Sugar Spells

Chapter 1

One

Maude Harrow hated most things, but above all, she detested the perpetually cheerful.

It wasn’t just that it was annoying; it felt incredibly insincere. What were people so happy about anyway? Hadn’t they ever heard of existential dread?

The early sun filtered through the tree canopy overhead, catching her burnished honey locks and setting them ablaze with light—a beacon she felt only drew more attention.

She tugged her hood further over her face, her eyes narrowing to slits as yet another grinning idiot bounced past her on the street.

Unfortunately, every morning, Maude’s path to work forced her through the vibrant chaos of Market Square—the beating heart of Mistwood Hills, though Maude thought it more of an ulcer. Dodging people wasn’t an option, not with the place swarming like a beehive.

The village of Mistwood echoed with the unwanted sounds of morning greetings and cheerful banter, vendors shouting prices for frost-glazed pears and crystal-bright lanterns.

An apprentice witch shouted about spell-steeped tea that “banished hangovers” as a copper pipe hissed overhead and a kettle cart belched fragrant steam.

This daily parade of enthusiasm was the worst part of her morning.

How anyone could maintain such incessant cheer in a world where coffee sometimes ran out and people insisted on talking before ten a.m. was beyond her.

Every overly bright “Good morning!” felt like a personal challenge to her commitment to realism—or, as her overly optimistic neighbor, Oliver Hale, liked to call it, pessimism.

But really, if expecting the worst and taking grim satisfaction in being right made her a pessimist, then so be it.

Maude continued her march down the street toward her workplace, the comfort of her dark, quiet apothecary awaiting her on Blightbend Way.

At twenty-two, most people were chasing apprenticeships or slipping into marriages arranged by parents with too much time and coin.

Maude, of course, had instead inherited a crumbling business and a permanent scowl.

Her shop, The Elixir Emporium, nestled snugly between an ominously quiet bookstore that sold ancient grimoires and a dimly lit curiosities shop, where jars of pickled dragon toes and phoenix feathers lined the dusty shelves.

She had a soft spot for the crooked street. Blightbend was the underbelly of Mistwood Hills, the shadowy counterpart to the sunnier streets elsewhere. If Market Square was a cheerful smile, Blightbend Way was the sly grin of someone with secrets.

While the rest of Mistwood Hills basked in quaint, postcard-perfect charm with its bustling marts and neatly trimmed hedges, Blightbend Way embraced the darkness.

It was a part of town that most people avoided after dark, which made it the best part, in her opinion.

It was a place where one could revel in their brooding solitude or explore the darker sides of magic without judgmental stares.

The lane embraced her—the chill in the air, the whispers around corners, the sense that anything could be bought or sold for the right price.

Here, smiles were rare and meaningful, and everyone understood the value of a good sneer.

And to Maude, it was perfect.

She sensed him before he spoke, the familiar, annoyingly comfortable energy that meant one thing: Oli was near.

“Coffee,” was all he said, his grin cat-like as he fell into step beside her, thrusting a steaming cup into her hands.

His green velvet coat swirled dramatically with the movement, the gold stitching at the cuffs probably more costly than Maude’s entire rent.

He called it flair; she called it asking to be mugged.

“You are my favorite today,” she admitted begrudgingly, the warmth from the cup seeping into her stiff fingers.

His pout was immediate. “Not every day?”

Maude took a sip to hide a reluctant smile. “Don’t get greedy, Oli.”

“I thought being greedy was part of the charm you fell for,” he quipped, a playful glint in his eyes.

His hair, a dark mess of tousled waves, fell carelessly over his forehead, giving him a look of casual disarray that somehow only enhanced his allure.

Even now, as he matched Maude’s pace, there was an effortless charm about him, the kind that drew people in and made them want to stay.

“No, it was definitely your dubious morals that solidified our friendship.”

Oli snorted, leaned in closer, and kissed the top of her head. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

When they left the square behind, Oliver linked arms with her and steered them onto the shadowy stretch of Blightbend Way. “So,” he began, his tone too casual to be trusted, “are we ever going to talk about what happened the other night?”

Maude sighed; her gaze fixed ahead as if ignoring him might make the conversation vanish.

It didn’t.

