Chapter 7 #2
She shot him a lethal look. “You want your precious ovens back, don’t you?”
He spread his hands. “Lead the way, General.”
She bent over the parchment, scribbling furiously. “Number one: All potion brewing and spell casting is my jurisdiction. You don’t touch a cauldron, stir a vial, or so much as sneeze near the herb jars without permission.”
“Noted,” Wesley said. “And all ovens, mixers, and dough belong to me. You don’t stick a single witchy finger into my frosting.”
She arched a brow. “Fine. Two: Customers with magical ailments are directed to me. Customers with a sweet tooth to you. No poaching.”
He tapped a finger against the counter. “And what about customers who want both? Someone could, hypothetically, crave a lemon tart and a migraine cure.”
“They’ll get whichever is least likely to kill them.”
“So, me.”
Her quill dug into the parchment so hard that the nib nearly split.
“Three,” she bit out, “you clean up your own mess. Sprinkles, flour, sticky fingerprints—your problem. My shop doesn’t tolerate glitter.”
“Sprinkles aren’t glitter.”
“They’re weaponized sugar. Close enough.”
He snorted, leaning closer, the light catching in his hair. “You’re very particular, aren’t you?”
She ignored him, writing harder. “Four: Personal boundaries. You stay on your side, I stay on mine. If our paths cross, we make it quick, clean, and silent.”
“Silent?” His brows lifted. “What about necessary communication?”
She jabbed the quill in his direction. “Then keep it brief. I don’t need your constant chatter infecting my concentration.”
His lips twitched. “Noted. No chatter. Just smoldering glares.”
“Five—”
“How many of these are you planning?”
Her hand flew across the parchment, ink blotting at the edges: Five: No unauthorized tampering with experiments. Six: If the building collapses, you’re responsible for digging me out. Seven: If the building kills customers, you’re responsible for explaining it to the magistrates.
By the time the list was complete, the parchment was filled top to bottom with Maude’s cramped handwriting. She shoved it across the counter like a declaration of battle.
Wesley glanced at it, eyes skimming over her script. His mouth spread wider with each line. “‘If late to meetings, forfeits first claim on counter space.’ … ‘No humming while working.’ … ‘Absolutely no unauthorized smiling.’”
“That one’s non-negotiable.”
His chuckle rumbled low. “Saints, you really hate me, don’t you?”
Maude stiffened, quill poised above the inkwell. “Don’t flatter yourself. I hate everyone. You’re just…particularly offensive.”
“Particularly.” He nodded as if honored. “I’ll take it.”
She turned, grabbing a jar from the shelf just to give her hands something to do. But the words on the parchment glowed faintly in her periphery, a fragile order in the chaos. Her rules. Her control.
Wesley signed at the bottom with a flourish, his script annoyingly elegant. “All right,” he said, setting the quill down. “We have our truce. Now what?”
Maude exhaled slowly, staring at the grotesque cauldron-mixer hybrid across the room. “Now,” she said, voice flat, “we fix this. Before Samhain. Or we both go down together.”
His smile tilted, softer this time. “Guess I’d better get used to your charming company.”
Market Square was loud.
The kind of noise that made Maude want to hex her own ears shut just so she wouldn’t have to hear another vendor screeching about “fresh butter!” or “mystic charms guaranteed to attract true love!” It was late enough in the morning that the whole village had spilled into the square, and early enough that the dew hadn’t burned off the cobblestones yet.
Her boots slapped against them anyway, damp soaking into the leather, as she wound her way past stalls of candied nuts, steaming cider, and twinkling crystal lamps.
The whole place smelled like roasted chestnuts and too many perfumes fighting to be the loudest in her nose.
And none of it was what she needed.
Shadowbell.
It was the one thing she couldn’t fake, couldn’t replace, couldn’t substitute with clever runes or Bailey’s scribbled notes.
She stopped at a stall where a red-faced man sold jars of powdered roots and dried leaves. The labels were hand-scrawled, half-legible, and the kind of dubious that usually meant “exactly what you want if you don’t ask too many questions.” Maude leaned an elbow on the counter.
