Chapter 5 #2
Pickles kept nibbling, blissfully unaware—or entirely indifferent—to her words.
Still, his ears flicked in contentment, and the sight hit her with a wave of guilt.
He had been her gathering partner, carrying her through the wilds around Mistwood Hills while she foraged for rare ingredients.
They’d spent days in the mountains, sometimes camping beneath the stars for nights on end just to track down a single elusive herb.
Those trips were some of her favorite memories—and she’d been avoiding them.
Bailey had taken her out since she was little, teaching her how to find everything she might ever need in the wilderness so she wouldn’t have to rely on the overpriced, half-dead stock from the town shops.
He had a way of making it all feel like an adventure, pointing out the smallest details—a patch of moss that meant water was nearby, the faint glimmer of moonseed hidden in a cluster of vines.
He taught her to trust herself, to read the land and understand it.
Those journeys weren’t just about gathering ingredients; they were about being together.
Riding side by side, Pickles carrying their gear while Bailey told her stories, laughed at her jokes, and treated her like she was capable of anything.
She hadn’t gone back out since he died. The thought of doing it alone left her chest hollow. Instead, she’d been spending money she didn’t have, buying weak, overharvested ingredients in town just to avoid stepping into the woods without him.
Maude sighed and rested her forehead against Pickles’s neck. “I know I’ve been a terrible friend. But I’m here now.”
The horse huffed, warm breath brushing her cheek. A small comfort—but enough to remind her why she needed to keep going.
Bailey had spent years teaching her to be self-sufficient.
He wouldn’t want her to give that up.
Maude and Wesley barreled out of Oli’s property and into the Wilds, where fences and gardens gave way to untamed green.
Trees rose tall and dense, branches arching overhead like a cathedral.
Pickles’s hooves pounded against the ground, sending sprays of dirt and leaves flying like shrapnel.
Maude leaned forward as the wind clawed at her hair and whipped it across her freckled face.
Behind her, Wesley’s horse thundered close, each breath a hot snort at her heels. She risked a glance back. He was annoyingly composed—reins steady, posture clean—and smug as a portrait. Like he’d just waltzed out of some nobleman’s hunting scene.
She snorted. “Show-off.”
Maude dug her heels in. Pickles surged forward with a burst of speed.
That should’ve been the end of it. But Wesley let out a low laugh—half amusement, half dare—and urged his mount forward, the beast matching Pickles’s pace with insulting ease.
And just like that, it was war.
No declaration, no challenge—just two stubborn morons driving their horses faster, dirt flying, neither willing to yield.
The path blurred around them: moss-slick stones, skeletal branches arching overhead, the world spinning into a tunnel of speed and breath and pounding hooves. Her coat snapped back, her dress riding up past her thighs as the air tore at it.
She dared a glance. Wesley was right there, his horse’s stride eating the distance until they were neck and neck. He threw her a smirk—all infuriating teeth and golden-boy confidence—then his gaze flicked, brief but unmistakable, to her exposed thigh before darting back to the path.
Heat climbed her neck.
They tore across the last rise, neither of them giving ground until the first clearing opened before them, ringed by whispering pines.
Only then did they slow, both horses lathered with sweat, steam rising in the cool air.
Maude’s lungs burned, her curls plastered to her face, and still she straightened with as much dignity as she could muster.
Wesley was grinning like a lunatic.
“Congratulations. You beat a girl on a horse named Pickles. Truly a heroic victory.”
He snorted, wiping his brow with a sleeve. “Don’t be sore, Harrow. You almost had me.”
She scowled, though her pulse still thrummed from more than the ride.
At the top of the hill, Maude stopped, her mind running through her mental list. She’d need to refill her entire stock—an ambitious goal, but not impossible.
Some ingredients would have to wait: the ones that needed harvesting under a full moon or at specific times of the day.
But most of what she needed to undo the spell should be within reach this afternoon.
She swung off Pickles and looped his reins around a sturdy oak. A quick pat to his flank earned her a snort, which she pretended was gratitude.
Wesley dismounted and tied his horse beside hers. “So,” he said, “what exactly are we hunting for?”
Maude dug into her satchel. “Ironvine. Blackthorn bark. Rosemary. Bloodroot. Yarrow. Moondust caps if we’re lucky. And—” she pulled out a small knife, the glint sharp as her tone, “—shadowbell flowers. The spell doesn’t break without them.”
“Shadowbell flowers,” Wesley repeated, nodding like he understood. “Got it. Let’s split up. I’ll look for the rosemary, yarrow, and moondust caps.”
Maude’s head snapped up. She stared at him, brow knitting. “You…know how to forage?”
Wesley tugged at his sleeves. “Don’t look so shocked. Just because I sell tarts doesn’t mean I don’t know what a yarrow root looks like.”
She kept staring, fingers locked tight on her bag strap. Foraging wasn’t exactly common anymore—most people just paid the apothecaries and made do with limp, overpriced herbs. That he knew how to find things himself was…unexpected. Impressive, even. Not that she’d ever admit that.
Her silence stretched too long. Wesley’s smirk faltered, his posture shifting. His fingers drummed once against his thigh, then stilled.
“What?”
Maude blinked. “Nothing. Just be quick—we’re losing light, and I’m not waiting while you figure out which end of a plant is which.” She turned away, but his gaze clung like a burr snagged on her sleeve.
Over an hour bled by as she combed through the Wilds, circling her usual foraging spots.
The late September air bit cool against her skin, crisp enough to make her breath visible.
