She was used to being looked at like she was dangerous, but today they looked at her like she was insane.
By midday, she leaned against the stone fountain in the center of the square, her coat heavy on her shoulders, her bag cutting into her side. The cold spray from the fountain misted her face, and she shut her eyes against it.
It wasn’t supposed to be this hard.
Still, she wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet.
She made her way to the farthest corner of the square, where the cobbles started to buckle and the market stalls thinned. The vendors here weren’t official. Most didn’t have permits. Some didn’t even have names, just reputations. And the woman Maude was looking at now? She had both.
Madam Quill.
Not her real name. No one knew her real name. The “Madam” was sarcastic; the “Quill” came from the handful of porcupine spines always sticking out of her tangled bun like she’d fought one and lost. She sat behind a stall piled high with boxes, cloth bundles, and tiny locked chests, none labeled. Her clothes were bright in a way that looked almost aggressive—orange skirts layered over purple ones, a shawl patterned with stars. She had the smile of someone who’d steal your shoes and charge you for the privilege.
Maude squared her shoulders, stepped up, and didn’t botherwith pleasantries. “I need shadowbell.”
Madam Quill’s grin widened, showing teeth too sharp for comfort. “Well, well. You’ve got gall, asking for that.”
“Do you have it?”
“Not today.” She wagged a finger, her bangles clinking together. “But I could put you on my list.”
“What kind of list?” Maude asked warily.
“The kind where you get what you want, eventually. Two weeks, maybe three.” Maude’s gut sank. Two weeks was two weeks too long. Still, she clenched her jaw. “What’s the price?”
Madam Quill leaned forward, eyes glittering. “For you, sweetheart? Costly. Dangerous flowers bring dangerous prices. Half now, half on delivery.”
Maude’s fingers tightened around her coin pouch. It wasn’t heavy to begin with. She’d already spent most of her savings shoring up the shop, patching mistakes, and bribing inspectors. All she had left clinked softly when she opened the pouch: a sad collection of coins that wouldn’t buy her a decent coat, let alone survival.
She dropped it on the counter anyway. “That’s everything. Consider it a down payment.”
Madam Quill swept it up with a hand quick as a crow’s beak. “Done.”
“It better be fresh.”
“Fresh as your fury, darling.”
Maude didn’t like the sound of that at all.
She turned on her heel before she could say something biting enough to raise the price further and stalked down the lane, coat snapping at her ankles, something prickling against her skin.
It wasn’t relief. Not even close.
It was worse than nothing—because now she’d pinned her hopes on someone else.
Someone with questionable ethics and a porcupine hairdo.
Her gut told her she’d regret it.
Her gut was usually right.
Eight
The first week of their so-called partnership could only be described as a carnival of disasters.
It began, inevitably, with salt. Maude had carefully drawn protective lines across the warped floorboards, a ring of containment charms precise enough that Bailey himself might’ve nodded in approval. Wesley, all broad shoulders and incessant humming, wandered through with a tray of rolls, sneezed, and scattered flour across the salt. The magic bled instantly, merging protection with yeast. The result? Loaves that sang.
Not quaint little ditties, either—dirges. Funeral hymns that rattled through the room with such mournful intensity that Mrs. Haddingham bought three, cradling them like she’d just secured the soundtrack for her own burial.
