8. Birdie
BIRDIE
When I wake, Barnaby is stretched across the length of my bed like a butcher's display, huge paws splayed and the tip of his tongue poking between his jowls.
His head is aimed directly at my toes, my foot resting on the crown of his skull as though I sleepwalked into battle with him sometime during the night.
I flex, expecting protest.
Instead, he lets out a snore so deep it rattles the bed frame.
I breathe in the morning, sweet and strange. There's no perfume here, no burning incense—only the faint, green sweetness of moss drifting through the open window and the lingering tobacco scent of the cottage's last tenant.
I search my body for last night's panic and find only a lingering ache in my ribs, the kind you get after coughing too long...or crying but refusing to admit it to yourself.
I'm tired.
But I'm not devastated.
For the first time since leaving Leland, I've slept straight through the night.
No dreams.
No metallic taste crawling up the back of my throat.
No endless landscape of being chased only to wake before I escape.
I scratch Barnaby behind the ears.
"Good boy."
He doesn't even flinch.
Downstairs, I stand barefoot in the kitchen, marveling at how insensible it is to call anything with a microwave and a can opener a cottage.
My mother would've condemned the place for lacking a dishwasher.
My standards for normal, however, have collapsed to the point where not haunted feels like a luxury.
I watch coffee drip into my mug, the aroma promising far more than it ultimately delivers, then flip on the tiny television tucked beneath the cupboards.
The local news is obsessed with—what else?—last night's incident at the blood bar.
Someone has already started a Facebook group titled Justice for Jacey.
Meanwhile, here I am, the invisible bystander, spooning instant oatmeal into my mouth and wondering how anyone manages breakfast before noon.
Barnaby lumbers downstairs and barrels through the back door, immediately throwing himself into the frosty grass. He rolls onto his back with blissful abandon, snorting and barking at a crow perched smugly on the fence.
I carry my coffee onto the porch and wrap Dandy's oversized cardigan tighter around my shoulders.
The cottage faces south, bathing the tiny yard in soft morning light. Dew still clings stubbornly to the grass, sparkling as though someone dusted the whole lawn with sugar. Everything glows beneath a greenish, watery light that makes the world feel pleasantly underwater.
I've never spent a morning this quiet in my entire adult life.
No appointments.
No expectations.
No pressure beyond existing.
For the first time...
Button Cottage feels like somewhere I live.
Not just somewhere I hide.
My phone vibrates across the chipped wooden table like an angry wasp.
CLOVER flashes across the screen in all caps.
I let it ring twice before answering.
"Hey... am I late for something?"
"No, no. I know you never sleep past nine, so I figured I'd catch you before you started your day."
Her voice drops conspiratorially.
"Daisy called in sick. Any chance you could help at the bakery today?"
The thought of standing behind the counter at Hex & Honey—handing cinnamon rolls to the local cryptid population—both thrills and terrifies me.
It means being seen.
Being visible.
Letting the universe acknowledge I exist.
"Yeah," I hear myself say.
"I can do that."
A beat later I add, "Do you need me now, or... coffee break time?"
"Now would be a godsend."
I'm dressed in under ten minutes, my hair twisted into a messy bun and my lips bitten pink instead of bothering with lipstick.
The second I clip Barnaby's leash to his collar, he lunges so hard I nearly lose my wrist.
He's apparently been saving up since six yesterday evening.
Given his size, that's less a bathroom break and more a public health emergency.
We jog the four blocks to the bakery beneath a sky the color of laundry detergent.
Everyone in town seems to be walking a dog this morning.
Barnaby is easily half the size of every other canine we pass—a sausage-shaped rodent weaving between cocker spaniels and retrievers.
He doesn't appear to have noticed.
Daisy's absence has already been memorialized.
A life-sized cardboard cutout stands beside the register, her face strategically edited to look pale and dramatic. A speech bubble scrawled in Sharpie declares:
I'M SICK. SEND SOUP AND MUFFINS!!!
Beside her, Clover has thoughtfully arranged a tiny vase of violets and a cup full of honey sticks from the farmer's market.
