Chapter 7
Seven
Sleep had been a mercy Maude didn’t deserve.
The containment dome still shimmered faintly in her mind’s eye, even when she shut her lids tight and buried her face in Grim’s fur.
He had purred like nothing had happened, like his ears hadn’t glowed neon pink hours before, like the world wasn’t two bad spells away from collapsing into either a rotting mausoleum or a bakery from hell.
Cats.
Unbothered, immortal, smug little gods who looked at you like your breakdowns were merely background noise.
But Maude wasn’t a cat. She didn’t get to stretch, yawn, and move on. No—her failures followed her into sleep, curled up at the base of her ribs, heavy as stone.
She woke with a headache, of course. A splitting one. Bailey would’ve called it poetic justice.
The ceiling beams blurred above her until she blinked them into focus, every rune Bailey had carved staring down like they were judging her life choices. Which, fair.
Dragging herself upright felt like swimming through mud.
Every muscle ached, but her wrist—the one she’d finally given in and treated exactly as Wesley had suggested—burned with that prickly, half-healed sting.
The comfrey poultice was already doing its work, the spell threaded through it settling into her skin with a dull throb.
Annoyingly, it should feel better in a few hours. Infuriatingly, he’d been right.
Maude muttered a curse at the universe on principle before shoving herself to her feet.
She bathed, the water already tepid and biting at her cut wrist, a petty punishment she probably deserved.
When she finally dragged herself out, she dressed in something that matched her mood: a black wool skirt, a gray blouse with cuffs sharp enough to cut, and a belt that could double as a weapon if she felt inspired.
The cat yawned, unimpressed.
Maude pulled on her boots, the leather creaking, and pinned her curls back with more irritation than care. She caught her reflection again in the mirror—the strawberry-blonde that refused to stay tamed, freckles standing out even harsher against her pale skin after the bath.
Twenty-two and already done with humanity.
She flipped the mirror off and shrugged into her heavy coat, its deep pockets clinking with vials. She cinched the belt tight—like maybe it could hold her together too.
The air slapped her cheeks the moment she opened the door, cool and biting, the kind of cold that crept into bone if you let it. She pulled her hood low and started down the lane.
Grim came with her, of course—launching onto her shoulder like a demon familiar who’d lost a bet and been forced into house-cat form. Maude kept her injured arm tucked close, every jolt a reminder of her spectacular failure.
The streets smelled of frost-glazed pears and woodsmoke, sweet and acrid all at once.
The market had already shaken itself awake, merchants hollering prices, neighbors chirping greetings.
She let it all slide past, eyes fixed straight ahead, Grim thumping his tail against her back like a metronome mocking her solemn stride.
But the further she pushed into town, the thinner the cheer grew. Laughter gave way to murmurs. Smiles shrank into whispers. By the time Blightbend’s crooked archway came into view, the sound had curdled into something worse.
A crowd.
Of course.
A knot of townsfolk clustered outside her shop—the abomination, as she’d started calling it in her head. Her stomach sank.
The containment spell still glimmered faintly, but it wasn’t enough to hide the wrongness—to hide the creeping curse that slithered down the street.
People gawked openly, whispering behind gloved hands, some with expressions of horrified fascination, others with the gleam of opportunity in their eyes.
A baker’s dozen children pressed sticky palms to the glass, squealing about cupcakes that shimmered faintly on the shelves.
Behind them, a woman crossed herself as if she were warding off spirits.
A man muttered loudly enough for Maude to hear: “Told you she’d snap one day.
Bailey kept her steady. Without him, well… ”
Her jaw clenched.
Grim hissed, tail puffing as if he’d understood the insult.
And then, of course, there was him.
Wesley Rivers, in all his golden-haired, disgustingly approachable glory, already working the crowd.
He leaned casually against the shopfront, smiling.
“Good morning!” he called, handing out what looked like cinnamon twists wrapped in parchment.
“Yes, yes, free samples—still perfectly edible. No curses included, I promise.”
The audacity.
The crowd chuckled, tension dissolving. Some even clapped him on the shoulder as though he’d saved their children from a burning building instead of actively participating in a magical crime scene.
Maude stalked closer, Grim digging his claws into her shoulder like he knew she needed restraining.
“Is this a joke to you?” she said when she reached him, low enough that only he could hear.
