Chapter 9
Nine
The cold had finally arrived. It wasn’t the soft kind that nipped playfully, but the sort that clawed at skin and tried to bore into bone.
Maude had stitched extra warming charms into her coat that morning, just to make it from her door to Market Square without turning into a freckled icicle. They worked well enough, humming faintly against the seams as she tugged the collar higher, breath misting in the air.
Strange, though. People were looking at her.
Not in the usual way—like she carried a sickness everyone feared catching—but directly.
A butcher gave her a nod as she passed. A young couple, arms tangled together, offered tentative smiles.
One woman even lifted a hand as if to wave, then thought better of it and pretended to adjust her shawl.
The “Haunted Bakery” had changed something. The whole cursed, ridiculous abomination that had once been her private humiliation was suddenly…theirs. A story the whole town had claimed ownership of.
It was unsettling. They’d always loved Bailey. Always. She’d just been the quiet accessory trailing behind him—the grumpy punctuation to his practiced smile. A man could brood and be called thoughtful; a woman did it and became unlovable.
The town had tolerated her out of affection for him, not for anything she’d done. And when he was gone, she’d assumed whatever tiny margin of grace she’d inherited went with him.
It had never mattered what they thought. Not really. She had her shop, her friends, her cat. Enough. But now, as a few people nodded her way, her throat tightened against the unfamiliar weight in her chest. Strange. That’s all it was. Strange.
“Excuse me!” A woman’s voice cut through the square, bright and a little frantic.
Maude turned, already regretting it, but the woman—harried hair, smudges under her eyes, and three toddlers clinging to her skirts like leeches—looked desperate. The kids babbled nonsense words, their hands tugging at her dress, one of them waving a wooden spoon like it was a sword.
Maude exhaled slowly, then followed her inside. The house smelled of milk and exhaustion. The toddlers immediately circled her like small, chaos-wielding familiars, speaking in their own language of shrieks and squeaks. She startled herself by…smiling. Just a little.
The mother wrung her hands. “It’s the hearth. The fire won’t hold.”
“Of course it won’t,” Maude muttered, brushing past. The runes carved into the fireplace were shoddy at best—done by some hack who thought chalk was an acceptable substitute for ash.
She pulled a small vial from her coat, flicked a sprinkle of yarrow ash across the carvings, and whispered the proper words. The flames leapt obediently to life, steady and warm.
The mother sagged with relief, murmuring thanks. Maude waved it off. “No charge. Just…keep them from licking the walls or whatever.”
The toddlers giggled so hard their little shoulders shook, eyes shining like she’d just revealed their grand scheme.
Back into the chill, her boots slowed when she spotted him. Wesley. Striding down the lane like the cold bent around him, hair mussed like he’d been up since before dawn baking, steam still curling faintly off him.
Maude’s stomach did something unpleasant—flipped, then settled in the wrong place.
Last night flickered back into her mind.
The rhythm of it, the folding, the way her magic had held steady for once when it ran through his careful process.
It hadn’t blown up, hadn’t warped into ruin, hadn’t turned the entire counter into licorice rope.
It had…worked.
Some kind of truce had slipped between them without her permission, unsteady and unsigned, but binding all the same. She felt weird about it. And yet…
Her fingers tightened on her coat strap. She forced her gaze away before she stared too long. Idiot or not, he wasn’t terrible to look at. Not that she’d ever admit it out loud.
“Morning,” he called, as if the word didn’t taste like gravel. In his hands, two steaming cups. When he reached her, he held one out—ceramic glazed dark, a small star etched near the rim. “Peace offering?”
She eyed it like he’d just handed her a snake.
Wesley smirked. “Don’t worry, if anyone here should be afraid of being poisoned, it’s me. I wouldn’t even know where to start with you.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. She lifted the cup, sniffed. The scent hit like a punch—warm cinnamon, nutmeg, a whisper of clove. Autumn in a cup.
She took a cautious sip. The flavor bloomed rich and deep, comfort layered on comfort, and for one fleeting moment she let herself close her eyes.
“Good?” he asked.
She grunted.
“Was that a thank you?”
Maude ignored him, focusing on the path ahead.
They fell into step together, their strides mismatched but oddly companionable.
It didn’t last.
