Chapter 20
Twenty
Fog hung low over Mistwood Hills, slow and hazed, the air thick with the char of woodfires and the copper bite of spent offerings burned on doorsteps.
Samhain always smelled like endings and beginnings tangled together—sweet rot from carved gourds left overnight, wax from guttering candles, the faint tang of mulled wine spilled sticky across the cobblestones.
Light pried through the crooked panes of Maude’s bedroom, catching the chalk of her runes and tugging their metallic scent into the air.
Her quilt had long since migrated to the floor.
So had she. Now she lay sprawled across the boards, cheek pressed into their ridges, hair a halo of strawberry-blonde curls fanned unevenly on the rug.
The floor and she were on speaking terms—it didn’t mind her company.
Selene knocked once and then didn’t bother with a second, because boundaries were for people without ward-defying key-shaped hairpins. She breezed in wearing a sweater the color of storm-light and carrying a basket that steamed in three distinct directions.
“Breakfast,” Selene sang, kicking the door shut with her heel. “And before you ask—no, I didn’t bring a lecture on joy. I brought carbs.”
Maude pushed up on her elbows. “Those are the same thing.”
Selene set the basket on the trunk at the foot of the bed and untied the twine.
Not just any twine—bakery twine. Pastel colors, all smug about it.
Inside: a garlic-salted croissant still warm enough to fog the lid, a savory hand pie that smelled like caramelized onions and thyme, a little jar of lemon curd with a ribbon (kill it with fire), and two paper cups of coffee, one marked with a tiny ink star.
Maude stared at the star until it felt like it was staring back.
Selene coughed into her fist in the world’s least innocent way. “I passed a place on my way here.”
“Oh? Which place would that be,” Maude said, “the one that knows I hate rosewater but will accept clove in small, weaponized doses, that a croissant without salt is a cry for help, and that I drink coffee like it owes me money?”
“Yes, that…very specific place.”
Maude plucked the star-marked cup like it might bite her. It didn’t. It breathed steam into her face that smelled like a better mood. She tried not to look pleased and failed a little.
“The Samhain festival starts basically now and goes all day and all night,” Selene went on, tipping the contents of the basket into gentle little stacks like a priestess arranging offerings. “You promised to do fun things and not work until your eyes bleed, remember.”
“I promised under duress.”
“Like all the best promises.”
Maude took a bite of the hand pie because she was a coward in only one way and it involved onion. The pastry shattered in perfect flakes and the thyme hit her tongue. She made a noise that was not a compliment and not not a compliment either.
Selene’s eyes sharpened, unfairly knowing. “Good?”
“It’s food.”
“Uh-huh.”
They ate at the foot of the bed like teenagers planning a curse.
Outside, Mistwood Hills stretched awake—bells testing their throats, distant laughter already leaking into the lanes.
The second loom thrummed somewhere under the cobbles, far away and close as skin, both—the way a cat who lives in your house also lives a little in your lungs.
Selene dusted nonexistent crumbs off her skirt. “Oli says to meet at the square at noon. We’ll wander, buy ridiculous things, you’ll insult vendors in a way that somehow makes them love you. Then dancing tonight. Speaking of—what are you going as?”
“Home.”
“No.”
“Fine.” Maude sipped coffee. It hit like salvation. “I’m going as something festive and true to the spirit of the season.”
Selene narrowed her eyes. “Define festive.”
“Alderman Veyne’s conscience.”
Selene choked so hard on a croissant flake that Maude had to thump her between the shoulder blades. “You cannot,” Selene wheezed, delighted and horrified.
“Why? It’s extremely rare. No one will have the same costume.” Maude sipped again, thinking. “I’ll make a sash that says VIOLATION, carry a ledger, and a brass stamp that reads DENIED. Maybe a little bell I can ring when people make bad choices.”
“Maude, that’s not a costume. That’s psychological warfare.”
“Potayto, potahto.”
Selene rifled through the garment bag she’d brought like she was possessed. “Okay, fine, if you’re going as Veyne’s non-existent soul, I’m going as the concept of informed consent.”
“Timely.”
Selene’s grin softened. “Also, you invited Wesley.”
“I mentioned there would be dancing.”
“You invited Wesley,” Selene singsonged, feral joy returning. “What’s he going as? Sunshine? Manners?”
“I told him costumes were not mandatory. He said he’d come as ‘better company.’” Maude twisted a ring she didn’t remember putting on.
Selene leaned in. “And what about you?”
“I said I’d go as myself. Terrifying enough.”
“And he said?”
“That I should at least warn people in advance.” Maude stared at the wall like it had personally offended her. “Rude.”
Selene made the kind of face people made when they were restraining themselves from squealing. “You like him.”
“I like my cat.”
“You don’t have a cat. Grim owns you.”
“Semantics.”
