Page 21 of Chasing Stripes

The moment the words left her mouth, the handprint-shaped marks on her waist—where Bartek had steadied her yesterday—flared with golden light beneath her flour-dusted apron. Magic rippled outward from her body in an invisible wave.

Every spoon in the drawer behind her began to dance. The whisk lifted from the batter entirely, hovering four inches above the bowl as if suspended by invisible strings. Cinnamon from a nearby jar spiraled upward in a miniature tornado, forming a heart shape in midair before collapsing back into its container.

Artemis snatched the floating whisk, yanking it down with more force than necessary. Batter splashed across her cheek and the front of her apron.

“Fantastic,” she grumbled, blowing a stray strand of golden hair from her eyes. “Just fantastic.”

This marked the fifth magical mishap since she’d rolled out of bed. First, her shower water had turned to sparkling rose water. Then her hairbrush had started styling her hair into intricate braids on its own, refusing to stop until she’d nearly broken the handle. The coffee machine had transformed her morning brew into a cinnamon-scented potion that tasted like liquid dessert. And her apron ties had knotted themselves into an elaborate bow she couldn’t undo.

Her fae magic had always responded to her emotions, but this—this ridiculous, inconvenient, infuriating reaction—was unprecedented.

She knew exactly why it was happening too. Every time she thought about Bartek Arbor—which was approximately every thirty seconds.

The back door opened.

“Sweet heavens, what happened in here?” Aunt Tilly paused in the doorway, her arms full of freshly cut flowers for the front display case. Her sharp green eyes took in the floating measuring cups, the scattered flour, and Artemis’s general disarray. “Did a magical tornado blow through, or is this your special brand of distraction?”

Artemis straightened her spine, chin lifting in defiance. “The batter consistency requires vigorous mixing.”

“And I’m secretly Queen of the Winter Court,” Tilly countered, setting her basket of dahlias and honeysuckle on a clean section of counter. Her gaze zeroed in on the still-glowing handprints visible through Artemis’s flour-dusted apron. “My, my. Still carrying that tiger’s brand, are we? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a magical imprint last overnight. He must have made quite the impression.”

Heat rushed to Artemis’s cheeks, clashing with her best attempt at nonchalance. “It’s just a standard magical reaction when different supernatural energies make contact.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Tilly’s eyes twinkled with undisguised mischief as she moved closer, inspecting the glowing marks. “Because in my century and a half of life, I’ve never seen a magical handprint glow like embers in a hearth.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Though there was that time with the bear shifter from Silverdale. He gave me these little paw prints across my shoulders that sparkled for almost three hours.”

“Aunt Tilly!” Artemis pressed her hands against her burning cheeks.

“What? I was young once.” Her aunt winked, turning to arrange her flowers. “But even those faded by morning. Yours, though... interesting.”

Artemis poured the batter into a baking pan, focusing intently on creating perfect swirls to hide her embarrassment. Despite her best efforts, her thoughts drifted to the real problem at hand—the missing family recipe book.

The ancient tome had disappeared three days ago, during her first weekend back in town. Initially, she’d blamed the chaos of reorganizing the bakery, hoping it would turn up beneath a stack of invoices or inside a misfiled box.

But magical recipe books—especially ones passed down through generations of fae bakers—didn’t simply wander off or hide themselves among mundane supplies.

Artemis closed her eyes, recalling the weight of it in her hands. The subtle warmth that radiated from the cover when she traced the engraved honeycrisp apple. The scent of ancient parchment, magic, and lingering hints of every spice ever measured upon its pages. The way certain illustrations moved when touched by fae fingers, revealing secret tips or showing the perfect consistency a mixture should reach.

A memory surfaced—so vivid she could almost feel the summer breeze through the bakery’s open windows...

“This isn’t just recipes, Artemis,” her mother had explained, kneeling beside six-year-old Artemis at the big oak table that still stood in the corner. Her delicate fingers turned pages illuminated with moving illustrations of dancing pastries and shimmering confections. “This is our history. Our family’s magic. Our connection to Enchanted Falls itself.”

Little Artemis had traced a finger over a strawberry tart illustration, watching in delight as the painted berries glistened with dew at her touch, tiny sparkles rising from the page. “Can I add my recipes too, Mama?”

Her mother had smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind Artemis’s pointed ear. “Of course, my little baker. That’s how the magic grows stronger. Each generation builds upon what came before.” She’d leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “And someday, when you’re older, I’ll show you the secret pages—the ones that hold more than just recipes.”

The memory faded, leaving behind an aching hollowness beneath her ribs. She’d been adding her own culinary creations since her parents’ passing, continuing the tradition even during her years in the city. And now...

“Artemis!” Her aunt’s voice yanked her back to the present. “The batter!”

She looked down to find the cinnamon roll mixture now glowing with a vibrant pink sheen, tiny sparkles rising from its surface like miniature fireworks. Each spark formed a perfect heart shape before dissolving into the air.

“Oh, crap.” Artemis shook her head, focusing her energy to stabilize the mixture. The sparkles settled, though the batter remained stubbornly rosy.

“Let me guess,” Tilly said, eyebrow arched. “You were thinking about our tiger neighbor again?”

“I was thinking about the book,” Artemis insisted, though her traitorous face heated once more. “And wondering how anyone could have taken it without triggering the protection spells.”

“Mm-hmm.” Tilly clearly didn’t believe her. “Well, whatever you were thinking about, we’re having strawberry cinnamon rolls today. Your magical mishaps always taste divine, even when they stray from the menu plan.”

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