Chapter 6
Six
The ride back to the stables was mercifully quiet, the sun sinking low on the horizon and casting the sky in shades of orange and blush pink.
Oli’s manor came into view at the crest of a gently sloping hill, its silhouette elegant and imposing against the glowing sky.
The sprawling estate was a patchwork of ivy-covered stone and towering chimneys, with tall windows that reflected the last light of day like molten gold.
The slanted slate roof had peaks crowned with decorative ironwork, and the chimneys puffed faint wisps of smoke into the cool evening air.
As Maude and Wesley approached, Oli bounded across the gardens like an overly enthusiastic puppy.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my two favorite shopkeepers!” he called out.
Maude narrowed her eyes as Wesley dismounted, handing the reins to Sylvie, who had just emerged from the stalls. “Oliver, always a pleasure,” he said with practiced politeness, turning to offer a hand to Maude.
She ignored him at first, shifting and resettling to find a position that didn’t send fresh pain shooting up her arm.
After a few awkward tries, she huffed and grudgingly accepted his help.
Her scowl deepened when his other hand went straight to her waist, steadying her as she swung her leg over the saddle.
Oli’s brow shot up. “Careful there—how bad is the arm?” She waved him off, and only then did his grin return. “Maude, when I suggested you two collaborate to boost your sales, I didn’t realize you’d take it so literally.”
“Ha-ha,” she deadpanned, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “So, you saw the shops?”
Oli let out a laugh. “Impossible to miss. Looks like an alchemist and a confectioner had a drunken love child.” His gaze flicked to Wesley.
“Now, I know you had nothing to do with this. Maude’s the brightest witch in all of Mistwood Hills, but even she’s going to have her hands full fixing that before the party.
Did you want to use my kitchen to prep?”
Wesley’s relief was visible. “Saints, yes. My flat’s a glorified closet with a sink.”
“Perfect.” Oli clapped his hands together, beaming.
Maude shifted her weight to one hip “Wait—you’re throwing a party? Since when?”
“It’s not really a party, per se,” he said, scratching the back of his neck.
“More like…a business meeting. With a couple of sponsors and vendors. For a new project.” Maude narrowed her eyes, but before she could speak, Oli raised a hand, words spilling out.
“It’s still very much an idea—barely brewing.
I was going to tell you when I had an actual plan. ”
He didn’t owe her an explanation, technically, but Maude was so used to Oli oversharing—down to the details of his skincare routine and bowel movements—that this felt borderline treasonous.
Keeping something this big from her? Strange didn’t even begin to cover it.
She bit her lip, debating whether to push him, but let it slide.
For now.
Oli turned his full attention back to Wesley, all charm and enthusiasm. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll have it ready at the house. Feel free to set up and work as you please—and, of course, I’m happy to help if you like.”
Oli’s warm, mischievous smile practically lit up the clearing, and Maude fought the urge to roll her eyes. Yeah, he wasn’t acting like Wesley wasn’t his type at all.
“In fact,” Oli continued, “Maude was just telling me how much she’s been wanting to get into baking. What do you think about a pair of sous-chefs to help you make up for lost time?”
Wesley’s gaze slid to Maude like he could smell the lie from across the yard. “Sure…that sounds great.”
“Yeah,” Maude ground out, her teeth clicking on the word. “Great.”
Oli’s grin widened, and Maude swore she could see the matchmaking gears turning in his head. She shot him a glare, silently promising payback—something involving permanent glitter or a hex that made him hiccup every time he said her name.
Still, she didn’t argue. Not because she wanted to play house in Oli’s kitchen, but because technically…
technically it was her fault. She’d blown up Wesley’s shop.
If the wreck bled over into Oli’s party, she’d never hear the end of it.
No, better to grit her teeth, suck it up, and pretend to cooperate.
She adjusted her bag with a tug and stalked toward the house.
“I’ll need whole wheat flour, almond meal, caster sugar, unsalted butter, heavy cream, fresh vanilla pods, cocoa powder, baking chocolate—good stuff, not that waxy crap—yeast, sourdough starter…” Wesley paused, glancing at Oli’s raised brow. “What? Artisan baking isn’t exactly low-maintenance.”
