Chapter 4 #2
She reached for a moondust cap, grinding the gnarled piece into powder between her fingers.
The fine dust shimmered in the air before falling into the cauldron, where the liquid darkened to a murky gray.
The cauldron began to hum. Softly at first, a low vibration she felt in her fingertips.
Maude frowned and gave the mixture another slow stir.
The color deepened from gray to violet, then to a shimmering gold that caught the light like sunlight on oil.
“That’s… different,” she muttered.
The hum grew louder. The parchment quivered against the counter, the ink glowing faintly. Her stomach turned cold.
“Wait—”
The potion flared and the brew boiled over, spilling across the counter and onto the floor.
“Shit.” Maude staggered back as the light intensified. The hum split into a crack, and before she could move, a pulse of magic burst outward, rippling through the shop like a wave.
The floor pitched beneath her. Shelves rattled violently, jars shattered, and books tumbled in a chaotic cascade.
Maude lost her footing and hit the ground hard, the breath jolted from her lungs.
The walls shimmered like water around her, bending and warping as if the entire shop were being rewritten.
Then, the surge stopped.
Silence pressed in, broken only by the faint hiss of the cauldron, its contents collapsed into an iridescent sludge. Maude stayed sprawled on the floor, chest heaving, palms stinging where she’d caught herself.
That’s when the smell hit her.
Sugar.
Overwhelmingly sweet, cloying—so thick in the air it made her stomach turn. Her eyes widened, and she scrambled upright, heart hammering.
The shop had changed.
Her dark, brooding sanctuary of potions had been horrifically fused into something unholy—neither hers nor his, but both. Shadowed shelves gave way to pastel trim. Her jars of herbs sat beside trays of glittering cupcakes.
The Elixir Emporium and Sugar High Bakery had become one.
Maude’s breath quickened as her gaze darted around the room. The smell of lavender and damp wood fought desperately against the saccharine aroma of cinnamon rolls. The air felt…confused, like it didn’t know what it was supposed to be.
The counter she’d been leaning on had transformed, the rustic wood of her workspace now clashing violently with the polished marble of his.
Her cauldron had somehow fused with his massive mixer, the two machines grotesquely intertwined, gears and enchanted runes spinning together in a chaotic union.
Even the walls had changed. Where her shelves had once displayed neat rows of tonics, tinctures, and bottled charms, they now curved into racks of baked goods—tarts stacked in pastel towers, truffles dusted in edible gold, and bread loaves piled high.
Her small, cracked window was gone, replaced with his massive display case, now stuffed with a horrifying blend of cursed trinkets and cheerful, frosted madness.
And then she spotted him.
Wesley stood beneath the row of shrunken heads that used to dangle ominously from her rafters. Now they were strung together with pastel ribbons, swaying gently like some grotesque parody of party décor. His mouth hung open as he surveyed the shop.
“What did you do?” Wesley’s voice broke through the suffocating silence.
“This is not real,” Maude muttered, dragging a hand down her face.
“Unfortunately for both of us, it looks very real,” he said as his eyes flicked to the cauldron-mixer hybrid.
Curiosity—or stupidity—drove him closer.
He peered inside the warped contraption, his brow furrowing as he noticed the sheen on the potion.
It had an almost living quality, the same shimmering film that now coated the walls, the counters, and every horrifyingly fused object in what used to be their separate stores.
Realization flickered across his face, and he spun toward her, his expression a mix of disbelief and exasperation. “What exactly were you trying to do here? Open a portal to hell?”
Maude rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. Hell is more organized than this.”
He looked at her like she had grown two heads.
She sighed. “It’s just a miscast spell. I can fix it.”
“Fix it?” Wesley snapped. “Do you know how long it takes to laminate dough? Of course you don’t.” His muttering picked up as his gaze swept the carnage. “Weeks of work—profit margins shot to hell…” He cut himself off with another exhale, shaking his head.
After a beat, he turned and walked out, jaw tight. Maude hesitated, then followed—only to have her breath catch in her throat the moment she stepped outside.
She looked across the street to where Wesley’s shop used to be. An empty lot. Not a single trace of Sugar High Bakery remained—no pink awning, no sign, not even a crumb. Just vacant air, as if the place had never existed at all.
Her stomach twisted. How in the hell did this happen?
She turned back to the building behind her.
The fusion she’d seen inside hadn’t been an illusion.
It was an abomination. Half Sugar High Bakery, half Elixir Emporium—the left side gleamed with his obnoxious pastel colors and giant, swirling lollipops in the window, while the right side stayed dark and familiar, jars of dried herbs and faintly glowing vials still intact.
The dividing line wasn’t even clean—it was jagged and haphazard, as if the building itself couldn’t decide which identity to commit to.
“Must’ve been a powerful spell,” Wesley said, his tone clipped as he stared at the monstrosity.
Maude sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Or a stupid one. I must’ve botched one of Bailey’s runes.”
“Bailey?” Wesley turned to her, his brow furrowed. “Does he work for you? Maybe he can help us out.”
“Bailey is dead.”
He flinched, his face paling. “Shit. Sorry.”
The reaction was everything she’d wanted—to unnerve him, to make him feel bad. And it worked. But the way his expression twisted with genuine shame hit harder than she expected, knocking the satisfaction clean out of her.
“It’s fine,” she muttered, looking away. “Forget it.”
For once, Wesley didn’t argue. He just nodded, then turned suddenly and strode for the narrow stairway that climbed the building’s side.
Maude stiffened, realizing with a start what he was doing—checking his apartment.
His home. The thought struck her sideways.
She’d never thought of it that way before, and the realization unsettled something deep in her.
A window screeched open above. “Still intact!” Wesley called down. “Well… mostly. Pantry’s sprouting loaves like weeds, and one of your potion jars has claimed my nightstand, but the bed survived.”
Her breath left her in a shaky rush. Saints, she really had gone too far.
She hadn’t meant to ruin his life—just rattle it a little—maybe drive his business off Blightbend Way and into Market Square where he belonged—not wreck the place he lived.
Watching him lean out that window, hair rumpled, voice still light despite everything, guilt pooled low in her chest.
She folded her arms, forcing her expression into something neutral until he disappeared back inside. Moments later he came down the steps, jaw set tighter than before, hands shoved into his pockets as he took his place beside her again, surveying the cursed storefront.
“So, what do we do?” he asked, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.
“We do nothing. You sit there, look pretty, and in an hour, you’ll be back to clogging arteries and handing out early-onset diabetes like it’s your life’s purpose.”
Wesley cocked a brow. “You think I’m pretty?”
“Shut up and let me work.”