Chapter 5
Five
It did not take an hour.
In fact, several had passed, and all Maude had to show for it was a sheen of sweat dripping down her forehead.
She leaned over the cauldron-mixer abomination, her jaw clenched as she stirred furiously.
Why wasn’t this working? She’d tried everything—isolating the original hex’s core signature and identifying the threads of intent laced within it.
But when she tried to reverse the flow of energy, the spell simply absorbed her counter-charm, reinforcing itself instead of breaking down.
And to make matters worse, behind her, Wesley hummed.
Some nameless little tune, probably one of those tavern songs.
She ground her teeth, ignored him, and moved on to Bailey’s potion.
Forcing back panic, she began carefully deconstructing its properties, mapping how they might have interacted with the shadowbell.
The shadowbell, she discovered, functioned as a catalyst—amplifying and blending the magical frequencies of her hex with Bailey’s lingering intent.
Even after she introduced stabilizers—dried ironwood bark and a few drops of binding solvent—the merged energies refused to hold, lurching unpredictably whenever she applied counter-magic.
Finally, she resorted to a neutralizing charm, meticulously layering opposing elements: iron shavings for warding, ground yarrow root for purification, and distilled moonlight to weaken the binding threads.
Yet, instead of dissipating, the spell seemed to adapt, spreading its influence further into the shop with each attempt, as if it were feeding on her efforts.
Maude’s grip on the stirrer tightened as she peered into the cauldron.
The liquid churned in unnatural patterns, its surface rippling—a clear sign of a spell caught in self-perpetuating stasis.
The logic of it infuriated her. A spell, even a hybrid one, shouldn’t be this impervious to countermeasures.
The walls bore faint traces of enchanted residue—magic actively reinforcing itself. Worst of all, her ingredients were now nearly all compromised. Herbs that should smell earthy and bitter reeked faintly of buttercream.
Her chest tightened as she gripped the stirrer harder, her eyes burning with frustration. Finally, she snapped, slamming it down on the counter with a loud crack.
“Fuck!” Maude screamed, her voice echoing through the warped shop as her chest heaved.
Movement outside caught her eye, and she glanced up to find Wesley standing by the window.
“There’s more of them,” he said, his voice caught between amusement and alarm as he gestured to the street.
Maude shoved the sweat-soaked hair off her forehead. “Well, shoo them away again!”
“I tried,” Wesley shot back, throwing up his hands. “Apparently, telling people to leave just makes them more curious.”
She growled, rubbing her eyes. “That’s it. I can’t work here anymore.”
Without a second thought, she waved her hand over the cauldron-mixer, banishing hours of effort with a flick. She stomped into the back room, shoving aside a dried frog leg inexplicably coated in fondant as she snatched up her gathering bag and headed for the back door.
“Where are you going?” Wesley’s voice called from behind her.
She didn’t bother slowing down. “Out, obviously.”
“You can’t just leave my store like this!” he said, catching up to her as she reached for the door handle. “I have hours of prep to do! There’s a catered party tomorrow night that I need to—”
Maude snorted, turning to glare at him. “Yeah, that’s not happening.” She gestured wildly at the shop. “Look around, bakery bastard. Unless you’re planning to serve cursed croissants, you’re out of luck.”
She shoved the door open, but Wesley stepped in front of her, blocking her path.
“Get out of my way.”
He took a step back, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “What is wrong with you? You did this. And instead of owning it, you’ve been acting like it’s my fault. Promises to fix it have gone nowhere, and it’s obvious nothing’s working. I need this resolved, or—”
“Or what, Wesley?” Maude cut in, her voice dripping with venom as she stepped closer. “You’ll cry? Post an angry little note in your window about how the big bad witch ruined your perfect frosting factory?”
Wesley’s mouth opened, then closed, his expression torn between outrage and incredulity.
Maude smirked, pushing past him with a dramatic flick of her hair. “Thought so,” she said, letting the door slam shut behind her.
Maude was halfway to Oliver’s stables when the sound of footsteps behind her broke through the quiet. The night air clung damp and cool, carrying the sour tang of hay and horse musk. Lanterns swung lazily from posts along the fence line, their glow carving crooked shadows across the path.
Her heart spiked, a cold twinge of irritation shooting through her chest. She didn’t need to look back; she already knew who it was. Grinding her teeth, she quickened her pace, the rhythmic crunch of her boots against the gravel matching her rising frustration.
