here I stood preparing to repay that kindness by violating the trust she’d placed in me.
I should have stepped away. Instead, with trembling fingers and a heart that could no longer distinguish curiosity fromcompulsion, I slowly pulled the cabinet door the rest of the way open. Despite its age, the door swung silently on well-oiled hinges, as though encouraging me in my venture.
The familiar scents of cinnamon, vanilla, old paper, and dried herbs drifted out to meet me, growing in strength as my fingers brushed across the wolf embossed into the weathered leather. The moment I touched it, the world seemed to still. A voice surfaced from somewhere deep within my childhood memories, so unexpected I almost looked over my shoulder in search of its owner.
“If you ever find the Book of Hearth Magic…” Grandfather’s words came wrapped in the scent of cedar smoke and crackling fire, spoken during long winter evenings when I was still young enough to believe every family story ended happily.
The memory flickered like a candle struggling against the wind. “Our family has searched for generations…”
I frowned, trying to grasp the rest. Searched for what? The answer hovered just beyond reach before dissolving once more into frustrating emptiness, leaving only a single sentence.
“It is the only thing that can free a Wolf.”
“If we’ve been looking for years, then why hasn't anyone found it?” I remembered asking.