“Shadowbell,” she said flatly. “Do you have it?”
The man blinked at her as though she’d asked for unicorn marrow. “That’s a dangerous thing to say out loud.”
“It’s also a yes-or-no question.”
His face screwed up. “No.”
Ugh.
She pushed off the counter and stalked away, already irritated.
The next was a woman with a tray of dried mushrooms, all different shades of brown and black, the kind that made people believe they’d seen the future after chewing on them. Maude leaned down, voice low.
“Shadowbell.”
The woman barked a laugh. “Do I look suicidal to you? Try the grave robbers by the east wall. If anyone’s stupid enough, it’s them.”
Excellent.
The grave robbers—three men with missing teeth and the odor of people who lived closer to corpses than soap—looked at her like she’d grown horns when she asked.
“We sell bones, miss,” the tallest one said. “We don’t sell curses.”
“It’s a flower,” Maude snapped.
“Exactly.”
They shuffled her off with nervous glances, like her even speaking the word out loud might taint their stock.
By the time she’d burned through every contact, her mood had frayed to a brittle, snapping edge.
She’d gone through the obvious vendors, then the back-alley sellers, then the people who were technically “farmers” but definitely weren’t farming anything legal.
Each time, the same reaction: wide eyes, nervous laughter, sudden silence.
She was used to being looked at like she was dangerous, but today they looked at her like she was insane.
By midday, she leaned against the stone fountain in the center of the square, her coat heavy on her shoulders, her bag cutting into her side. The cold spray from the fountain misted her face, and she shut her eyes against it.
It wasn’t supposed to be this hard.
Still, she wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet.
She made her way to the farthest corner of the square, where the cobbles started to buckle and the market stalls thinned. The vendors here weren’t official. Most didn’t have permits. Some didn’t even have names, just reputations. And the woman Maude was looking at now? She had both.
Madam Quill.
Not her real name. No one knew her real name.
The “Madam” was sarcastic; the “Quill” came from the handful of porcupine spines always sticking out of her tangled bun like she’d fought one and lost. She sat behind a stall piled high with boxes, cloth bundles, and tiny locked chests, none labeled.
Her clothes were bright in a way that looked almost aggressive—orange skirts layered over purple ones, a shawl patterned with stars.
She had the smile of someone who’d steal your shoes and charge you for the privilege.
Maude squared her shoulders, stepped up, and didn’t bother with pleasantries. “I need shadowbell.”
Madam Quill’s grin widened, showing teeth too sharp for comfort. “Well, well. You’ve got gall, asking for that.”
“Do you have it?”
“Not today.” She wagged a finger, her bangles clinking together. “But I could put you on my list.”
“What kind of list?” Maude asked warily.
“The kind where you get what you want, eventually. Two weeks, maybe three.” Maude’s gut sank. Two weeks was two weeks too long. Still, she clenched her jaw. “What’s the price?”
Madam Quill leaned forward, eyes glittering. “For you, sweetheart? Costly. Dangerous flowers bring dangerous prices. Half now, half on delivery.”
Maude’s fingers tightened around her coin pouch.
It wasn’t heavy to begin with. She’d already spent most of her savings shoring up the shop, patching mistakes, and bribing inspectors.
All she had left clinked softly when she opened the pouch: a sad collection of coins that wouldn’t buy her a decent coat, let alone survival.
She dropped it on the counter anyway. “That’s everything. Consider it a down payment.”
Madam Quill swept it up with a hand quick as a crow’s beak. “Done.”
“It better be fresh.”
“Fresh as your fury, darling.”
Maude didn’t like the sound of that at all.
She turned on her heel before she could say something biting enough to raise the price further and stalked down the lane, coat snapping at her ankles, something prickling against her skin.
It wasn’t relief. Not even close.
It was worse than nothing—because now she’d pinned her hopes on someone else.
Someone with questionable ethics and a porcupine hairdo.
Her gut told her she’d regret it.
Her gut was usually right.