Fallen leaves carpeted the ground in gold and crimson, disguising the herbs she hunted.
She crouched low, gloved hands brushing through damp foliage, scanning for familiar shapes and textures.
Ironvine grew in abundance. She ducked near a shaded patch beneath a cluster of elder trees and brushed away leaves to reveal it.
Its dark, twisting tendrils clung to the base of the tree like they were hanging on for dear life.
Maude pulled a knife from her belt and carefully sliced a few lengths free, rolling them into a tight coil and stuffing them into her bag.
Farther into the forest, she came across a gnarled shrub of blackthorn, its thin, spiked branches jutting like warning signs. Maude pressed her knife to the bark, scraping it clean in careful strokes, mindful not to cut too deep and harm the plant.
Bloodroot demanded more from her. Its red-veined leaves could be mistaken for half a dozen useless weeds, but Maude knew the signs: the faint copper tang that lingered when she brushed the stalks and the way they bowed ever so slightly toward the ground.
Eventually, she spotted a patch and dug carefully around the base, easing a small cluster free before shaking the dirt loose.
Shadowbell flowers, though, left no trace. She hadn’t expected them to. Elusive, dusky things, they bloomed where the light forgot to reach. So Maude pressed deeper into the woods, the air cooling around her.
At last, the hillside appeared: steep, jagged, the kind of place where shadowbell sometimes clung in narrow cracks of stone. She eyed it warily. The climb wasn’t one she wanted to make, but desperation weighed heavier than caution.
Maude dug the toe of her boot into the slope, skidding as loose stone rattled down.
She caught herself on a sharp inhale, fingers latching onto a jut of rock that scraped her palms raw.
Breathless, she hauled herself upward, dirt crumbling beneath her weight and smearing across her skirt in gritty streaks.
At the top, she steadied herself on her knees, scanning the terrain. Deep fissures in the stone. Shadows thick enough to cradle something rare. Her fingers brushed aside tufts of grass, peeled back moss.
And then—
Dusky petals. Shadowbell.
Relief punched through her chest as she reached for the bloom. But the stem bristled with near-invisible thorns, and when her wrist brushed against one, the sting was immediate, sharp as glass. She hissed, jerking back, but not before a long, clean slice opened along the skin.
Blood welled instantly. She pressed her hand to it, muttering the beginnings of a healing charm. The wound stayed open.
Maude froze, her stomach dropping. Not shadowbell. Tricker’s bane. A parasite plant that mimicked whatever you most wanted to see. Bailey had told her once it “liked the taste of stupid,” and she’d sworn she’d never fall for it.
The bloom pulsed faintly, like it was breathing her in, and the cut burned cold, spreading like frost up her arm. She gritted her teeth and tore a strip of fabric from her skirt’s hem, binding the wound tight.
“Fantastic,” she muttered, more irritated than afraid.
She backed down the slope carefully, her legs unsteady, the satchel heavy at her hip. Fury churned under her ribs, hot enough to outpace the pain. She should’ve known better. She did know better. And still she’d let herself hope.
By the time she reached level ground again, her wrist throbbed in time with her heartbeat, and she wanted to throw herself into the nearest ditch from embarrassment.
She grimaced, stalking back toward Pickles.
As she broke through the tree line, Wesley came into view by the horses, arms full of plants. He had rosemary tucked under one elbow, yarrow sprouting from his fist, and a little clutch of moondust caps dangling like trophies. He looked like a walking farmers’ market.
The smugness vanished the moment his gaze dropped to her wrist. The badly wrapped cloth was already soaked, blood dripping sluggishly down her fingers. He strode toward her.
“What happened?”
“I’m fine.” Maude waved him off. “Don’t get all worked up. I can handle it.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I said I’m fine.” She shoved the bundle of herbs into Pickles’s saddlebag.
He didn’t move, just stood there with his ridiculous armful of plants. “What did you hurt yourself on?”
Maude exhaled hard, like dragging the words out of her throat was physical labor. “Tricker’s bane.”
That shut him up for a second. His brow pulled, but not in disbelief—more like calculation. “You should pack it with witch hazel. Or comfrey, if you’ve got it. Pressure won’t hold otherwise. And burn the wrap before the fibers turn.”
Her head snapped around. “How do you know that?”
He shrugged as if it was nothing. “My mother was a healer.”
Was.
The word lodged under her ribs. She snapped her mouth shut on the dozen questions that clawed to the surface. Something in the way he said it—matter-of-fact, without elaboration—made her hesitate.
Maude turned away, suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm and slightly dizzy, and she did not know why. She shook it off, gripping the saddle carefully before using her good arm to hoist herself onto Pickles’s back. She let out a small sigh of relief when it didn’t hurt as much as she’d expected.
“Did you find everything you needed?” Wesley asked, handing her the bundle of herbs he’d gathered.
“Everything except shadowbell.”
He frowned, his nose scrunching. “So, what do we do?”
“Nothing for now. The spell will have to wait until tomorrow. I’ve got a few other spots in mind that might have it, but we’re losing light fast, and I’m not about to sacrifice my other arm.”
He nodded, swinging onto his horse with an ease that still annoyed her. “So—one more day of our nightmare mash-up, then?”
She bit her lip, her mind already sketching out the tangled lines of a counter-curse in which she wasn’t entirely confident. They’d be lucky if she could untangle the mess in a single day. But she didn’t admit that. Just nodded, quick and curt.
Wesley seemed satisfied—or at least didn’t push. But on the ride back, Maude couldn’t shake the sensation of his curious gaze on her.