Page 47 of Stolen Magic (All That Glitters #2)

CALLAN

T he late afternoon sun gilded the meadow in warm gold as Gwendolyn laughed beside me, her hand brushing mine as we walked along the narrow path skirting the stream.

Her curls caught the late afternoon light like spun amber, and there was something genuinely endearing in the way she tilted her head as she spoke.

Everything about this moment should have felt right, but for reasons beyond my understanding, it didn’t.

I struggled to refocus my wandering thoughts on her story about a particularly persistent goose that had taken to following her around the palace grounds in the days since she’d arrived. I nodded in the right places, chuckled on cue, each reaction perfectly timed and polite.

The performance should have felt natural, the same careful script I’d learned over years of courtly etiquette, the sort of interaction expected between a prince and his intended.

Perhaps some initial awkwardness was inevitable as Gwendolyn and I got to know one another, but there was something else—a quiet dissonance beneath the moment, like a note slightly off-key.

Gwendolyn’s faltering voice distracted me from assembling this perplexing puzzle. She peered up at me, searching my expression with concern. “You’re quiet today,” she said after a pause, her tone gentle but probing. “Are the court meetings weighing on you?”

I blinked and forced a smile that felt insincere on my lips. “Not particularly.” I ran a frustrated hand through my hair, chased by a strange emptiness I couldn’t name. “I’m sorry, I’ve just had a lot on my mind.”

Her hand brushed mine again, lingering this time. “Your role comes with a lot of expectation and responsibility, but you no longer need to face them alone.”

The closeness that should have accompanied such a tender moment didn’t come.

Guilt weighed on me. She deserved my full attention and growing regard—she was everything a future queen ought to be, the embodiment of grace, gentleness, and kindness.

For the past few weeks, I’d come to see more of her lovely nature in the way she treated servants and spoke to me with thoughtfulness rather than flirtatious wit.

But for all her goodness, I couldn’t shake the sense that something vital was missing, as though this picture-perfect princess had been painted with the wrong colors—the outlines familiar, but not quite ours .

We continued in silence until my gaze caught on a cluster of white-blossomed shrubs blooming near the fountain, their delicate petals bright against the ornate greenery adorning the grounds.

My steps slowed, some distant instinct tugging at me like a thread I couldn’t quite follow, a memory whose details I couldn’t quite recall.

I remembered the time I’d spent researching those flowers, the difficulty in finding them, the trouble I’d gone through to transplant them from her homeland into Eldorian soil.

It was meant as a gift to commemorate our courtship, the challenge well worth the effort if it made my fiancée happy.

For some reason I couldn’t name, I’d hesitated to bring her here until now, but had finally convinced myself that it was ridiculous to withhold a gift I’d prepared with such effort.

Gwendolyn followed my gaze and smiled in admiration as she gracefully bent to sniff one of the flowers.

I waited in hopeful anticipation for recognition to light her eyes, but none came as she straightened and turned towards me.

“They’re beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like them. What are they called?”

I hesitated. “Snow blossoms,” I said at last, trying to ignore the hollow feeling growing within me.

She nodded, serene but unaffected. “So beautiful. They suit this place.”

That was all. No spark of recognition, no light of remembrance for the gesture—or perhaps the memory had never been hers to begin with. I felt a childish twinge of disappointment that the connection I’d failed to materialize.

The story I had planned to share about how they only bloomed under moonlight and about how I’d planned the entire garden path around them in hopes the scenery would make her feel more at home faded before I could speak the words.

I swallowed a small ache, feeling as if I’d betrayed someone dear by sharing this intimate place with someone it wasn’t meant for.

Though I had planted these flowers for her, they no longer felt like hers.

Instead, they seemed to belong to another moment and person entirely…

as if she wasn’t the one I’d truly intended them for after all.

Yet such a scenario didn’t make sense, compelling me to explore the vague details of my recollection more deeply. “Have we spent time here together before?”

Gwendolyn tilted her head. “No, I believe this is the first time.”

Was it? Logically I knew she was right, considering I couldn’t truly recall bringing her here before, and yet…

A flicker of something danced at the edge of my mind—a sliver of memory, or perhaps only imagination.

