And to make matters worse, behind her, Wesley hummed. Some nameless little tune, probably one of those tavern songs. She ground her teeth, ignored him, and moved on to Bailey’s potion. Forcing back panic, she began carefully deconstructing its properties, mapping how they might have interacted with the shadowbell.
The shadowbell, she discovered, functioned as a catalyst—amplifying and blending the magical frequencies of her hex with Bailey’s lingering intent. Even after she introduced stabilizers—dried ironwood bark and a few drops of binding solvent—the merged energies refused to hold, lurching unpredictably whenever she applied counter-magic.
Finally, she resorted to a neutralizing charm, meticulously layering opposing elements: iron shavings for warding, ground yarrow root for purification, and distilled moonlight to weaken the binding threads. Yet, instead of dissipating, the spell seemed to adapt, spreading its influence further into the shop with each attempt, as if it were feeding on her efforts.
Maude’s grip on the stirrer tightened as she peered into the cauldron. The liquid churned in unnatural patterns, its surface rippling—a clear sign of a spell caught in self-perpetuating stasis. The logic of it infuriated her. A spell, even a hybrid one, shouldn’t be this impervious to countermeasures.
The walls bore faint traces of enchanted residue—magic actively reinforcing itself. Worst of all, her ingredients were now nearly all compromised. Herbs that should smell earthy and bitter reeked faintly of buttercream.
Her chest tightened as she gripped the stirrer harder, her eyes burning with frustration. Finally, she snapped, slamming it down on the counter with a loud crack.
“Fuck!” Maude screamed, her voice echoing through the warped shop as her chest heaved.
Movement outside caught her eye, and she glanced up to find Wesley standing by the window.
“There’s more of them,” he said, his voice caught between amusement and alarm as he gestured to the street.
Maude shoved the sweat-soaked hair off her forehead. “Well, shoo them away again!”
“Itried,” Wesley shot back, throwing up his hands. “Apparently, telling people to leave just makes them more curious.”
She growled, rubbing her eyes. “That’s it. I can’t work here anymore.”
Without a second thought, she waved her hand over the cauldron-mixer, banishing hours of effort with a flick. She stomped into the back room, shoving aside a dried frog leg inexplicably coated in fondant as she snatched up her gathering bag and headed for the back door.
“Where are you going?” Wesley’s voice called from behind her.
She didn’t bother slowing down. “Out, obviously.”
“You can’t just leave my store like this!” he said, catching up to her as she reached for the door handle. “I have hours of prep to do! There’s a catered party tomorrow night that I need to?—”
Maude snorted, turning to glare at him. “Yeah, that’s not happening.” She gestured wildly at the shop. “Look around, bakery bastard. Unless you’re planning to serve cursed croissants, you’re out of luck.”
She shoved the door open, but Wesley stepped in front of her, blocking her path.
“Get out of my way.”
He took a step back, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “What is wrong with you?Youdid this. And instead of owning it, you’ve been acting like it’smyfault. Promises to fix it have gone nowhere, and it’s obvious nothing’s working. I need this resolved, or?—”
“Or what, Wesley?” Maude cut in, her voice dripping with venom as she stepped closer. “You’ll cry? Post an angry little note in your window about how the big bad witch ruined your perfect frosting factory?”
Wesley’s mouth opened, then closed, his expression torn between outrage and incredulity.
Maude smirked, pushing past him with a dramatic flick of her hair. “Thought so,” she said, letting the door slam shut behind her.
Maude was halfway to Oliver’s stables when the sound of footsteps behind her broke through the quiet. The night air clung damp and cool, carrying the sour tang of hay and horse musk.Lanterns swung lazily from posts along the fence line, their glow carving crooked shadows across the path.
Her heart spiked, a cold twinge of irritation shooting through her chest. She didn’t need to look back; she already knew who it was. Grinding her teeth, she quickened her pace, the rhythmic crunch of her boots against the gravel matching her rising frustration.
The footsteps followed, closing the distance.
Reaching the gate at the edge of Oli’s property—a broad, wrought-iron thing with decorative scrollwork and a gleaming brass latch—Maude didn’t hesitate. She spun, gripped the cold metal with both hands, and shoved it shut with a loud crack—just as Wesley’s face appeared on the other side.
The gate slammed into him with a satisfying thud. He stumbled back, clutching his nose.
“Really?” he bit out, glaring over the top.
“This is private property.” Maude crossed her arms.