The moment she turned onto Blightbend Way, her stomach dropped. The shop still pulsed with the faint glow of her containment spell—flickering, fragile, but holding. Yet the curse kept crawling outward, creeping down the street like ivy gone feral. Slow, yes, but undeniable.
And next in line was the floral shop.
Lydia Dross, the owner, was already outside, broom in hand as if she might sweep the rot away by sheer force of will. Her shrill voice cut through the street the second she saw Maude.
“This is unacceptable!” Lydia snapped, jabbing her broom. “You’ve ruined my begonias! My begonias! And if this…this nonsense touches a single petal of my orchids, I’ll have the magistrates fine you into the ground.”
Maude pinched the bridge of her nose. Of course Lydia Dross would be the one to make this worse. The woman had built her reputation on overpriced peonies and tactical customer complaints.
Beside her, Wesley gave a low whistle. “She’s…spirited.”
Maude shot him a glare. Spirited was not the word. Lydia Dross was a banshee with a license to sell daisies. And if Maude didn’t do something soon, Lydia’s shrieking would be the least of her problems.
Her mind turned fast, calculating. They didn’t have time to test another patchwork spell. Waiting for Madam Quill to bring in shadowbell was laughable. No, this was outpacing them already. If she wanted to save her shop, her street, maybe even the entire block, she’d have to go to the source.
The Duskmire Peaks.
Maude sighed, the decision solidifying like iron in her chest. Dangerous. Far. Exactly the kind of thing Bailey had once warned her against attempting alone. But Bailey wasn’t here, and she wasn’t alone, was she?
She turned to Wesley, who was still sipping his coffee as if none of this was catastrophic. “We don’t have time for tinkering.”
His brow furrowed. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” she said flatly, “we’re going after shadowbell. Today.”
Lists.
Maude trusted lists more than she trusted people.
So, naturally, Wesley got one.
It was scrawled in her quick, angular handwriting, folded twice, and shoved unceremoniously into his palm before he could argue. “You’ll need all of this. Don’t improvise.”
He unfolded it and read aloud with mock solemnity. “‘One: rope. Two: salt. Three: dried meat. Four: boots that won’t fall apart at the first patch of mud. Five: more rope. And six: don’t be an idiot.’”
“It says water flasks before that,” she muttered as she searched for her gathering bag.
“Oh, it’s there,” Wesley said, grinning. “Just written in such tiny letters I nearly missed it. But don’t worry, your little ‘don’t be an idiot’ note is bolded and underlined. Priorities.”
“Exactly.” She ducked behind the counter for her bag, fussing with the buckles. “Saints know, someone has to keep that face humble.”
For once, his grin faltered—then came back twice as bright.“Careful there, Harrow. Keep talking to me like that and I’ll have no choice but to fall for you.”
Mischief flickered through his expression, a spark she’d come to recognize as trouble. Maude plucked a quill from the counter and pressed it into his chest.
“Start making your own packing list.”
The shop’s shelves clattered as she moved briskly through them, pulling jars and bundles down.
Dried nightshade for warding, bloodroot for protection, powdered iron to throw down in case the Wilds grew teeth.
A small vial of Bailey’s old fire-starting tincture went into her satchel, tucked beside her rune stones.
Another flask—this one filled with a potion for warding off frostbite—was stoppered tight and slipped into her coat pocket.
The space was chaos, as always, but it was her chaos, and every object had its place.
Her hand lingered on the jar of shadowbell seeds Bailey had once harvested himself.
Seeds wouldn’t help; they needed the flower in bloom.
Still, she brushed her thumb across the glass, then shoved it back into place before her chest tightened too much.
“Closed,” she murmured, flicking her hand at the hanging sign on the door. The letters shimmered, shifting from OPEN to a more pointed CLOSED. IF YOU TOUCH THE DOOR, I CURSE YOUR PETUNIAS.
Satisfied enough with the decision, Maude scrawled a quick note on a scrap of parchment.
Cancel my order. Keep the coin. I don’t care.
She folded it once, sealed it with wax that smelled faintly of rosemary, and slipped it under Grim’s collar.
He gave her a withering look, but she scratched between his ears anyway.
“Drop it at Madam Quill’s stall, then come back.
Don’t let her talk you into anything. And if she tries to pet you, bite her. ”
Grim blinked, unimpressed, and padded off toward the window, clearly weighing whether her request was worth the effort.