Much, much later, when Laura was lying in her bed, all of the day’s events were coming back to her in shards of memory. Sleep had been evading her for what felt like hours, and even the tiredness of her body did not seem to want to quell her overactive mind. So she eventually had to give in, going over everything once more and trying to figure out where things had started to go wrong.

She knew the exact moment her life had slipped off the rails: ten years before, when her mother had gotten sick. But that was in the far-off past, and nothing she could have changed.

Her current problem was much more recent, and the exact moment that had kick-started the cataclysm was hard to pinpoint.

She would have assumed it was the early morning when she’d found Ambrose on her shop’s doorstep, but things were still going in the right direction then. Later, when she had had her talk with Eleanor, her mind was still made up.

Was it the meadow, then? It was the likeliest place for something unaccounted for to sneak in and ruin her plans. There was so much to weaken her there, from the long-buried memories of her mother to the new and unexpected ones of Ambrose, overlapping with those of him in the past.

It was all there: the games they had played, the flowers he had gifted her, the ring of his voice, the smile missing a few baby teeth, and the sunlight shining off his light blond hair. His hair had grown darker with age, but she had to accept that his smile—his genuine smile, that is—had stayed the same.

It might have been the meadow. Or the carriage ride after. Or what had happened in between, by the wild roses.

At some point before she had started her work on the antidote, something must have gone wrong. Otherwise, she had no explanation for the way one of her great-aunt’s surefire recipes could have failed.

Her uncle had taught her about that ages ago, before she'd resolutely given up on the Academy in order to concentrate on the confectionery arts. Preparation, execution, and intent were the three most important components to achieve a successful casting. She knew for a fact that her ingredients had been ideal, and so had her execution. It figured, then, that it must have been something lacking in her intent.

She refused to entertain the idea that she might have wanted the potion to fail, but if there was even the smallest seed of doubt hidden in her heart, she had to pluck it out before trying again. And she would try again. She had her backup recipes waiting, and the ingredients for all but one of them. That one she was going to leave as a last resort; it was a more complex recipe than she had brewed before, and it called for some questionable herbs, but with a little luck, she wouldn’t have to get that far.

With a little more luck, the antidote she had already administered might still have a delayed effect. There was nothing saying so in the grimoire, but she was sure some spells had to work like that. Medicine did, after all.

It took effort to keep her hopes up, but she managed. She had even stopped by the Chantswifts’ place to drop off a vial of the antidote for Eleanor to try when she returned from scouting that potential apprenticeship. Laura sincerely hoped it all went well for her friend, but her absence was only adding to her discomfort. She could have really used a little support just then, even if it came through a closed door. She needed someone to talk things through with, and she didn’t have anyone else.

The approaching Harvest Feast was making her jittery, and the added weight of the need to find a viable antidote was only making things worse. Not only had she lost precious time trying to find a cure for her mistake, but she was also struggling to come up with a new recipe to enter into the competition. Things were not looking good, and time was running short.

It was the worst possible time to find herself growing feelings towards Ambrose.

This was what had been keeping her awake; this, and the unwelcome memories of him that had been too eager to make themselves known as soon as the notion had become more than a possibility.

He had been unusually nice to her ever since the spell had taken hold. But then, it’s not like he had ever been anything less than civil to her before then. A thorn in her side, sure. From bashing her work to stealing her spotlight and some of her clients, he had done enough to make her hate him on a professional level.

It was the personal side of their relationship where lines were starting to go blurry, and she could not have any of that. She needed to steel her resolve and get the other potions right, no feelings involved. Ridding herself of all that unwarranted love was the only way to get some quiet time for herself and her contest entry.

The little sleep she did get that night brought with it a lovely dream of the golden medal adorning her shop wall. It felt like a good omen, and Laura found herself humming happily during breakfast.

Her uncle looked at her quizzically over his tea. “Did something good happen yesterday? You’re rather peppy with only six days left before the festival.”

“No, nothing of the sort,” Laura replied, stirring her porridge absently. “But I have a good feeling about the contest. I need to figure out a small issue first, then I’m as good as set to win first place.”

She was bluffing, of course, but she was still riding that wave of glee her dream had infused her with, and she almost believed her own words.

Eleanor had told her once that a good part of casting a spell correctly relied solely on trusting that it would work as the mage intends it to. There was more than a chance that manifesting her will for the future would help her get halfway there, too. For the other half, she already had a plan.

“Does that small problem of yours have anything to do with the Waycaster boy?”

There were times—like now—when her uncle was way too perceptive, and Laura barely managed to school her expression so her face wouldn’t give her away. She needed to know how he had found out. Had he seen Ambrose waiting for her outside the day before? Was he out in the street right now, maybe, carrying another batch of fresh cookies? He couldn’t have found out about the spell, though. Not unless someone had overheard her conversation with Eleanor and come to tattle on her.

With the myriad of thoughts fighting in her mind, it was a surprise that she could even find the words to question him back. “Why do you ask?”

He sipped his tea, unhurried, his sharp eyes studying her over his steam-blurred spectacles.

“Well,” he said in the slow cadence he used when he wanted to drag an answer out of her, “you’ve always blamed him for getting second place so far. A day rarely passes without you complaining about him, too, and I believe it’s been more than two days in a row with no mention of him now. Just in case you’re planning to take him out of the competition, I must warn you that legally—”

“Uncle!” Laura stood up, banging her hands on the table. “I’m going to win against him fair and square! How could you even think I’d resort to sabotage?”

His remark stung, but what really made her blood run cold was the sudden realization that she had inadvertently done just that. Ambrose was lovestruck and likely losing his own preparation time following her around. Winning only because her rival was unprepared was not the way she wanted this to go. No, she had to beat him at his best.

There went another reason to cure him of his fake feelings.

And there she went, too, leaving her uncle with a rushed goodbye and an untouched bowl of porridge to question instead.

Fired-up as she was, she managed to get all the way into her workshop and through the first potion recipe and most of the second before realizing that something felt off. It took her a while to figure out what, and when she did, it made her mad—it was Ambrose. Or, better said, the lack of him.

He had not been waiting outside for her when she arrived, nor come in later to check up on her. The bakery wouldn’t open for another hour, but she knew for a fact that he had to be in. He was always there first in the morning, firing up the ovens and starting the preparations for the various breads and pastries they sold.

She took her mortar and pestle with her as she walked to the shop window, mashing the herbs for her next brew while peering out across the street. There was the usual faint light coming from the back rooms, and smoke climbed up the chimneys. He was indeed at the bakery, keeping to his schedule, which Laura was far too familiar with.

There was a slight possibility that the antidote had worked its magic overnight. But this was not the time to be taking chances. Laura returned to her workbench and her brews, determined to complete them even if they turned out to be unnecessary. It never hurt to be prepared.

And when the bells announced the shop door opening a little while later, she knew she had done the right thing.

When she crossed the alcove to meet him, Ambrose received the sight of her with the gentlest smile he had yet shown. And it was that, rather than the small sourdough loaf with a flower carved into its crust, which he had brought as a gift, that let her know his love had not been cured.

Good thing she had a backup plan or two.