It didn’t matter that we weren’t sharing a bed—we seemed trapped into sharing silence instead, which felt nearly as dangerous. The sooner I slept, the sooner this strange night would finally be over.
I extinguished my candle, self-consciously yanked the blankets up to my chin, and turned my back firmly towards my new roommate, as though the extra barrier might somehow protect me from the bewildering emotions that had plagued me ever since we met.
For a long time I listened to rain tapping softly against the windows and the creaks filling the bakery around us. Occasionally I heard Gabe shift upon the daybed, followed by stillness. For as reluctant as I’d been to share my room, there was something comforting about his presence that had nothing to do with the spell that bound us.
The restless tension that had consumed me ever since my separation from Gabe lessened now that we were no longer divided by silence and closed doors, as if the barrier itself had somehow interfered with whatever magic connected us. I couldn’t even begin to imagine the implications of this change.
Yet even without the constant sensation of a taut thread being pulled between us, sleep remained impossible. I was hyperaware of every movement coming from the daybed across the room, the rustle of blankets, the occasional shift of his weight, the slow rhythm of his breathing filling the still night.
Worse than any sound were the emotions that seemed to crowd the space as we both struggled to sleep, suffocating mewith an awareness I hadn’t felt in years. I could only conclude they came from Gabe—a mixture of tension, anxiety, and his own awareness of my proximity.
For years I had lived in a comfortable stillness where nothing could wound me because nothing could reach me deeply enough to matter. Now it felt as though someone had opened a long-sealed door and allowed every forgotten sensation to come rushing back inside. No wonder I had once been so desperate to surrender them; emotions were incredibly disruptive.
Eventually exhaustion once more carried me into sleep. I wasn't sure how much time had passed when I abruptly awoke. For a moment I lay still, confused as to what had disturbed me.
Then I felt it—sadness. Not sharp enough to be grief or overwhelming enough to be despair, just the quiet, persistent ache of loneliness. The feeling settled over me so suddenly and completely that I pressed a hand against my chest. I knew that the pain wasn't mine with startling certainty.
Carefully, I rolled over. In the moonlight I saw Gabe sitting upright on the daybed, seeming unaware that I was awake. One knee was drawn towards his chest while a small journal rested against it, held loosely in his hands. His gaze remained fixed on nothing at all, focused somewhere far beyond the walls of the bakery.
For several moments he didn’t move. The sadness continued to drift through the bond between us, a pain that didn’t feel fresh, but the sort of sorrow someone had carried for so long it became part of them.
My gaze settled on the journal clasped against his chest, the same one filled with tiny fragments of memories carefully preserved in leaves. I wondered what he was searching for that the tracking tart was supposed to help him find, whether it was connected to the sadness I now felt. Most of all, I wondered how long he’d been carrying it alone.
The realization settled quietly within me. For all his awkwardness and reserve, Gabe was lonely too. I knew not because he’d told me or because I’d observed some clever clue, but because for the first time in years, I could feel it. Something tightened unexpectedly in my chest—compassion, or perhaps understanding. The emotions felt so foreign now that I could no longer distinguish between them.
As though sensing my attention, Gabe finally looked up. His eyes met mine across the moonlit room. For a moment neither of us spoke. Then the sadness abruptly vanished as his expression shifted into familiar embarrassment. After a moment, Gabe’s voice finally broke the illusion that either of us were sleeping. “Did I wake you?” he asked quietly.
Relieved to abandon the charade, I rolled onto my back.
My movement seemed to confirm his fears and he sighed. “I’m sorry I’m keeping you awake.”
“I’m not bothered about you being in my room.” At least, not in the way he meant. Whatever turmoil currently consumed me, I was certain that it wasn’t because of his presence in my domain…but rather because of what was going on in him and between us that was so unsettling. Admittedly, though, I was beginning to lose confidence in my ability to distinguish between the new and confusing sensations that bombarded me.
“Aren’t I making you uncomfortable?”
The question caught me by surprise. Objectively, I supposed I should have been. A grown man was sleeping in my room. Even with Nutmeg perched nearby acting as an overly enthusiastic chaperone, propriety dictated some degree of alarm.
Yet when I searched myself for such feelings, I found none. The discomfort came from elsewhere entirely—from our enchanted connection that was causing my carefully ordered life to flake apart like pie crust with too much flour.
I was tempted to lie and give him the answer he expected, but doing so would invite another set of complications with the spell when he inevitably left the room. “You’re not making me uncomfortable,” I admitted.
The silence that followed felt almost tangible as shock echoed through our bond, followed by something different, softer. Finally, Gabe quietly spoke. “Somehow, I already knew that.”
I turned towards him. Moonlight filtered through the window, illuminating the thoughtful furrow between his brows. “I can tell you’re at ease, and I doubt it has anything to do with trusting me.”
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 theabsenceof 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.