Business is brisk, the line already winding to the front door.
Clover is moving at cheetah speed, glazing cinnamon knots while somehow microwaving the entire room with pure stress.
She catches my eye.
"You're a lifesaver," she mouths.
Then she flings an entire tray of scones into the display case and calls to the next customer without missing a beat.
"Welcome to Hex & Honey! What can I get started for you?"
I pull on a smock, wash my hands, and step behind the counter.
Barnaby immediately flattens himself beside the hearth, tongue lolling, where he's beset by four elderly ladies who apparently decide, without discussion, that their morning's purpose is convincing him to eat a croissant.
He offers only token resistance.
Working the register is easy.
People are distracted by their caffeine cravings and rarely look at the person ringing them up.
Handing over pastries is different.
There's eye contact.
Conversation.
Lingering.
People discuss you while you're still standing there.
I overhear two regulars—a banshee and a wood sprite, because apparently this is my life now—arguing over whether I'm the same girl who used to go jogging with Angus the troll.
The banshee insists I am.
The wood sprite argues I must be "her cousin... maybe. The one with the same weird knees."
Barnaby accepts their investigation with quiet dignity, allowing even the shakiest hands to scratch behind his ears.
Around eleven, the rush finally breaks.
The bakery smells of warm bread, rosewater, and happy exhaustion.
My feet ache from standing, but I'm absurdly pleased with myself.
If my old therapist could see me now, she'd probably prescribe mandatory retail work for everyone recovering from a disastrous engagement.
Clover appears beside me carrying two cortados.
"You're a natural," she says. "And you haven't even set anything on fire."
She sets one cup in front of me.
The other...
...she places in front of Barnaby.
He sniffs it thoughtfully before collapsing across my feet with a satisfied sigh.
I blink.
"You know he can't drink coffee."
"I know."
She shrugs.
"He seems to enjoy being included."
Honestly...
Fair enough.
"Any word from Daisy?"
Clover grins.
"She texted at nine."
She clears her throat dramatically.
"Fever broke. Hate it here. Will return to haunt you tomorrow. Pls do not let anyone else touch the sourdough starter."
"So..."
Clover pockets her phone.
"She's alive."
We carry our coffees outside and settle onto the front steps.
People wander lazily past the bakery.
A troll walking a pug.
A witch arguing with her broom.
Someone's raven stealing a muffin.
Normal.
Wonderfully, gloriously normal.
Maybe it's just the caffeine.
Maybe it's relief.
Either way, I catch myself thinking...
This feels like a life someone could actually want.
Clover bumps my shoulder.
"You're not watching the street today."
I glance up.
"I guess not."
"Progress?"
I smile into my coffee.
"I'm still me."
A pause.
"But I'm not as afraid of being seen."
"Good."
She follows something with her eyes beyond my shoulder.
"I've suddenly remembered I need to rotate the muffins."
"We did that ten minutes ago."
"Mmm."
She stands.
"I'm sure they need rotating again."
Before I can question her suspiciously convenient memory, she disappears inside.
I turn.
Alaric Grimhaven is walking toward the bakery.
Hands tucked into the pockets of his coat.
A newspaper beneath one arm.
He looks like he's spent the morning arguing with himself and lost.
Barnaby notices him too.
He lifts his head, gives one token growl...
...then decides the effort isn't worth it.
I brush flour from my jeans.
It doesn't help.
When Alaric reaches the sidewalk, he stops just short of the steps, looking oddly uncomfortable.
Like someone who's shown up for jury duty only to realize he might be in the wrong courthouse.
"Morning."
"You've started greeting people before coffee?"
"It's almost noon."
I squint at the sun.
"Time is a colonial fiction."
He blinks.
"I thought vampires slept all day."
"I'm not that kind of vampire."
"What kind are you?"
"The kind who requires strong coffee."
I hold the door open.
"Black? No sugar? Extra existential dread?"
"You know me disturbingly well already."
He leans against the counter while I pour two coffees.
