Page 10 of Once Upon A Bear

Chapter five

Guinevere

A knock on the door shattered the silence as Guinevere thumbed through a book of herbs, looking for the perfect ingredient for a potion to help Gideon. This would be easier if she knew more about his curse, but he hadn’t given her much detail—only that he turned into a bear, and she’d already suspected something to that effect.

She hadn’t found anything else that might help.

Fortunately, she already had five or six herbs in mind, and now she would try to arrange them in a potion that would make a difference. It was never easy to know what exact combination would help, which is why she had such a hard time making potions.

She did it anyway, though. Only because she was the only one in town who could, and she wasn’t about to tell her friends no when they asked for her help. But it did make it rather difficult when she had no idea where to start because she’d never made something of the sort before.

If she had family members around who had trained her, perhaps things would be easier. But she was alone, and any knowledge that her grandfather had passed to her was all she had—that, and the books he had left her.

Guinevere got to her feet and opened the door and was entirely unsurprised to find Gideon on the other side of it.

“I apologize for dropping in,” he said as she stepped back to let him in.

“There’s no need,” she said warmly. As a healer, she was used to people dropping by unexpectedly. It was perhaps more normal for her than a day of peace and quiet.

He looked around her home, and she tried to see it through his eyes—a messy wooden table, all of her healing and potion-making equipment scattered around, a fire blazing in the hearth despite the warmth of the air because she was melting oil for a new batch of salve and had a pot of porridge on.

Her cottage was warm, cozy, and well-lived in. This was the first time she’d had nobility visit, though.

Though Alexander and Beatrice were her friends—if she could call nobility that—she always went to them, not the other way around. If they needed her, they sent a footman to summon her.

“My brother is having a baby,” he said, words spilling out of him almost as if he couldn’t contain them, “and I had to leave. I couldn’t sit there and watch them as they sat there and talked about how excited they were, when I don’t know if I could ever even have children that aren’t bear cubs.”

“They would be quite cute bear cubs,” Guinevere said absentmindedly, thinking of three or four crawling around the floor of her home.

Gideon grimaced. “I know.” He ran his hand through his unkempt hair. “They would be, but I don’t think society would take kindly to Lord Rendon having bear cubs for grandchildren.”

“That does complicate things,” Guinevere admitted, though she grinned at the thought. “I think it would be adorable to dress them up in little suits.”

“Oh,” Gideon barked out a laugh. “I’m sure it would be,” he said, “but I’d prefer you were able to break my curse.”

“Why don’t you tell me more about it? Perhaps I’ll be able to tailor my potion to your curse more specifically.”

“Will that help?” he asked, taking a seat at her table, his knees bumping against the bottom of it. He didn’t fit at her table.

“It will,” Guinevere said as confidently as she could. Not that she had much experience in breaking curses. She had broken Alexander’s curse, but she hadn’t had any experience beyond that, and one broken curse did not turn her into a powerful herbwitch. In fact, it meant that she was merely an apprentice, and worse—an apprentice with no master.

“When did it start?” she asked him gently.

“It’s been five years,” he said, the words heavy.

“That’s longer than I suspected,” Guinevere admitted. She had guessed it had been a while, but five years? All that time hiding from his family…it must have been incredibly difficult.

“You must be tired of it,” she said quietly. “That’s a heavy burden to bear.”

She froze. “To bear,” she repeated, giggling.

Gideon rolled his eyes. “I’m glad you find it funny.”

Guinevere stopped laughing, but the corners of her eyes still crinkled. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I ought not laugh about something that is obviously difficult for you.”

“It was a little funny,” he admitted, and she thought she saw a hint of a smile.

“But I don’t suppose you want me making light of it, and that is fair.”