“Why are you so insistent that I relive that painful moment?”

“Because it was hilarious?”

The memory surfaced before she could shove it back down.

The market had been too loud, too crowded, the kind of place that frayed her nerves on the best of days.

She’d been trying to find the rare herb Oliver wanted—moonleaf, or something equally pointless and overpriced—when the man appeared.

Handsome in a way that felt deliberate, like he’d been practicing his smolder in reflective surfaces.

She hadn’t even registered him until he was in her space, leaning close, his voice dripping with charm as he tried to catch her attention.

She’d taken one step back. Then another. He hadn’t taken the hint.

Her pulse had spiked, irritation morphing into something volatile.

She hadn’t thought twice about the words spilling from her lips.

The spell had been small—enough to make his shoes root to the cobblestones, his mouth snapping shut mid-sentence.

The shock on his face had been worth it.

His polished confidence had cracked, and she hissed, “This is the worst ambush I’ve ever seen. Do better.”

The man had sputtered, trying to move, but the spell held. Oliver had walked up right as she’d snapped her fingers, releasing him with a roll of her eyes and a pointed “Learn from this. You’re welcome.”

Oliver had laughed the entire way home. Maude hadn’t realized the man was trying to flirt with her.

She shot Oli a sidelong glance now as he tipped his head back, his mirth echoing down the dark lane. “Maybe if you went out with me more, you’d learn how to interact with people and eventually be able to get someone to toss your—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed earnest. “I’m only trying to help. I know how lonely—and angry—you’ve been since Bailey died. I just wish you had someone to do the everyday shit with, you know?”

“Isn’t that why I have you?” Maude’s response was dry, her voice carrying a hint of sarcasm that didn’t quite mask the underlying truth.

Oli’s smile was quick. “You do. Always.”

She looked away, grasping for safer ground. “So, are you going to flash your ridiculous riches with the usual over-the-top show on Samhain?”

Oliver, blessed with a fortune that made kings envious, merely chuckled.

His family, after all, owned half of Mistwood Hills.

Each year, they transformed the festival into a spectacle of bonfires, lavish decorations, and magical enchantments that lit up the night sky and the faces of the townspeople alike.

It was a grand display, yes, but even Maude had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that there was a warmth to it, a generosity that went beyond mere showmanship.

Oli’s family didn’t just parade their wealth; they poured it back into the town.

Crumbling shops and ancient homes were restored to their former glory, not to mention the charities that thrived under their patronage.

It was hard to hold a grudge against the opulence when it was wielded with such care.

He watched her closely, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You know I can’t resist making a spectacle on the Day of the Dead. This year, I’ve got a particular shop in mind to highlight.” His eyebrows waggled suggestively.

“Absolutely not. The Emporium has managed perfectly well without your benevolence. Besides, Bailey would have despised it.”

“Yes, but Bailey isn’t here anymore to charm the customers with his affable nature,” he responded gently.

Her eyes narrowed, a dark glint of determination flaring up. “Whatever. It’s not like I need a bunch of glitter-obsessed optimists buying pumpkin spice potions, anyway. I’ll just find some new customers—ones who actually appreciate the dark, twisted charm of my shop.”

“So, what you’re saying is, the entirety of Mistwood Hills is off the table? Might as well pack up and start pitching your potions overseas, Maude. It’s looking pretty grim around here.”

She rolled her eyes as they approached the Elixir Emporium, the familiar sign creaking slightly in the breeze. “I do have customers—real ones.”

He snorted. “Mrs. Haddingham is your one regular, and she’s more of a decoration at this point.”

As if summoned, Mrs. Haddingham shuffled into view—black shawl, iron keys clinking at her hip, lace cap wilted and flat as ever. She stopped before the shop, her presence eerie as a graveyard fog.

“The woman is practically a part of the inventory, buying her daily thyme. Honestly, why doesn’t she just grow it herself?” Oli murmured, half-exasperated, half-amused.

“Shh, let’s not inspire self-sufficiency now.” She smoothed her skirt before turning. “Mrs. Haddingham.” Maude put on her best I’m barely tolerating you face, offering a nod that was more obligatory than welcoming.

The old woman mirrored the gesture, her face as stoic and unreadable as a gargoyle’s.

