Wesley stepped in behind her, brushing dust from his sleeves. “Well,” he said mildly, “that went better than expected.”
Maude stalked behind the counter, snatched a blank sheet of parchment, and flattened it against the scarred wood. The quill jar rattled as she grabbed one, dipping it into ink with more force than necessary.
Wesley leaned against the counter, arms folded. “What are you doing?”
“Writing.”
“I can see that. Why?”
“Because it helps me think straight.” She scrawled the first words in her angular script:Terms of Truce.
“Truce?” His voice held a laugh.
She shot him a lethal look. “You want your precious ovens back, don’t you?”
He spread his hands. “Lead the way, General.”
She bent over the parchment, scribbling furiously. “Number one: All potion brewing and spell casting is my jurisdiction. You don’t touch a cauldron, stir a vial, or so much as sneeze near the herb jars without permission.”
“Noted,” Wesley said. “And all ovens, mixers, and doughbelong to me. You don’t stick a single witchy finger into my frosting.”
She arched a brow. “Fine. Two: Customers with magical ailments are directed to me. Customers with a sweet tooth to you. No poaching.”
He tapped a finger against the counter. “And what about customers who want both? Someone could, hypothetically, crave a lemon tartanda migraine cure.”
“They’ll get whichever is least likely to kill them.”
“So,me.”
Her quill dug into the parchment so hard that the nib nearly split.
“Three,” she bit out, “you clean up your own mess. Sprinkles, flour, sticky fingerprints—your problem. My shop doesn’t tolerate glitter.”
“Sprinkles aren’t glitter.”
“They’re weaponized sugar. Close enough.”
He snorted, leaning closer, the light catching in his hair. “You’re very particular, aren’t you?”
She ignored him, writing harder. “Four: Personal boundaries. You stay on your side, I stay on mine. If our paths cross, we make it quick, clean, and silent.”
“Silent?” His brows lifted. “What about necessary communication?”
She jabbed the quill in his direction. “Then keep it brief. I don’t need your constant chatter infecting my concentration.”
His lips twitched. “Noted. No chatter. Just smoldering glares.”
“Five—”
“How many of these are you planning?”
Her hand flew across the parchment, ink blotting at the edges:Five: No unauthorized tampering with experiments. Six: If the building collapses, you’re responsible for digging me out. Seven: If the building kills customers, you’re responsible for explaining it to the magistrates.
By the time the list was complete, the parchment was filled top to bottom with Maude’s cramped handwriting. She shoved it across the counter like a declaration of battle.
Wesley glanced at it, eyes skimming over her script. His mouth spread wider with each line. “‘If late to meetings, forfeits first claim on counter space.’ … ‘No humming while working.’ … ‘Absolutely no unauthorized smiling.’”
“That one’s non-negotiable.”