A woman with dark hair leaning over those blossoms, her gaze fiery but her smile soft as her fingers reverently caressed each petal…

and then it was gone. I blinked, disoriented, feeling as if I’d just awoken from a dream I didn’t know I’d had.

“Are you alright, Callan?” Gwendolyn’s gentle inquiry tugged me from the confusing storm of my thoughts.

I shook my head slightly in an effort to dispel the cloudy confusion. “Forgive me, I keep recalling moments between us even though we’ve only just begun our courtship. Are you certain this is our first outing here since your arrival?”

She looked momentarily surprised before a flicker of concern crossed her expression.

“We’ve only had a handful of private interactions.

We met briefly during the treaty negotiations, and then we exchanged letters until my arrival.

Since I came to Eldoria, we’ve been kept busy with court functions aside from the few times we’ve been allowed to have breakfast on our own. ”

The timeline made sense. And yet…some hollow space inside my chest throbbed as if something precious had once existed there and had now vanished, leaving a void.

Those letters returned to my mind—the early ones, stiff and diplomatic, that had gradually evolved into exchanges that had felt vibrant, full of wit, challenge, and a sharp intelligence I had found exhilarating, leaving me looking forward to each response.

But now, sitting beside the woman who had supposedly written them, somehow the correspondent I had come to know didn’t quite align, as if the missives had been penned by an entirely different person.

She smiled again, warm and hopeful, and reached into the basket she’d brought along.

“I packed something for you, one of my favorite treats. I heard you like sweets and thought it might lift your spirits.” She handed me a cloth-wrapped bundle.

I unwrapped it slowly to find a small loaf of sweetbread, fragrant with lavender and citrus.

“I…do.” Yet the words felt off, as if I were reading from someone else’s script.

The scent in the air, delicate and nostalgic, teased a flicker of memory—a hand offering me something warm, not sweetbread, but a glass of warm milk flavored with golden honey.

The image was soft, intimate—not outside in the sunlit gardens, but shared in a quiet room with rain beating softly on windowpanes… and it wasn’t with Gwendolyn.

Before I could seize hold upon the vision I lost it, as if it’d disappeared entirely, leaving me disoriented. I frowned and pressed my fingers against my aching head. “My apologies. It’s as if I’m forgetting something…or someone.”

I hated how absurd it sounded, yet despite the nonsensical sentiment, Gwendolyn went still. I looked out over the stream, watching the patterns cast by the dancing light.

“Have you ever felt like a part of you is missing?” I asked. “Not just forgotten, but…taken? As if you’re living in the middle of a story already half-finished, but the person who helped you write the beginning is just…gone?”

The silence stretched before Gwendolyn softly spoke. “Do you think it was someone you met before I arrived?”

“Perhaps.”

“And…was she important to you?” Her voice broke, as if she dreaded my answer.

“I think so.” At my uncertain words, something stirred—not in my mind but in my heart. Warm, aching, a feeling that didn’t belong to Gwendolyn, no matter how hard I wished it would.

Someone my heart remembered…even if my mind could not.

I spent the entire afternoon with my fiancée as duty dictated.

After the initial requirements following Gwendolyn’s arrival—the seemingly endless balls, state dinners, and meetings that had filled our days—today was a rare treat to simply enjoy each other and talk on the subjects that interested us as we prepared for a life together.

To my frustration, the joy and closeness I’d anticipated from such an opportunity were absent.

Conversation flowed easily enough—pleasant topics, harmless anecdotes, shared plans for future feasts and festivities—standard small talk without any real depth.

No matter how much I tried to ask thoughtful questions or offer genuine interest in getting to know her, progress felt…

stilted, as if I was subconsciously blocking it.

The more I pushed to find a connection, the more I felt I was standing in the wrong place, echoing steps I’d already taken with someone else.

The thought haunted me, tainting each small smile and polite exchange.

Gwendolyn seemed to notice, but though a flicker of sadness crossed her face, she didn’t press or accuse, grace I didn’t deserve for my rude behavior.

We eventually parted with promises to meet again for dinner, but though I had tasks waiting—meetings to attend, documents to review—my mind was too unsettled to focus on this intangible mystery, not with this persistent sense that something had been taken.