The footsteps followed, closing the distance.
Reaching the gate at the edge of Oli’s property—a broad, wrought-iron thing with decorative scrollwork and a gleaming brass latch—Maude didn’t hesitate. She spun, gripped the cold metal with both hands, and shoved it shut with a loud crack—just as Wesley’s face appeared on the other side.
The gate slammed into him with a satisfying thud. He stumbled back, clutching his nose.
“Really?” he bit out, glaring over the top.
“This is private property.” Maude crossed her arms.
Wesley straightened on the other side, cheeks flushed from the chase, ash-blond hair a windswept mess. His chest still heaved as he stepped closer, eyes locking on hers. The insufferable man was at least three heads taller than her. She did not appreciate the way he loomed.
“Look,” he said, his words low, clipped, and cold, “I get it. You don’t care about my shop, my life, or the royal fuckery you’ve dumped on me.
But I want to help. This mess is just as much my problem as it is yours, and I need it fixed.
Stop fighting me. It’s a simple request, and frankly, not a crazy one. ”
Maude’s jaw tightened, a sudden stab of pain shooting down her neck from grinding her teeth so hard. She didn’t want his help. She didn’t need his help. She’d never worked with anyone besides Bailey, and she wasn’t about to start now.
But…he wasn’t wrong.
As much as she hated to admit it, this was her fault.
She’d set out to sabotage his shop, and she’d succeeded—spectacularly.
Still, she hesitated, eyes narrowing as she studied him.
He hadn’t ruined her life. He’d just walked into it and upended the quiet, predictable misery she’d made peace with.
She didn’t hate him for what he’d done. She hated him for what he’d stirred awake.
She crossed her arms. Fine. Let him help. If that’s what he wanted, allowing him to “help” would only remind him how much he should hate her—and everyone else on Blightbend Way.
“Fine, but if you get in my way—”
“I won’t,” he said, grabbing the gate and pushing it open with more force than necessary. “Contrary to what you might think, I’m not an idiot.”
“Wow. Inspiring.”
She didn’t bother looking back as she stalked away.
Oli’s stables came into view, and from the nearest stall a familiar head poked out—a gray braid thick as rope.
Sylvie leaned against the door, sleeves rolled up, bits of straw clinging to her skirt.
Her face was lined but not unkind, her eyes gleaming with the mischief of someone who collected gossip the way others hoarded coins.
“Well, if it isn’t Maudie Harrow,” Sylvie drawled, “taking Pickles out again?” Her gaze slid to Wesley, lingering, and she arched one bushy brow. A smirk followed. “And who’s this? Don’t tell me you’ve finally brought me a suitor to inspect.”
Maude bit back a sigh. The woman had made a sport of teasing her for the better part of two decades.
“I’ll need two horses today, Sylvie,” Maude said, jerking a thumb toward Wesley without looking at him.
“And make sure this one’s mount is extra sturdy.
I don’t want one of Oli’s precious mares throwing a hip carrying this giant. ”
The corner of Wesley’s mouth twitched. “Pickles?”
Sylvie’s grin split wide, teeth flashing.
“Ah, yes. That’s Maudie’s first beast. She named him when she was still knee-high and barely speaking the common tongue.
Ate pickles every day ’til her belly ached, so of course she named her horse the same.
Bailey nearly choked laughing when she first declared it. ”
Maude’s cheeks warmed despite herself. “Why are you still telling that story?” She shook her head. “You already have half the town thinking I peaked at five.”
Sylvie laughed before turning to Wesley. “Pleasure,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron before offering him a firm handshake.
“Charmed,” Wesley said, giving her one of those dazzling smiles that probably had the entire market’s wives buying bread they didn’t need.
Sylvie cackled. “Careful, boy. That grin’s wasted on me. But keep flashing it at this one—” she jerked her head toward Maude, “—and I might actually die happy.”
Maude’s groan was loud enough to spook the horses as she stalked past, heading to the stall she knew well. The familiar sight of Pickles—a sleek black horse with a temper as bad as hers—was the first thing all day that didn’t make her want to scream.
“Hey there,” Maude said softly, running her fingers through Pickles’s mane. The massive horse nuzzled her hand before nibbling on her fingers, his usual greeting. She felt the sting in her eyes—the one that always crept up when she least wanted it—and clenched them shut until the feeling passed.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you in a while,” she muttered, her voice low. “I’ve been… It’s been hard to do the normal things.”