Her pulse had spiked, irritation morphing into something volatile. She hadn’t thought twice about the words spilling from her lips. The spell had been small—enough to make his shoes root to the cobblestones, his mouth snapping shut mid-sentence. The shock on his face had been worth it. His polished confidence had cracked, and she hissed, “This is the worst ambush I’veeverseen. Do better.”
The man had sputtered, trying to move, but the spell held. Oliver had walked up right as she’d snapped her fingers, releasing him with a roll of her eyes and a pointed “Learn from this. You’re welcome.”
Oliver had laughed the entire way home. Maude hadn’t realized the man was trying to flirt with her.
She shot Oli a sidelong glance now as he tipped his head back, his mirth echoing down the dark lane. “Maybe if you went out with me more, you’d learn how to interact with people and eventually be able to get someone to toss your?—”
“Don’tfinish that sentence.”
His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed earnest. “I’m only trying to help. I know how lonely—and angry—you’ve been since Bailey died. I just wish you had someone to do the everyday shit with, you know?”
“Isn’t that why I have you?” Maude’s response was dry, her voice carrying a hint of sarcasm that didn’t quite mask the underlying truth.
Oli’s smile was quick. “You do. Always.”
She looked away, grasping for safer ground. “So, are you goingto flash your ridiculous riches with the usual over-the-top show on Samhain?”
Oliver, blessed with a fortune that made kings envious, merely chuckled. His family, after all, owned half of Mistwood Hills. Each year, they transformed the festival into a spectacle of bonfires, lavish decorations, and magical enchantments that lit up the night sky and the faces of the townspeople alike. It was a grand display, yes, but even Maude had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that there was a warmth to it, a generosity that went beyond mere showmanship.
Oli’s family didn’t just parade their wealth; they poured it back into the town. Crumbling shops and ancient homes were restored to their former glory, not to mention the charities that thrived under their patronage. It was hard to hold a grudge against the opulence when it was wielded with such care.
He watched her closely, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You know I can’t resist making a spectacle on the Day of the Dead. This year, I’ve got a particular shop in mind to highlight.” His eyebrows waggled suggestively.
“Absolutely not. The Emporium has managed perfectly well without your benevolence. Besides, Bailey would have despised it.”
“Yes, but Bailey isn’t here anymore to charm the customers with his affable nature,” he responded gently.
Her eyes narrowed, a dark glint of determination flaring up. “Whatever. It’s not like I need a bunch of glitter-obsessed optimists buying pumpkin spice potions, anyway. I’ll just find some new customers—ones who actually appreciate the dark, twisted charm of my shop.”
“So, what you’re saying is, theentiretyof Mistwood Hills is off the table? Might as well pack up and start pitching your potions overseas, Maude. It’s looking pretty grim around here.”
She rolled her eyes as they approached the Elixir Emporium, the familiar sign creaking slightly in the breeze. “I do have customers—real ones.”
He snorted. “Mrs. Haddingham is youroneregular, and she’s more of a decoration at this point.”
As if summoned, Mrs. Haddingham shuffled into view—black shawl, iron keys clinking at her hip, lace cap wilted and flat as ever. She stopped before the shop, her presence eerie as a graveyard fog.
“The woman is practically a part of the inventory, buying her daily thyme. Honestly, why doesn’t she just grow it herself?” Oli murmured, half-exasperated, half-amused.
“Shh, let’s not inspire self-sufficiency now.” She smoothed her skirt before turning. “Mrs. Haddingham.” Maude put on her bestI’m barely tolerating youface, offering a nod that was more obligatory than welcoming.
The old woman mirrored the gesture, her face as stoic and unreadable as a gargoyle’s.
Perfect.
No unnecessary pleasantries or painful small talk, just the mutual acknowledgment of existence before ten a.m.
If only Oli could grasp that concept.
Maude pushed open the door, its loud creak like a groan of protest, the bottom scraping against the uneven wooden floor—a reminder of yet another repair she’d put off. Inside, the air smelled of herbs and old spells. Her hand skimmed the doorway, pausing on the shallow grooves Bailey had carved there years ago.“Runes for protection,”he’d said. They still thrummed faintly under her fingertips, steady as a pulse. She touched them every time she entered, like muscle memory—half comfort, half punishment.
With a lazy wave of her hand, she conjured a dim glow, coaxing the candles and lanterns to life. The store flickered to a half-hearted warmth, like it was only participating out of obligation. She shuffled over to her worktable, dodging the clutter of her midnight brainstorm—or breakdown, depending on one’s perspective. Bottles half-closed, herbs strewn around—this was the mess of someone who’d given up mid-spell. It looked like apixie had thrown a tantrum. And honestly, she had been a split second away from one.
Tired and sad—yeah, she’d admit it, but only to herself and maybe a particularly nosy piece of furniture.
Maude let out a sigh that felt like it had been dredged up from her soul, surveying the mess that was a little too on the nose as a metaphor for her life right now.
She shrugged out of her coat and tossed it onto the nearest chair. Dark wool, practical and heavy with deep pockets—the kind made for stashing herbs, hex slips, and the occasional emergency dagger. Underneath, she wore a black knit sweater over a star-speckled skirt, boots clomping against the floorboards like punctuation.