“And the baked goods?” Oli asked, grinning like he was ready to eat half the list on the spot.
“Lemon curd tarts, almond croissants, sourdough boules, chocolate ganache eclairs…maybe some rosemary focaccia if there’s time.”
Maude half-listened as she unloaded the foraged ingredients onto the oversized island in Oli’s absurdly pristine kitchen.
Ironvine, bloodroot, blackthorn bark—all lined up in neat little rows, her hands moving on autopilot.
Every piece of the spell was here. Every piece but one.
Shadowbell. Always elusive. Always late-season fickle.
If she wanted it, she’d have to climb into the mountains.
Her gaze snagged on the window, twilight spilling across the fields.
Her fingers twitched restlessly. The Duskmire Peaks weren’t exactly close, and shadowbell wasn’t the kind of thing she’d usually settle for buying.
It had to be fresh, and no vendor in town would touch it—too finicky, too much trouble to stock.
Besides, the Peaks carried their own warnings: hunters who never came back, voices echoing in the stone that didn’t belong to anyone living.
People didn’t wander there unless desperation drove them.
With a sigh, Maude categorized the day’s findings, neatly sorting and tucking them back into her pack.
Her wrist throbbed under the half-assed wrap she’d tied.
The rosemary tincture she’d slapped on earlier was doing exactly nothing, and the blood had soaked through again, streaking down her palm.
She flexed her hand once, hissed, and decided she’d pushed it long enough.
“I need to get back,” she said, tightening the strap on her pack. “Fix my arm. Check on Grim. Wish I could stay.”
Oli paused mid-conversation, glancing at her. “Need help?”
Maude snorted. “Please. Stick to pastries.”
“Hey,” Oli said, hand to his chest. “I’d be excellent moral support.”
That earned him a ghost of a smile. She couldn’t help it.
The last time Oli had offered “moral support,” he’d ended up sprawled on the floor himself, white as milk, after watching her stitch up a split knuckle.
He’d muttered something about “sympathy pain” while she’d finished the job one-handed and called him pathetic until he finally staggered back upright.
Not exactly the résumé of a battlefield medic.
She shook her head, the corner of her mouth still twitching. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll call you next time I need someone to pass out dramatically and make the situation all about them.”
Oli laughed and strolled over, dropping a kiss on the crown of her head. “There’s my Maudie girl. Where have you been all my life?”
She slouched in exaggerated sulk-mode, arms folded.
“None of that,” Oli scolded, bopping her on the head.
It startled a laugh out of her—quick, unwilling—and she shoved him back with both hands. When she glanced up, Wesley was watching, his expression unreadable.
Oli turned to him with all the theatrical flourish of a man stepping onto a stage. “Wesley…” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Have you ever seen a copper-clad, temperature-controlled proving cabinet imported from Avenshire?”
Wesley’s eyes lit up. “No. Never. You have one?”
“Oh, I do. Come on, I’ll show you.”
Before Maude could ask when he had purchased a proving cabinet, Oli wagged a finger at her.
“See you later—and don’t forget to check in every hour with the scry-stone.
If I don’t hear from you in the twenty minutes it takes to get to the shop, I’m going to assume you’re dead and send out the brigade. ”
Wesley shot her a sidelong look, brows lifted in silent commentary.
She ignored him. “You don’t have a brigade.”
“Details,” Oli said breezily, already walking away. He flapped a hand over his shoulder. “Love you, bye.”
Wesley stuttered, opened his mouth, then shut it again before turning and stalking after him.
The last smear of daylight bled into the horizon by the time Blightbend Way curled into view. The street was drowning in dusk—muted gold dripping into gray, lanterns humming faintly with starlight.
Normally, she’d have welcomed it. Shadows suited her.
But tonight, something was…off.
Halfway to her shop, she stopped dead. Her eyes snagged on the patch of green a few feet ahead, and her brain immediately began filing complaints.
