“I’ll need whole wheat flour, almond meal, caster sugar, unsalted butter, heavy cream, fresh vanilla pods, cocoa powder, baking chocolate—good stuff, not that waxy crap—yeast, sourdough starter…” Wesley paused, glancing at Oli’s raised brow. “What? Artisan baking isn’t exactly low-maintenance.”
“And the baked goods?” Oli asked, grinning like he was ready to eat half the list on the spot.
“Lemon curd tarts, almond croissants, sourdough boules,chocolate ganache eclairs…maybe some rosemary focaccia if there’s time.”
Maude half-listened as she unloaded the foraged ingredients onto the oversized island in Oli’s absurdly pristine kitchen. Ironvine, bloodroot, blackthorn bark—all lined up in neat little rows, her hands moving on autopilot. Every piece of the spell was here. Every piece but one. Shadowbell. Always elusive. Always late-season fickle. If she wanted it, she’d have to climb into the mountains.
Her gaze snagged on the window, twilight spilling across the fields. Her fingers twitched restlessly. The Duskmire Peaks weren’t exactly close, and shadowbell wasn’t the kind of thing she’d usually settle for buying. It had to be fresh, and no vendor in town would touch it—too finicky, too much trouble to stock. Besides, the Peaks carried their own warnings: hunters who never came back, voices echoing in the stone that didn’t belong to anyone living. People didn’t wander there unless desperation drove them.
With a sigh, Maude categorized the day’s findings, neatly sorting and tucking them back into her pack. Her wrist throbbed under the half-assed wrap she’d tied. The rosemary tincture she’d slapped on earlier was doing exactly nothing, and the blood had soaked through again, streaking down her palm. She flexed her hand once, hissed, and decided she’d pushed it long enough.
“I need to get back,” she said, tightening the strap on her pack. “Fix my arm. Check on Grim. Wish I could stay.”
Oli paused mid-conversation, glancing at her. “Need help?”
Maude snorted. “Please. Stick to pastries.”
“Hey,” Oli said, hand to his chest. “I’d be excellent moral support.”
That earned him a ghost of a smile. She couldn’t help it. The last time Oli had offered “moral support,” he’d ended up sprawled on the floor himself, white as milk, after watching her stitch up a split knuckle. He’d muttered something about “sympathy pain” while she’d finished the job one-handed and called him pathetic until he finally staggered back upright.
Not exactly the résumé of a battlefield medic.
She shook her head, the corner of her mouth still twitching. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll call you next time I need someone to pass out dramatically and make the situation all about them.”
Oli laughed and strolled over, dropping a kiss on the crown of her head. “There’s my Maudie girl. Where have you been all my life?”
She slouched in exaggerated sulk-mode, arms folded.
“None of that,” Oli scolded, bopping her on the head.
It startled a laugh out of her—quick, unwilling—and she shoved him back with both hands. When she glanced up, Wesley was watching, his expression unreadable.
Oli turned to him with all the theatrical flourish of a man stepping onto a stage. “Wesley…” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Have you ever seen a copper-clad, temperature-controlled proving cabinet imported from Avenshire?”
Wesley’s eyes lit up. “No. Never. You have one?”
“Oh, Ido. Come on, I’ll show you.”
Before Maude could ask when he had purchased a proving cabinet, Oli wagged a finger at her. “See you later—and don’t forget to check in every hour with the scry-stone. If I don’t hear from you in the twenty minutes it takes to get to the shop, I’m going to assume you’re dead and send out the brigade.”
Wesley shot her a sidelong look, brows lifted in silent commentary.
She ignored him. “You don’t have a brigade.”
“Details,” Oli said breezily, already walking away. He flapped a hand over his shoulder. “Love you, bye.”
Wesley stuttered, opened his mouth, then shut it again before turning and stalking after him.
The last smear of daylight bled into the horizon by the time Blightbend Way curled into view. The street was drowning in dusk—muted gold dripping into gray, lanterns humming faintly with starlight.
Normally, she’d have welcomed it. Shadows suited her.
But tonight, something was…off.
Halfway to her shop, she stopped dead. Her eyes snagged on the patch of green a few feet ahead, and her brain immediately began filing complaints.
The grass looked wrong. Too perfect. Too glossy. Suspicion prickled down her spine. Maude crouched, pushing her sleeve up with a muttered curse, and brushed her fingers over the blades.
