The silence that follows is heavy with unsaid thoughts as Oliver runs a large hand over his face, looking around the bakery as if the answers he’s seeking will write themselves on the walls.
“Cursed,” he repeats, as if dissecting every acidic flavor note of the word. I guiltily shift back and forth on my feet and watch as he starts to pace, deep in thought. “By any chance, does ‘cursed’ mean something different to you guys than I was taught growing up?”
Knowing who his grandpa was . . .
“Probably not,” I admit.
He sighs, a heavy chest-caving sigh that speaks of a bone-deep exhaustion, then he pulls out a chair and props himself on it and gestures toward me. “Please, start from the beginning.”
I take a deep breath. “Do you remember how you told me you wished you had a bakery like Moonlit Pages, passed down through generations and steeped in family history?”
He nods, chin resting in his palm.
I hold my hands out to encompass the whole of the bakery storefront. “Well, congratulations. You do.”
I let my arms fall to my sides with athump, but Oliver only blinks at me, unamused.
“What?”
“During the lantern walk, Lucy was down in the basement of the shop and found one of my grandma’s old diaries. Turns out she had quite a thing with the bakery owner across the street when she was younger. Richard Blackwood.”
Oliver straightens at his grandfather’s name, his gaze darting around the bakery before landing on me once again. “Wait . . . You mean . . . ?”
I nod. “This bakerywasyour grandfather’s.” I take a deep breath before saying the next part. “I know why he gave up the family business. I know why he left Ashwood Haven.”
Oliver’s eyes go wide as he stands, mouth falling open. “Why? What happened? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you, but I didn’t know how much you knew about magic and Ashwood Haven, which made the whole process of telling you about the curse really hard. I’ll show you everything we’ve found; it’s not much, but if you want to read it all, you can. But the short of it is that Grandma and your grandpa dated for a while when they were younger. They were pretty serious, talking about marriage and starting a life together, but then her dad died, and she had to fight to keep Moonlit Pages. In the end, they wound up breaking up, and in a drunken rage, Grandma cursed your grandfather. At least, that’s what she was trying to do.”
“What did she actually do?”
I hesitate, biting my lip. “She ended up cursing our families. Basically, the magic of Ashwood Haven is trying to force us together so that it can tear us apart. That’s what drove yourgrandfather out of town: the magic. It caused a ton of problems for him and made it impossible for him to maintain the business, so he left. And if we can’t keep some distance between us, it will do the same to us. Or, more specifically, you.”
He sighs. “Because your grandma cast the curse.”
I nod in answer, even though it isn’t a question.
Oliver’s winter gray eyes take in the bakery around him once again, as if seeing it through the decades, all the way back to when his own grandfather stood behind the counter. Together, our eyes land on the display case, and I can see it so clearly, it’s like he’s right there. A younger, leaner version of Oliver, carefully placing biscuits and bagels and bread loaves in rows behind the glass. I can see him smile, Oliver’s same dimple in his cheek, and it makes my heart ache for what could have been. For what Grandma lost.
Oliver leans over, laying a hand on the wall, as if he can sense his own family history steeped in the very wood and brick.
“Can we break it?”
I grimace, thinking about the bookworm who will be scooting along the coffee bar as we speak to get its daily latte. “We . . . tried. It didn’t go as planned.”
Oliver quirks an eyebrow at me in question.
“It backfired.”
His lips press into a thin line, and he gestures toward the back of the bakery.
“That explains my new talking sourdough starter.”
I gawk at him. “You have atalkingsourdough starter?”
“I do now,” he grumbles, glaring at the back room.
“Not that he’s cared to introduce me to anyone,” a high-pitched voice squeals; it reminds me of nails on a chalkboard, grating and earsplitting.