The grass looked wrong. Too perfect. Too glossy. Suspicion prickled down her spine. Maude crouched, pushing her sleeve up with a muttered curse, and brushed her fingers over the blades.
Her stomach dropped.
Not blades. Not grass at all.
Her hand sank into the ground like a sponge, sweet stickiness clinging to her skin.
“Marshmallow,” she muttered, her voice shaking with disbelief. “The grass is marshmallow.”
Her heart stumbled, then kicked into double-time. She shot to her feet and bolted down the road, sprinting toward her shop. By the time she barreled onto Blightbend Way, she stopped so abruptly her teeth clicked hard enough to sting.
Oh. Fuck.
Her stupid curse—her spectacular disaster of a curse—was spreading. And it was so much worse than the nightmare reels her brain had been running.
On Wesley’s half, everything was turning edible. Cobblestones gleamed like sugar cubes. A wheelbarrow slouched against the bookshop wall, now pure chocolate, already sagging. Even the streetlamps glowed in candied amber, their poles glossy like hard caramel.
Her half? Worse.
Where her curse touched, things died. Grass shriveled to brittle gray husks. Trees twisted in on themselves, branches clawing as if they wanted to crawl out of the soil. The cobbles cracked and crumbled, rotting as if centuries had passed in hours.
Half candy-land, half graveyard. Entirely her fault.
Grim.
She shoved through her shop door, wood groaning as the half-rotted frame scraped against its new chocolate trim. She didn’t stop to take in the grotesque disaster—her focus was singular.
“Grim!”
The silence was deafening.
Then—paw prints. Tiny. Leading across the dusty floor, faintly sparkling like someone had powdered them with confectioner’s sugar. They trailed straight toward the backroom. Her chest tightened. She followed, pushed the door open—and there he was.
Sitting like a smug gargoyle in the middle of frosting carnage, calmly licking his paw.
Maude sagged against the doorframe, a long, shaky breath tearing out of her.
But then he looked up at her. His ears glowed. His nose was bright candy pink.
“Saints.”
She scooped him up, heart clawing at her throat. His fur was hot against her hands, his nose twitching like nothing was wrong while she fell apart.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered into his fur, guilt hitting like a gut punch. She carried him outside, crouched low, and set him carefully in the grass. “Stay,” she said firmly, even though Grim had never once in his life listened to her.
Maude dropped to her knees beside him, fingers shaking as she yanked her pack open. Yarrow. Bloodroot. Anything that might buy time.
She should’ve done this before she left.
She knew better. Bailey would’ve hexed her ears off for forgetting containment.
She grabbed a rock, muttered a low incantation, and twisted it into a crude cauldron.
Herbs crushed under her palms, bitter smoke rising as she worked.
The mixture glowed faintly; the light swirled like tiny embers caught in a breeze.
This spell was an old one. Bailey had taught it to her back when she’d been a walking disaster of magical accidents, and it had saved her more times than she could count. She hadn’t needed it in years, but her hands moved instinctively, the motions etched into her muscle memory.
When the glow brightened and the spell felt stable, Maude stood and cast it toward the shop. A shimmering dome of energy sprang to life, enclosing the building in a protective barrier. The sickly, decaying air within seemed to pause, the creeping curse halting in its tracks.
Maude stared at it for a long moment, waiting for any sign of failure. When none came, she let out a shaky breath, wiping her damp hands on her skirt. For once, something worked.
Grim sprawled beside her, tail flicking, ears still faintly pink. She ran her fingers through his fur, murmuring a detection charm. No deeper curse. Just surface level.
Maude lay back beside him, the ground cool beneath her, the dome humming faintly over her shop like a heartbeat she didn’t trust.
This wouldn’t hold forever. She knew it. The curse was a bomb, ticking louder every second. If she didn’t find shadowbell—soon—half of Mistwood Hills would go down with her mistake.
And when it did, they’d all remember. They’d mutter about it for decades. Remember Maude Harrow? Turned the square into a candy graveyard. Really brightened the place up. Until it killed us all.
She scowled up at the sky. “Yeah, no. Not giving them that story.”
Grim sniffed like he didn’t believe her for a second.