Chapter 17 #2
Something in her chest gave a foolish little lurch at the certainty in his voice. She shoved a grape tomato into her mouth to cover it. “Family still there?”
“Mm.” He shifted the skewer in his hands.
“My little sister, Briony—sharp as a thorn, that one. She makes candles. Half of our house back home smelled like beeswax and lavender. And my father still runs a ferry across the Greywick inlet. Been doing it since before I was born.” His expression softened, distant.
“Do you miss them?”
“All the time. But I write, and I’ll visit in a few months once Sugar High is steady on its feet.”
A hot twist of guilt caught Maude under the ribs. She scratched her cheek, eyes darting away. “Yeah. Sorry about…y’know. The whole ruining-your-shop thing.”
Wesley chuckled, low and warm. “It’s fine. Honestly, it was a lot of fun. Met more people in those weeks than I would’ve in months otherwise.” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming as they caught hers. “Some more interesting than others.”
Her stomach went traitorously tight. She bit off another piece of meat to give herself something to do instead of reply.
After a moment, he nudged her knee lightly with his. “What about you? What do you do when you’re not out being a naughty witch?”
She snorted. “Naughty?”
“Sabotaging bakeries, building illegal looms—”
“Illegal-ish.”
“—definitely counts.”
She rolled her eyes. “I garden.”
“You garden.”
“Specifically poisonous things.”
“Of course you do.”
“I also paint. Badly. Mostly skulls.” She ticked off another finger. “And taxidermy.”
He nearly choked. “You—taxidermy?”
“Don’t look at me like that. It’s a hobby. Better than knitting.”
“I don’t know,” he said, amusement edging his words. “I think I’d like to knit.”
The image of Wesley, flour-dusted and ridiculous, holding knitting needles almost made her snort. “I think you’d stab yourself before you managed a square.”
“I’m a fast learner.”
“I’ll believe that when you’re not singeing your eyebrows off with sugar fires.”
He snorted, but let the jab pass.
When the last bite was gone, Maude carried a new kind of weight. Full, her limbs loose and heavy, her head a little light—but it wasn’t exhaustion. It was something warmer, softer, curling through her.
They bought spiced apple cider from the next stall—hot, frothing, laced with cinnamon bark and charred orange.
The cups steamed between their palms as they walked the wharf in comfortable silence.
Somewhere down the quay, a musician plucked a fiddle, notes skating thin over the lapping tide.
Maude blew across the cider, the steam curling into her hair.
She took a sip—too hot, scalding her tongue—and muttered a curse into the rim of the cup. Wesley chuckled under his breath.
She wasn’t used to silence being easy. Usually it pressed against her ribs, the kind of quiet that screamed you’re alone, you’ll always be alone. Tonight it pressed placidly instead, like a shawl draped over her shoulders without asking. Exasperatingly gentle.
By the time they reached her cottage door, she felt suddenly self-conscious.
Too full. Too warm. Too…light. The cider sat in her belly like a coal, glowing.
Wesley’s steady presence at her side only made it worse.
Was this what happy felt like? It had been so long, she’d almost forgotten the shape of it.
The words burst out before she could stop them, like steam from a cracked kettle.
“I don’t know if I can do this without Bailey.”
Silence. Then Wesley’s head tilted, the shadows shifting across his face.
“You can. You already are,” he said simply.
“You’ve been carrying more than you think, longer than you realize—and you haven’t broken yet.
” He leaned closer. “I’m no wizard, but I’m a damn good ally.
Next time you need help, ask. I’m only ever a couple of steps across the street. ”
Her back pressed against the door, cool wood grounding her as her breath caught. Something trembled under her ribs, harsh as grief, soft as relief. The part of her that always snapped back with barbs—sarcasm as armor, cruelty as cover—went mute.
“Thanks,” she muttered.
His answering smile was soft, so unguarded it almost hurt to look at. Then he held out the parcel he’d been carrying—his extra skewer wrapped in parchment.
“Take it. You’ve been eyeing it the entire walk home.”
Heat flared across her face. Caught. “I wasn’t—”
“Maude.”
Her name on his lips landed like a touch. She snatched the bundle from his hand, scowling, but the scowl cracked and—traitorous, unstoppable—she laughed.
The sound startled her first. Startled him, too. He looked at her as if the world had just been rewoven before his eyes, as if he had waited lifetimes for that single thread of joy.
Slowly, as if testing the air, his hand rose. Fingers brushed a curl from her cheek, the warmth of him lingering, seeping further than she dared allow. His face tilted close, the river wind weaving his hair into hers, binding them in a breath’s span of silence.
Her pulse answered in thunder, a storm breaking in her chest.
And then Grim, promptly as ever, dropped squarely onto her shoulder from a window above.
Wesley startled, cider sloshing down his coat. “Shit!” he barked, jerking back.
Maude froze. Then— “Right. Bye.”
She fumbled for the door handle and slammed it shut before she could see what expression he wore. Inside, her chest heaved, the cider still burning her throat. She pressed her forehead to the wood, eyes shut tight.
Grim purred, vibrating smug satisfaction into her collarbone.
“You little saboteur.”