Perfect.

No unnecessary pleasantries or painful small talk, just the mutual acknowledgment of existence before ten a.m.

If only Oli could grasp that concept.

Maude pushed open the door, its loud creak like a groan of protest, the bottom scraping against the uneven wooden floor—a reminder of yet another repair she’d put off.

Inside, the air smelled of herbs and old spells.

Her hand skimmed the doorway, pausing on the shallow grooves Bailey had carved there years ago.

“Runes for protection,” he’d said. They still thrummed faintly under her fingertips, steady as a pulse.

She touched them every time she entered, like muscle memory—half comfort, half punishment.

With a lazy wave of her hand, she conjured a dim glow, coaxing the candles and lanterns to life.

The store flickered to a half-hearted warmth, like it was only participating out of obligation.

She shuffled over to her worktable, dodging the clutter of her midnight brainstorm—or breakdown, depending on one’s perspective.

Bottles half-closed, herbs strewn around—this was the mess of someone who’d given up mid-spell.

It looked like a pixie had thrown a tantrum.

And honestly, she had been a split second away from one.

Tired and sad—yeah, she’d admit it, but only to herself and maybe a particularly nosy piece of furniture.

Maude let out a sigh that felt like it had been dredged up from her soul, surveying the mess that was a little too on the nose as a metaphor for her life right now.

She shrugged out of her coat and tossed it onto the nearest chair.

Dark wool, practical and heavy with deep pockets—the kind made for stashing herbs, hex slips, and the occasional emergency dagger.

Underneath, she wore a black knit sweater over a star-speckled skirt, boots clomping against the floorboards like punctuation.

A soft thud drew her attention to the shelf near the doorway, where Grim, her coal-dark cat, lounged like a self-appointed king.

He stretched lazily, his topaz eyes narrowing as he gave Maude an unimpressed look.

With a flick of his tail, he leapt down and sauntered toward Maude, weaving through her legs before leaping up onto the worktable.

“So, I’m guessing your attempt at conjuring eternal night over your garden gnome collection didn’t go as planned?”

Maude looked up at Oli, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. “Why? Did the sun come up today?”

Oli laughed and leaned against the counter. “Speaking of unexpected daylight, there’s a new bakery opening across the street. Thought you might want to know, considering it’s going to be all sunshine and rainbows over there.”

He watched closely for her reaction, and unfortunately, she gave him a rare display of emotion.

“What?”

Maude whirled around to peer out the dusty window.

How had she missed it?

The building across the street, which had been nothing more than a shadowed shell for years, was now alive with light and the curling smoke of an early morning start.

“A bakery?” Her tone was incredulous, almost offended.

“Yes, it’s a place where people make bread.”

Maude’s hand shot out, smacking him lightly before she turned back to the window, her expression one of mock horror. “Bread? Like, for eating? What is this, suburbia?”

He rolled his eyes, fighting back a grin. “I guess even Blightbend Way isn’t immune to the charm of a good sourdough. It’s the yeast we could do.”

Maude turned slowly, her gaze lethal. “What did you do?”

Oli leaned in closer. “It’s an infiltration, Maude. First, they bring the bread. Next thing you know, there are flower shops and pastel curtains everywhere.”

“What. Did. You. Do.”

Oli sighed, the playfulness fading as he straightened.

“He came to me with a proposal—detailed, organized, the kind of plan you don’t see every day.

Said he’d only just arrived in town two weeks ago and wanted a chance to establish himself.

So I extended him a loan. Fair terms. Enough to get his business off the ground.

” His tone was half-serious, half-resigned, as if he too was trying to convince himself of the potential upside.

“Maybe it’ll bring some light to this shadowy street. ”

Maude glared at him. “I take it back. You’re not my favorite today. And maybe not ever again.”

He opened his mouth to retort, no doubt something annoyingly witty, but Maude was already turning away, her attention snapping to Mrs. Haddingham, who was shuffling past the window.

“Find everything all right today?”

The old woman nodded silently, clutching her daily sprig of thyme like a lifeline.

“See?” Maude said, turning to Oli with a triumphant smirk. “Loyal customers.”

Oli just shook his head. “One sprig of thyme a day. You’ll soon be a mogul.”