The “Haunted Bakery” had changed something. The whole cursed, ridiculous abomination that had once been her private humiliation was suddenly…theirs. A story the whole town had claimed ownership of.
It was unsettling. They’d always loved Bailey.Always. She’d just been the quiet accessory trailing behind him—the grumpypunctuation to his practiced smile. A man could brood and be called thoughtful; a woman did it and became unlovable.
The town had tolerated her out of affection for him, not for anything she’d done. And when he was gone, she’d assumed whatever tiny margin of grace she’d inherited went with him.
It had never mattered what they thought. Not really. She had her shop, her friends, her cat.Enough. But now, as a few people nodded her way, her throat tightened against the unfamiliar weight in her chest. Strange. That’s all it was. Strange.
“Excuse me!” A woman’s voice cut through the square, bright and a little frantic.
Maude turned, already regretting it, but the woman—harried hair, smudges under her eyes, and three toddlers clinging to her skirts like leeches—looked desperate. The kids babbled nonsense words, their hands tugging at her dress, one of them waving a wooden spoon like it was a sword.
Maude exhaled slowly, then followed her inside. The house smelled of milk and exhaustion. The toddlers immediately circled her like small, chaos-wielding familiars, speaking in their own language of shrieks and squeaks. She startled herself by…smiling. Just a little.
The mother wrung her hands. “It’s the hearth. The fire won’t hold.”
“Of course it won’t,” Maude muttered, brushing past. The runes carved into the fireplace were shoddy at best—done by some hack who thought chalk was an acceptable substitute for ash.
She pulled a small vial from her coat, flicked a sprinkle of yarrow ash across the carvings, and whispered the proper words. The flames leapt obediently to life, steady and warm.
The mother sagged with relief, murmuring thanks. Maude waved it off. “No charge. Just…keep them from licking the walls or whatever.”
The toddlers giggled so hard their little shoulders shook, eyes shining like she’d just revealed their grand scheme.
Back into the chill, her boots slowed when she spotted him. Wesley. Striding down the lane like the cold bent around him, hair mussed like he’d been up since before dawn baking, steam still curling faintly off him.
Maude’s stomach did something unpleasant—flipped, then settled in the wrong place. Last night flickered back into her mind. The rhythm of it, the folding, the way her magic had held steady for once when it ran through his careful process. It hadn’t blown up, hadn’t warped into ruin, hadn’t turned the entire counter into licorice rope.
It had…worked.
Some kind of truce had slipped between them without her permission, unsteady and unsigned, but binding all the same. She felt weird about it. And yet…
Her fingers tightened on her coat strap. She forced her gaze away before she stared too long. Idiot or not, he wasn’t terrible to look at. Not that she’d ever admit it out loud.
“Morning,” he called, as if the word didn’t taste like gravel. In his hands, two steaming cups. When he reached her, he held one out—ceramic glazed dark, a small star etched near the rim. “Peace offering?”
She eyed it like he’d just handed her a snake.
Wesley smirked. “Don’t worry, if anyone here should be afraid of being poisoned, it’s me. I wouldn’t even know where to start with you.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. She lifted the cup, sniffed. The scent hit like a punch—warm cinnamon, nutmeg, a whisper of clove. Autumn in a cup.
She took a cautious sip. The flavor bloomed rich and deep, comfort layered on comfort, and for one fleeting moment she let herself close her eyes.
“Good?” he asked.
She grunted.
“Was that a thank you?”
Maude ignored him, focusing on the path ahead.
They fell into step together, their strides mismatched but oddly companionable.
It didn’t last.
The moment she turned onto Blightbend Way, her stomach dropped. The shop still pulsed with the faint glow of her containment spell—flickering, fragile, but holding. Yet the curse kept crawling outward, creeping down the street like ivy gone feral. Slow, yes, but undeniable.
And next in line was the floral shop.
