If we hoped to understand what had happened to the spell, then secrets would only complicate matters further. “That is correct,” I admitted quietly. “They’re the price of the enchanted confections I bake.”
The wave of emotion that followed the admission struck me so strongly it stole my breath—not the fear or disgust I’d expected, but horror. As though he had suddenly realized the true cost of something he had previously dismissed as harmless.
“Cecelia...” His voice faltered. “I’m so sorry. I—had no idea. If I’d known, I never would have commissioned the tart.”
The sincerity of the apology startled me. “There’s no need to apologize,” I said. “The sacrifice is nothing to me. Emotions are burdens that I have no need to carry.”
With every word, I felt his horror deepen, as though my answer disturbed him far more than the truth itself.
Suddenly a new emotion stirred within me, one that wasn’t borrowed through the spell. “Don’t look at me like I committed an unforgivable act.” My voice hitched defensively. “I chose to give them up. Why would I want them back?”
The agony of his emotions that had kept me awake all night only confirmed I’d made the correct choice to rid myself of such an albatross.
“Because…they’re yours. Without feeling, who are you?”
His words startled me. I had no immediate retort. I swallowed and looked away. “Even so, I don’t miss them. Griefhurts. Fear hurts. Loneliness hurts. Even happiness carries the threat of becoming loss.”
But for the first time in years, I sounded as though I were trying to convince myself rather than him. He was silent a long moment. The storm had quieted outside, leaving only the gentle patter of rain against the windows and the distant ticking of the clock on the downstairs mantle.
Finally he spoke. “That’s true.”
His quiet agreement surprised me enough that I looked up. Moonlight silvered his features, softening the usual seriousness of his expression.
“Emotions can hurt,” he continued. “But happiness also carries the promise of joy. Friendship carries companionship. Love carries belonging.” His gaze lowered briefly before returning to mine. “And grief only hurts because something mattered enough to be missed.”
The words settled heavily between us. I wanted to dismiss them, yet they lingered in my thoughts long after he finished speaking.
For years I had viewed emotions as expendable ingredients, utilitarian assets to be spent. Tonight was the first time I’d wondered if perhaps I'd been sacrificing something far more precious than I’d realized.
The silence that followed felt different than before. Not awkward or uncomfortable, but thoughtful. Eventually Gabe shifted beneath his blanket.
“You should try to sleep,” he said quietly.
I almost pointed out that he was equally awake, but something about the gentleness of his tone stole the words from my lips. I quietly bid him goodnight and nestled back beneath my blankets. The room gradually settled into stillness, the rain softened to a whisper against the windows. Across the room, Icould still sense the steady presence of Gabe through the bond between us.
For the first time all night, the feeling didn’t seem suffocating—it felt comforting. I closed my eyes. And somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, I found myself wondering what other emotions I had forgotten.
CHAPTER 11
The morning sunlight’s warm caress gently lured me from sleep, but even once I slowly emerged from its enfolding embrace, I found myself reluctant to wake. Exhaustion from a long night wrestling with newly discovered emotions had prevented me from falling asleep until the early hours, thoughts sluggish and clouded.
I remained still beneath the covers, uncertain about the day awaiting me, one that was sure to prove even more complicated than yesterday’s events, which I almost wished had been nothing more than a particularly vivid dream.
Movement too heavy to belong to either Nutmeg or the morning birds sounded from the opposite side of the room; my heart gave a strange lurch that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Gabe was still here, very much awake.
For a moment I held my breath and listened intently, trying to follow his movements. Yet he remained remarkably quiet, as though aware I was still resting and determined not to disturb me.
Whether I understood that motive from the gradual picture I was forming of his character or from the magical connection binding us together, I wasn’t sure. Any admirable qualityI discovered only further complicated our already tangled situation.
A new sensation suddenly beckoned my attention towards the window, as gentle and gradual as the dawn. Curious, I cracked one eye open a sliver. Gabe sat upon the cushioned seat beneath the window, his profile illuminated in rosy-gold light as the sun rose above the horizon. His attention rested beyond the glass, entirely captured by whatever lay outside.
An emotion softened his expression, one I couldn’t immediately identify. For the first time in years, I found myself wanting to understand it rather than dismiss it—to peer behind whatever curtain masked it from view and feel it myself. As though my silent wish reached across whatever invisible thread connected us, a fragment of the feeling brushed against me, a sensation I couldn’t quite describe but something akin to a quiet delight.
It was faint—little more than an echo—but it enfolded me with surprising clarity. My breath caught. Instinctively, I reached for it, yearning to hold onto the sensation before it slipped away. Yet no sooner had I caressed it than it faded, leaving behind an unexpected sense of loss coiling in the empty place that had been momentarily filled.
The feeling lingered only a moment before fading, yet its absence left behind a strange ache. For a fleeting moment I found myself wishing it wouldn’t fade. Not because the feeling was pleasant—though it was—but because it was the first emotion I’d experienced in years that hadn’t cost me anything.
As though this secret wistful realization or the vanished feeling itself had alerted him, Gabe turned from the window and his gaze settled on me.