Wesley’s smile didn’t falter. He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Leftovers from the party last night,” he said lightly. “It went well, in case you were wondering.”
Her mouth pressed into a line.
“If you do not want them to panic,” he went on, still smiling for the crowd, “you have to act like everything’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
“Of course it’s not,” he murmured, flashing another grin at a passing couple who blushed under his attention. “But they don’t need to know that.”
Before she could retort, the crowd shifted. Someone else had arrived.
Two figures in dull gray coats, marked with the sigil of the town magistrates, strode toward the shop with the air of bureaucrats who thought a clipboard could solve anything.
One of them, a sharp-nosed alderman she vaguely recognized from Bailey’s old disputes about licensing fees—Veyne, possibly—squinted at the fused building.
“What in the Saints’ names is this?” he demanded, pulling a ledger from his satchel. His companion scribbled furiously beside him. “Unregistered alterations? Structural instability? A hazard to public safety.” His gaze snapped to Maude. “Miss Harrow, this wouldn’t be your doing, would it?”
Wesley beat her to it. “Not at all,” he said smoothly, “just a minor magical hiccup. Contained, as you can see. Nothing unsafe—our customers are as happy and healthy as ever.”
The inspector’s brow furrowed. “Still, it’s highly irregular—”
“Absolutely,” Wesley cut in, nodding sympathetically, as if the man’s words pained him. “We’ll file the proper reports today. Safety’s our priority, I assure you. In the meantime, we’re keeping everything under strict control.”
Maude bristled, heat flooding her chest.
We?
The alderman hesitated, visibly soothed by Wesley’s easy cadence, before harrumphing and snapping his ledger shut.
“Very well. But mark me—if the building isn’t stabilized by Samhain, we condemn it.
Both of you. Shops shuttered, goods seized, property razed if necessary.
” His hawk’s gaze flicked between them, settling a heartbeat longer on Maude. “One month. Not a day more.”
The words landed like a curse, final and cold.
“Of course,” Wesley said warmly, shaking his hand like they’d just sealed a lucrative deal.
Maude wanted to hex them both into oblivion.
Of course the magistrates would listen to him. Men like Wesley were made for this kind of thing—charming, steady-voiced. Men like Bailey.
She used to try to be that sort of person too—smiling at festivals, pouring cider at market fairs, pretending the chatter didn’t make her skin itch.
Bailey had always made it look easy; people wanted to love him.
When he died, she stopped pretending, and the town had stopped pretending with her.
They’d let her drift to the edges, easier to pity than to include, easier still to dislike.
Every town needed someone to whisper about, and she’d made the mistake of being convenient.
When the inspectors departed, the crowd dispersed in fits and starts—still buzzing, but calmer now, the sting of panic dulled. Some chuckled as they wandered off, already spinning the story for neighbors: The fused shop. The witch and the baker. Condemned by Samhain if they don’t fix it.
Brilliant. Exactly the kind of notoriety she’d spent her entire life avoiding.
The door groaned like a dying man as Maude shoved it open.
Inside, the scent hit her immediately: lavender and sage locked in a death match with buttercream and yeast, the air thick enough to choke on.
The shelves sagged under their mismatched burdens, like even the wood knew it wasn’t built for this kind of nonsense.
She didn’t know why it still surprised her.
Every time she walked in, some stubborn corner of her brain seemed to expect order—as if the universe might have tidied itself up overnight out of pity.
Ridiculous. Nothing in here was getting fixed without her.
Still, she couldn’t quite believe it. Couldn’t quite accept that this catastrophe was hers now.
Her abomination.
Grim hopped down from her shoulder, tail lashing as he stalked across the fused counter, pausing to sniff a frosted cupcake that had sprouted beside her jar of powdered bone ash.
With a disdainful hiss, he leapt down and disappeared into the shadows. Sensible.
Wesley stepped in behind her, brushing dust from his sleeves. “Well,” he said mildly, “that went better than expected.”
Maude stalked behind the counter, snatched a blank sheet of parchment, and flattened it against the scarred wood. The quill jar rattled as she grabbed one, dipping it into ink with more force than necessary.
Wesley leaned against the counter, arms folded. “What are you doing?”
“Writing.”
“I can see that. Why?”
“Because it helps me think straight.” She scrawled the first words in her angular script: Terms of Truce.
“Truce?” His voice held a laugh.