And when it did, they’d all remember. They’d mutter about it for decades.Remember Maude Harrow? Turned the square into a candy graveyard. Really brightened the place up. Until it killed us all.
She scowled up at the sky. “Yeah, no. Not giving them that story.”
Grim sniffed like he didn’t believe her for a second.
Seven
Sleep had been a mercy Maude didn’t deserve. The containment dome still shimmered faintly in her mind’s eye, even when she shut her lids tight and buried her face in Grim’s fur. He had purred like nothing had happened, like his ears hadn’t glowed neon pink hours before, like the world wasn’t two bad spells away from collapsing into either a rotting mausoleum or a bakery from hell.
Cats.
Unbothered, immortal,smuglittle gods who looked at you like your breakdowns were merely background noise.
But Maude wasn’t a cat. She didn’t get to stretch, yawn, and move on. No—her failures followed her into sleep, curled up at the base of her ribs, heavy as stone.
She woke with a headache, of course. A splitting one. Bailey would’ve called it poetic justice.
The ceiling beams blurred above her until she blinked them into focus, every rune Bailey had carved staring down like they were judging her life choices. Which,fair.
Dragging herself upright felt like swimming through mud. Every muscle ached, but her wrist—the one she’d finally given in and treated exactly as Wesley had suggested—burned with thatprickly, half-healed sting. The comfrey poultice was already doing its work, the spell threaded through it settling into her skin with a dull throb. Annoyingly, it should feel better in a few hours. Infuriatingly, he’d been right.
Maude muttered a curse at the universe on principle before shoving herself to her feet.
She bathed, the water already tepid and biting at her cut wrist, a petty punishment she probably deserved. When she finally dragged herself out, she dressed in something that matched her mood: a black wool skirt, a gray blouse with cuffs sharp enough to cut, and a belt that could double as a weapon if she felt inspired.
The cat yawned, unimpressed.
Maude pulled on her boots, the leather creaking, and pinned her curls back with more irritation than care. She caught her reflection again in the mirror—the strawberry-blonde that refused to stay tamed, freckles standing out even harsher against her pale skin after the bath.
Twenty-two and already done with humanity.
She flipped the mirror off and shrugged into her heavy coat, its deep pockets clinking with vials. She cinched the belt tight—like maybe it could hold her together too.
The air slapped her cheeks the moment she opened the door, cool and biting, the kind of cold that crept into bone if you let it. She pulled her hood low and started down the lane.
Grim came with her, of course—launching onto her shoulder like a demon familiar who’d lost a bet and been forced into house-cat form. Maude kept her injured arm tucked close, every jolt a reminder of her spectacular failure.
The streets smelled of frost-glazed pears and woodsmoke, sweet and acrid all at once. The market had already shaken itself awake, merchants hollering prices, neighbors chirping greetings. She let it all slide past, eyes fixed straight ahead, Grim thumping his tail against her back like a metronome mocking her solemn stride.
But the further she pushed into town, the thinner the cheergrew. Laughter gave way to murmurs. Smiles shrank into whispers. By the time Blightbend’s crooked archway came into view, the sound had curdled into something worse.
A crowd.
Of course.
A knot of townsfolk clustered outside her shop—the abomination, as she’d started calling it in her head. Her stomach sank.
The containment spell still glimmered faintly, but it wasn’t enough to hide the wrongness—to hide the creeping curse that slithered down the street. People gawked openly, whispering behind gloved hands, some with expressions of horrified fascination, others with the gleam of opportunity in their eyes.
A baker’s dozen children pressed sticky palms to the glass, squealing about cupcakes that shimmered faintly on the shelves. Behind them, a woman crossed herself as if she were warding off spirits. A man muttered loudly enough for Maude to hear: “Told you she’d snap one day. Bailey kept her steady. Without him, well…”
Her jaw clenched.
Grim hissed, tail puffing as if he’d understood the insult.
And then, of course, there washim.
Wesley Rivers, in all his golden-haired, disgustingly approachable glory, already working the crowd. He leaned casually against the shopfront, smiling. “Good morning!” he called, handing out what looked like cinnamon twists wrapped in parchment. “Yes, yes, free samples—still perfectly edible. No curses included,I promise.”
