He wouldn’t want her to give that up.
Maude and Wesley barreled out of Oli’s property and into the Wilds, where fences and gardens gave way to untamed green. Trees rose tall and dense, branches arching overhead like a cathedral. Pickles’s hooves pounded against the ground, sending sprays of dirt and leaves flying like shrapnel. Maude leaned forward as the wind clawed at her hair and whipped it across her freckled face.
Behind her, Wesley’s horse thundered close, each breath a hot snort at her heels. She risked a glance back. He was annoyingly composed—reins steady, posture clean—and smug as a portrait. Like he’d just waltzed out of some nobleman’s hunting scene.
She snorted. “Show-off.”
Maude dug her heels in. Pickles surged forward with a burst of speed.
That should’ve been the end of it. But Wesley let out a low laugh—half amusement, half dare—and urged his mount forward, the beast matching Pickles’s pace with insulting ease.
And just like that, it was war.
No declaration, no challenge—just two stubborn morons driving their horses faster, dirt flying, neither willing to yield.
The path blurred around them: moss-slick stones, skeletal branches arching overhead, the world spinning into a tunnel of speed and breath and pounding hooves. Her coat snapped back, her dress riding up past her thighs as the air tore at it.
She dared a glance. Wesley was right there, his horse’s stride eating the distance until they were neck and neck. He threw her a smirk—all infuriating teeth and golden-boy confidence—then his gaze flicked, brief but unmistakable, to her exposed thigh before darting back to the path.
Heat climbed her neck.
They tore across the last rise, neither of them giving ground until the first clearing opened before them, ringed by whispering pines. Only then did they slow, both horses lathered with sweat, steam rising in the cool air. Maude’s lungs burned, her curls plastered to her face, and still she straightened with as much dignity as she could muster.
Wesley was grinning like a lunatic.
“Congratulations. You beat a girl on a horse named Pickles. Truly a heroic victory.”
He snorted, wiping his brow with a sleeve. “Don’t be sore, Harrow. You almost had me.”
She scowled, though her pulse still thrummed from more than the ride.
At the top of the hill, Maude stopped, her mind running through her mental list. She’d need to refill her entire stock—an ambitious goal, but not impossible. Some ingredients would haveto wait: the ones that needed harvesting under a full moon or at specific times of the day. But most of what she needed to undo the spell should be within reach this afternoon.
She swung off Pickles and looped his reins around a sturdy oak. A quick pat to his flank earned her a snort, which she pretended was gratitude.
Wesley dismounted and tied his horse beside hers. “So,” he said, “what exactly are we hunting for?”
Maude dug into her satchel. “Ironvine. Blackthorn bark. Rosemary. Bloodroot. Yarrow. Moondust caps if we’re lucky. And—” she pulled out a small knife, the glint sharp as her tone, “—shadowbell flowers. The spell doesn’t break without them.”
“Shadowbell flowers,” Wesley repeated, nodding like he understood. “Got it. Let’s split up. I’ll look for the rosemary, yarrow, and moondust caps.”
Maude’s head snapped up. She stared at him, brow knitting. “You…know how to forage?”
Wesley tugged at his sleeves. “Don’t look so shocked. Just because I sell tarts doesn’t mean I don’t know what a yarrow root looks like.”
She kept staring, fingers locked tight on her bag strap. Foraging wasn’t exactly common anymore—most people just paid the apothecaries and made do with limp, overpriced herbs. That he knew how to find things himself was…unexpected. Impressive, even. Not that she’d ever admit that.
Her silence stretched too long. Wesley’s smirk faltered, his posture shifting. His fingers drummed once against his thigh, then stilled.
“What?”
Maude blinked. “Nothing. Just be quick—we’re losing light, and I’m not waiting while you figure out which end of a plant is which.” She turned away, but his gaze clung like a burr snagged on her sleeve.
Over an hour bled by as she combed through the Wilds, circling her usual foraging spots. The late September air bit coolagainst her skin, crisp enough to make her breath visible. Fallen leaves carpeted the ground in gold and crimson, disguising the herbs she hunted. She crouched low, gloved hands brushing through damp foliage, scanning for familiar shapes and textures.
Ironvine grew in abundance. She ducked near a shaded patch beneath a cluster of elder trees and brushed away leaves to reveal it. Its dark, twisting tendrils clung to the base of the tree like they were hanging on for dear life. Maude pulled a knife from her belt and carefully sliced a few lengths free, rolling them into a tight coil and stuffing them into her bag.
Farther into the forest, she came across a gnarled shrub of blackthorn, its thin, spiked branches jutting like warning signs. Maude pressed her knife to the bark, scraping it clean in careful strokes, mindful not to cut too deep and harm the plant.
