One
Maude Harrow hated most things, but above all, shedetestedthe perpetually cheerful.
It wasn’t just that it was annoying; it felt incredibly insincere. What were people so happy about anyway? Hadn’t they ever heard of existential dread?
The early sun filtered through the tree canopy overhead, catching her burnished honey locks and setting them ablaze with light—a beacon she felt only drew more attention.She tugged her hood further over her face, her eyes narrowing to slits as yet another grinning idiot bounced past her on the street.
Unfortunately, every morning, Maude’s path to work forced her through the vibrant chaos of Market Square—the beating heart of Mistwood Hills, though Maude thought it more of an ulcer. Dodging people wasn’t an option, not with the place swarming like a beehive.
The village of Mistwood echoed with the unwanted sounds of morning greetings and cheerful banter, vendors shouting prices for frost-glazed pears and crystal-bright lanterns. An apprentice witch shouted about spell-steeped tea that “banished hangovers” as a copper pipe hissed overhead and a kettle cart belchedfragrant steam.
This daily parade of enthusiasm was the worst part of her morning. How anyone could maintain such incessant cheer in a world where coffee sometimes ran out and people insisted on talking before ten a.m. was beyond her. Every overly bright“Good morning!”felt like a personal challenge to her commitment to realism—or, as her overly optimistic neighbor, Oliver Hale, liked to call it,pessimism.
But really, if expecting the worst and taking grim satisfaction in being right made her a pessimist, then so be it.
Maude continued her march down the street toward her workplace, the comfort of her dark, quiet apothecary awaiting her on Blightbend Way. At twenty-two, most people were chasing apprenticeships or slipping into marriages arranged by parents with too much time and coin. Maude, of course, had instead inherited a crumbling business and a permanent scowl.
Her shop,The Elixir Emporium, nestled snugly between an ominously quiet bookstore that sold ancient grimoires and a dimly lit curiosities shop, where jars of pickled dragon toes and phoenix feathers lined the dusty shelves.
She had a soft spot for the crooked street. Blightbend was the underbelly of Mistwood Hills, the shadowy counterpart to the sunnier streets elsewhere. If Market Square was a cheerful smile, Blightbend Way was the sly grin of someone with secrets.
While the rest of Mistwood Hills basked in quaint, postcard-perfect charm with its bustling marts and neatly trimmed hedges, Blightbend Way embraced the darkness. It was a part of town that most people avoided after dark, which made it the best part, in her opinion. It was a place where one could revel in their brooding solitude or explore the darker sides of magic without judgmental stares. The lane embraced her—the chill in the air, the whispers around corners, the sense that anything could be bought or sold for the right price.
Here, smiles were rare and meaningful, and everyone understood the value of a good sneer.
And to Maude, it was perfect.
She sensed him before he spoke, the familiar, annoyingly comfortable energy that meant one thing: Oli was near.
“Coffee,” was all he said, his grin cat-like as he fell into step beside her, thrusting a steaming cup into her hands. His green velvet coat swirled dramatically with the movement, the gold stitching at the cuffs probably more costly than Maude’s entire rent. He called it flair; she called itasking to be mugged.
“You are my favorite today,” she admitted begrudgingly, the warmth from the cup seeping into her stiff fingers.
His pout was immediate. “Not every day?”
Maude took a sip to hide a reluctant smile. “Don’t get greedy, Oli.”
“I thought being greedy was part of the charm you fell for,” he quipped, a playful glint in his eyes. His hair, a dark mess of tousled waves, fell carelessly over his forehead, giving him a look of casual disarray that somehow only enhanced his allure. Even now, as he matched Maude’s pace, there was an effortless charm about him, the kind that drew people in and made them want to stay.
“No, it was definitely your dubious morals that solidified our friendship.”
Oli snorted, leaned in closer, and kissed the top of her head. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
When they left the square behind, Oliver linked arms with her and steered them onto the shadowy stretch of Blightbend Way. “So,” he began, his tone too casual to be trusted, “are we ever going to talk about what happened the other night?”
Maude sighed; her gaze fixed ahead as if ignoring him might make the conversation vanish.
It didn’t.
“Why are you so insistent that I relive that painful moment?”
“Because it washilarious?”
The memory surfaced before she could shove it back down.
The market had been too loud, too crowded, the kind of place that frayed her nerves on the best of days. She’d been trying to find the rare herb Oliver wanted—moonleaf, orsomething equallypointless and overpriced—when the man appeared. Handsome in a way that felt deliberate, like he’d been practicing his smolder in reflective surfaces. She hadn’t even registered him until he was in her space, leaning close, his voice dripping with charm as he tried to catch her attention.
She’d taken one step back. Then another. He hadn’t taken the hint.