Selene glanced at the basket again, at the little star on the lid of the finished coffee. “So, he knows your order.”
Maude picked up the lemon curd and turned it so the ribbon faced the wall. “He knows I eat food, yes.”
“And that you like curd.”
“I like that it makes people pucker.”
“Sour on the outside, gold in the middle,” Selene murmured reverently. “Maude, distilled.”
They slipped into an easy rhythm that had, somehow, crawled back into Maude’s life: Selene combing out the fuzzed ends of her curls, fingers deft as she teased them into shape. She tucked sprigs of rosemary at her temple, murmuring something about adornment while Maude muttered about fortification.
“Corset,” Selene ordered, pulling the fitted bodice tighter than Maude would’ve dared on her own.
It cinched clean lines through her waist, lifted her chest just enough that Maude shot her a glare.
Selene only smirked and reached for the pot of rouge, pressing a red stain over Maude’s lips until her reflection looked like someone who knew how to flirt with murder.
Maude reached for the black skirt that swished like whispering when she moved and added a narrow leather belt for her pouches. Alderman Veyne’s “conscience” required props: a strip of cream linen she’d inked into a sash—VIOLATION—and a little steel stamp with a skull carved into the handle.
“You’re dangerous,” Maude said, half-impressed, half-accusing.
“I listen when you monologue,” Selene said smugly, tilting her head to admire her handiwork.
Maude slid the sash over her shoulder. The beams hummed, runes glowing faintly, approving.
Selene watched her with that look again—the one that said I see you, even when you try very hard not to be seen. “You look like yourself.”
“Tragic.”
Selene leaned a hip against the trunk. “And you look…not murderous about today. Which is new.”
Maude considered the floorboards. The lines cut by Bailey’s hand, the small shine of the old polish, the way the house settled around her like a cloak. “I’m tired,” she admitted. “There’s that. And there’s a festival, which is basically sanctioned chaos. My natural habitat.”
“And there’s Wesley.”
Maude didn’t look at her. “He’s…helpful.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And infuriating.”
“Keep going.”
“And—” she grimaced, then surrendered, “—not entirely awful to be near.”
“I am so happy I lived to see this day.”
Maude sighed, then stood, testing the fall of the skirt, the set of the sash.
She reached under the bed and dragged out a battered wooden box.
Inside: a ledger with crisp blank pages and a brass inking pad, both of which she set neatly into her satchel beside her vials.
“If anyone tries to touch the looms, I’ll cite them. ”
“For what? Crimes against peace and quiet?”
“For disorderly existence.”
Selene laughed, bright and ringing, then softened again. “We’ll make it a good day, okay? Eat stupid things. Win a rigged game. Put a hex on a pumpkin. Maybe kiss someone under lanterns.”
“I’ll kiss your forehead if you stop talking.”
“It’ll have to do,” Selene said. She scooped Grim—who had slunk in at some point to supervise breakfast—off the windowsill and deposited him in Maude’s arms for precisely three seconds of enforced affection.
Grim tolerated it like a monarch permitting taxes.
His nose was less pink now. It still glowed faintly in certain light.
Maude set him down, and he trotted to the bed, climbed onto her pillow, and began kneading like he was trying to pummel tenderness into the linen.
The room felt—dangerously, treacherously—good.
Selene gathered the detritus of the morning. “Oli says noon at the square, but I want to go out sooner. The charm-casters sell out of their best nonsense before midday.”
“And by ‘best nonsense’ you mean…?”
“Glow-thread for braids, nipple tassels that spin on their own, liar’s dice, and a teapot that screams when the water’s ready.”
Maude closed her eyes and laughed. “So…essentials, then. I was worried you’d say something impractical.” She checked her buckles before standing. “We’re meeting Oli at noon?”
“We are,” Selene agreed, and then, because she couldn’t resist, “And Wesley sooner?”
Maude opened the star-marked lid and took a long, long drink of coffee. “If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll arrive late and at a safe angle.”
Selene grinned. “I’ll leave you to brood. Don’t be late.” She disappeared down the hall.
Silence rolled back in, warm rather than harsh.
Maude looked at herself in the scratched mirror: black skirt, fitted bodice, the rosemary at her temple, the sash slashed across her like a dare.
She looked like a woman who had made choices and was going to keep making them even if the town’s favorite hobby was narrating her wrongdoings.
She picked up the lemon curd and tucked it into her satchel—because somehow he knew she loved it. Then she slid her ledger in beside it, pressed DENIED into a fresh page just to feel the satisfying thunk, and snorted despite herself.
Happy Samhain, Alderman. I brought your conscience.
The festival bells started in earnest outside, notes stacking like ladders into the sky. Maude squared her shoulders, checked the weight of her pocket vials, and headed out of the room—the house’s amber runes warming in her wake like the place was exhaling, There she is. Go start trouble.