Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
Market Square looked different now that Maude wasn’t bracing for pitchforks.
Lanterns from the festival still hung above, but instead of dripping molten glass, they only swayed in the morning breeze, faded streamers fluttering like shed skins.
The stalls glittered with sugared fruit and polished trinkets, vendors hawking the last of their autumn charms and spiced brews before the town turned its face toward the winter rites.
It happened every year—one final frenzy, a chance to wring the dregs of the harvest into coin before the holly and frost took over.
The air was thick with honeyed nuts, mulled wine gone sour at the rim, woodsmoke laced with pine. Merchants shouted their specials over one another like it was a blood sport. Children tore past shrieking, rolling dramatically across the cobbles in some invented game about demon hunters.
And at the center, beneath the wyvern fountain, the Weftmark ring glowed faintly—a reminder that things could break and still be held together.
People glanced at Maude as she passed. Not all friendly.
Not all kind. But no longer with that sharp suspicion.
They were…curious. Uneasy, yes, but no longer ready to shove her into the river.
It was, she thought, exactly the kind of scene that used to make her scowl until her jaw ached.
The kind that smelled too much like hope and humanity and all the things she’d once sworn didn’t fit her bones.
But today, she walked through it. Coffee in hand. Grim perched imperiously on her shoulder, tail curled around her neck like a furry necklace. And still—most shocking of all—Wesley at her side, matching her stride so easily it looked rehearsed.
He handed her a pastry, like he’d somehow known she wanted it. She pretended at innocence after snatching it out of his hand.
“Breakfast number two,” he said mildly.
“Your concern for my blood sugar is touching,” she replied around a bite.
Oli swept toward them in a coat that looked like it had devoured three others just to achieve maximum drama, a magistrate’s sash slung across his chest.
“My constituents!” he cried. “Rejoice, for I have graced you with my presence.”
A child immediately hurled a half-eaten roll at him.
Oli caught it midair and took a bite. “Delicious. See? Democracy works.”
“Saints help us,” Maude muttered.
“My favorite witch and her besotted baker,” he sang, sweeping into an extravagant bow. “And Grim, of course—our true ruler.”
“Bow lower,” Maude said without missing a beat. “Maybe you’ll reach your humility.”
Selene appeared behind him, hair mussed from the morning rush at the Lantern Ward, an armful of jars balanced precariously. “Don’t encourage him, Maude. He hasn’t stopped talking about his magistrate’s seat since sunrise. I had to pretend a patient was vomiting blood just to get him to leave.”
“I saw through it,” Oli said smugly.
Selene rolled her eyes.
“Next time, fake your own death,” Maude said, not looking up from her coffee. “More convincing.”
“Careful, witch,” Oli said, sweeping into their path. “You’re positively radiant this morning. A week in bed with a baker will do that, won’t it?”
Wesley choked on his coffee, but Maude didn’t miss a step. “At least mine delivers more than breadcrumbs.”
Oli clutched his chest like he’d been fatally wounded. “I’m under appreciated in this friend group,” he declared. “History will remember me as the glue.”
“Glue that never shuts up,” Maude muttered.
Wesley pinched her arm. “Rude.”
“Please,” Selene laughed. “The only thing worse than his monologues is his…wheezing.”
“Excuse me,” Oli said, “I am a delight.”
“You snore.”
“I purr.”
“You howl.”
Wesley cleared his throat, cheeks still faintly pink. “Can we not?”
“No,” all three of them said at once.
They wove together through the bustle, their odd little quartet slipping in and out of stalls.
Oli couldn’t walk ten steps without someone congratulating him on his “victory for progress,” which he accepted as if he’d just slain a dragon instead of bribed three aldermen with coin and flattery.
Selene bartered with every herb vendor they passed, muttering about Lydia Dross under her breath.
Grim leapt from Maude’s shoulder to Wesley’s arm and back again like a tiny, furry diplomat.
Maude pretended to be annoyed. Secretly, she loved it.
At the edge of the square, children were rehearsing the next festival’s play. A tiny girl in a witch’s hat swung a wooden sword nearly her own height and shouted, “Back, foul baker!” at a boy in a flour-streaked apron costume.
Wesley froze, staring. Maude nearly choked on her coffee.
Oli doubled over. “Oh, this is art. This is social commentary.”
“Shut up,” Wesley said without heat, but his ears went pink.
Selene leaned in, stage-whispering, “You should ask them for pointers.”
Maude smirked up at him. “Foul baker.”
His eyes cut to hers, dark and heady. He leaned close enough that only she could hear. “Say it again, and I’ll show you just how wicked I can be.”
Heat curled through her. She shoved another bite of pastry into her mouth before her face could give her away.
At one stall, they bought honeycomb wrapped in paper, the sweetness sticking to their fingers. At another, Selene insisted on candied apples and Oli purchased a bag of roasted nuts and scattered them in Grim’s path, declaring him “the god of crunch.”
Grim accepted the offering with regal disdain.
It was warm. It was ridiculous. It was the kind of day Maude had convinced herself she wasn’t allowed to have.
By noon, they collapsed on the fountain steps, stomachs heavy with food, cider steam curling through the air, the four of them piled together in an arrangement that made no sense and somehow worked.
Selene leaned against Oli, who insisted he didn’t mind her drooling on his sash.
Grim stretched luxuriously across Maude’s lap, tail twitching every time Wesley’s hand strayed close.
The square buzzed around them—music, laughter, the smell of frying dough. And for once, Maude didn’t feel like the dark cloud hovering above it all. She felt…part of it.
Wesley caught her watching him. Not just looking—studying, like she couldn’t stop. His mouth curved, that quiet smile that undid her every time.
She looked away fast. “Your hair’s stupid.”
“Thank you,” he said gravely.
“Don’t agree with me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Oli groaned. “Gods, you both are nauseating already.”
Selene smacked him with her apple stick. “Shut up. They’re cute.”
Maude flipped her hood up to hide the color in her cheeks. Wesley’s fingers brushed hers where their hands rested on the stone.
For a long moment, she let it sink in—Oli, smirking like he owned the entire village. Selene, laughing as she poked holes in his arrogance. Wesley, steadying the coffee in her hand before it tipped. Grim, grooming himself with indifference for the entire human race.
Her people. Somehow.
It wasn’t the picture she’d imagined. But it was the one she had. And, for once, she didn’t want to trade it.
Oli raised his cider in a mock toast. “To survival. To power. To scandal.”
“To not hexing you in public,” Maude said, raising her coffee.
“To Bailey,” Selene said softly, her eyes flicking toward Maude.
The name hit her chest like it always did—but it didn’t hollow her out this time. It filled her, steady as the loom’s hum beneath the cobbles.
“To Bailey,” Maude echoed. Her voice didn’t break.
Wesley’s hand found hers on the bench, warm and sure. She let him keep it.
The day rolled on—merchants shouting, Grim stealing, Oli preening, Selene teasing.
Normal. Alive.
When they finally rose to leave, the square was bathed in late light, lanterns glowing like constellations overhead. Wesley handed her a fresh cup of coffee, because of course he had thought ahead. Grim hopped back onto her shoulder like he owned the world.
They walked out of Market Square side by side, still bickering, still themselves. Only now, Maude was smiling.