Barnaby wanders over, carefully positioning himself between us before releasing an impressive gassy sigh.
Alaric eyes him.
"You know he used to belong to a warlock."
"I've heard."
"Apparently he snored too loudly."
"His loss."
I slide a mug across the counter.
"Barnaby's lungs are a medical marvel."
"Are you always up this early," I ask, "or is work slowly consuming your soul?"
"Both."
He settles onto a stool.
"I was reading case files until two in the morning."
"Light bedtime reading."
"Soothing."
I join him with my own coffee.
"Should I be worried..."
I tip my head.
"...or is this a social visit?"
A tiny muscle jumps in his jaw.
"Leland is still... persistent."
He exhales.
"But I'm not here because of him."
"No?"
"I..."
He clears his throat.
"I was in the neighborhood."
I look around the bakery.
"The neighborhood being the only place in Blackthorn Bay that sells coffee?"
He shrugs with admirable commitment to the lie.
"People get attached to routines."
We sit side by side without looking at each other.
The silence isn't awkward.
It's...
Comfortable.
Like we're both relieved someone else is filling the space, even if neither of us knows quite what to say.
I wonder if he's always this guarded.
Or if it's only me who makes him seem so carefully stitched together.
"So..."
"How's Button Cottage?"
"I'd love to tell you I'm thriving."
"You aren't?"
"I'm surviving."
I smile.
"It's significantly less murdery than advertised."
He laughs.
A real laugh.
The banshee and wood sprite both glance over in surprise.
"Good."
He nods toward Barnaby.
"He seems to have settled in."
"Oh, he's officially the mascot of Hex & Honey."
I gesture toward the old ladies now sharing pieces of croissant with him.
"He's made three people cry and stole an entire cinnamon twist off a child's plate."
"Aspirational."
Then he looks at me.
Really looks.
"You know..."
He smiles.
"Most people would've picked a younger dog."
I glance down at Barnaby.
"I know."
"But you seem like someone who appreciates a dog who's already stopped trying to impress anyone."
I lift an eyebrow.
"So I'm not impressive?"
"No."
He smiles wider.
"You're just not trying to be."
I look at him over the rim of my mug.
"That was almost smooth."
"Almost?"
"You telegraphed it."
I point toward his face.
"Your left eyebrow does this little thing."
He blinks.
For the briefest moment, every carefully constructed wall slips.
"I'll work on that."
"You do."
I nod toward Barnaby, now enthusiastically licking the floor for reasons known only to him.
"In the meantime, Barnaby is an excellent judge of character."
"And?"
"He hasn't bitten you."
He nods solemnly.
"High praise."
"The highest."
The bell jingles.
Clover appears holding up her phone.
"Daisy says she's dying of loneliness and requires breakfast scones immediately."
"On it."
Grateful for the interruption, I box up the pastries.
When I glance back, Alaric is watching me.
Not intensely.
Not possessively.
Just...
Watching.
For one impossible moment, I wonder what it would feel like if he reached across the counter instead of standing safely on the other side of it.
The thought startles me enough that I quickly slide the pastry box across the counter.
"There."
He takes it.
"I should go."
"Paperwork?"
He sighs dramatically.
"Paperwork."
"Thanks for the existential company."
He hesitates.
Like he wants to say something else.
Instead, he tips his head and leaves.
I watch his reflection disappear from the front window, blurred by sunlight.
Hope.
That's the closest word I have for the feeling he leaves behind.
Clover is waiting when I turn around.
Arms folded.
Grinning.
"You've had..."
She pretends to count.
"...three coffee dates with him now?"
"They weren't dates."
"Birdie."
"I mean it."
"You're blushing."
"I'm warm."
"It's a bakery."
"You are approximately the color of a tomato in August."
I scrub at an already spotless counter.
"He's got a decent face."
Clover waits.
"It's an objective fact."
She keeps waiting.
"Like weather."
Still waiting.
"That doesn't mean I want to kiss it."
Clover laughs.
I don't answer.
Mostly because...
I wasn't entirely sure I believed myself anymore.