Chronically in love

Chapter Five (Zoe)

I wake up groggily, the soft glow of morning light filtering through the curtains. I had been here two weeks, my routine in the morning was eat the breakfast a maid brought, edit books, eat lunch by myself, edit more books, and then eat dinner with Nalia and Julian. It was boring, repetitive, the one thing I was grateful for was the fact that I had not seen the king yet. Yet. 

My legs ache dully, on my scale I would rate it about a five. But that's not what's occupying my mind right now. No, there's a craving gnawing at me—a strong, insistent one that makes my mouth water the second I recognize it.

Apple cinnamon muffins.

The thought hits me like a bolt of lightning, and suddenly, I'm wide awake. I haven't had those in forever. I used to love baking them with my mother, and later with Nalia—warm, sweet, with just the right amount of cinnamon spice. The smell of them baking used to fill the entire house, a comforting scent that made everything feel right in the world. Now, I need them more than ever.

Pushing the covers off, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and reach for my wheelchair. The chair creaks lightly as I settle in, but it feels familiar beneath me, solid, dependable. I quickly pull on a bra, a loose shirt, and some comfortable pants, not bothering to fuss with anything fancy. It's early enough that the castle is probably still quiet, and I can hopefully go unnoticed.

As I roll out of my room, the halls are indeed silent, the castle still asleep. Good. I don't need anyone hovering over me, I want this beautiful castle to myself.  No, this morning, I just need to find the gluten-free kitchen and make some muffins.

I remember someone mentioning the kitchen when I first arrived. 

The wheels of my chair glide smoothly across the polished floors as I make my way down the hall, following the faint scent of bread that must have been baked earlier in the morning. I remember being told the kitchen is tucked away on the ground floor, near the garden courtyard. My stomach growls impatiently as I roll through one corridor after another, the castle's wonder lost on me in my quest for muffins.

Finally, I spot the door—smaller and more discreet than the main kitchen's entrance. This has to be it. My heart leaps with anticipation as I push it open, the smell of herbs and fresh ingredients filling the air. It's quiet inside, just a few trays stacked on the counters and utensils hanging neatly on hooks. There's no one here, which is perfect. I'm not in the mood for company.

I roll up to one of the counters, my hands already itching to get started. I spot a large basket of apples nearby, their bright red skins gleaming under the soft kitchen lights. There's flour on the shelf too, labeled "gluten-free," along with a selection of spices and white sugar. Everything I need is right here.

The kitchen is stocked, the ingredients are fresh, and my craving is about to be satisfied.

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I gather the ingredients with practiced ease, peeling and chopping the apple's with a knife, I relish the sweet, crisp scent as they hit the cutting board. My movements are slower than they used to be, I am still a little sore, but I don't mind. The familiar rhythm of baking is soothing, grounding me in a way that nothing else can. As I start mixing the batter, the cinnamon wafts up from the bowl, and I smile to myself. This was exactly what I needed. I grab a spoon and dip it in, tasting the batter. Even uncooked it is delicious.

As the muffins bake, I lean back in my chair, closing my eyes and letting the warmth of the oven and the smell of cinnamon wrap around me like a comforting blanket. I remember my mother and family, and I give myself a moment to grieve for them again. When the moment is done I roll around the kitchen, burning time. I would go out and explore more of the castle, but I am afraid I might get lost. I also don't really want to come in contact with any wolves. My fear has gotten better the more I spend time here, but it still is there, a nagging voice whispering straight to my terror.