Lydia Dross, the owner, was already outside, broom in hand as if she might sweep the rot away by sheer force of will. Her shrill voice cut through the street the second she saw Maude.
“This isunacceptable!” Lydia snapped, jabbing her broom. “You’ve ruined my begonias! Mybegonias! And if this…this nonsense touches a single petal of my orchids, I’ll have the magistrates fine you into the ground.”
Maude pinched the bridge of her nose. Of course Lydia Dross would be the one to make this worse. The woman had built her reputation on overpriced peonies and tactical customer complaints.
Beside her, Wesley gave a low whistle. “She’s…spirited.”
Maude shot him a glare.Spiritedwas not the word. Lydia Dross was a banshee with a license to sell daisies. And if Maude didn’t do something soon, Lydia’s shrieking would be the least of her problems.
Her mind turned fast, calculating. They didn’t have time to test another patchwork spell. Waiting for Madam Quill to bring in shadowbell was laughable. No, this was outpacing them already. If she wanted to save her shop, her street, maybe even the entire block, she’d have to go to the source.
The Duskmire Peaks.
Maude sighed, the decision solidifying like iron in her chest. Dangerous. Far. Exactly the kind of thing Bailey had once warned her against attempting alone. But Bailey wasn’t here, and she wasn’t alone, was she?
She turned to Wesley, who was still sipping his coffee as if none of this was catastrophic. “We don’t have time for tinkering.”
His brow furrowed. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” she said flatly, “we’re going after shadowbell.Today.”
Lists.
Maude trusted lists more than she trusted people.
So, naturally, Wesley got one.
It was scrawled in her quick, angular handwriting, folded twice, and shoved unceremoniously into his palm before he could argue. “You’ll need all of this. Don’t improvise.”
He unfolded it and read aloud with mock solemnity. “‘One: rope. Two: salt. Three: dried meat. Four: boots that won’t fall apart at the first patch of mud. Five: more rope. And six: don’t be an idiot.’”
“It says water flasks before that,” she muttered as she searched for her gathering bag.
“Oh, it’s there,” Wesley said, grinning. “Just written in such tiny letters I nearly missed it. But don’t worry, your little ‘don’t be an idiot’ note is bolded and underlined. Priorities.”
“Exactly.” She ducked behind the counter for her bag, fussing with the buckles. “Saints know, someone has to keep that face humble.”
For once, his grin faltered—then came back twice as bright.“Careful there, Harrow. Keep talking to me like that and I’ll have no choice but to fall for you.”
Mischief flickered through his expression, a spark she’d come to recognize as trouble. Maude plucked a quill from the counter and pressed it into his chest.
“Start making your own packing list.”
Theshop’s shelves clattered as she moved briskly through them, pulling jars and bundles down. Dried nightshade for warding, bloodroot for protection, powdered iron to throw down in case the Wilds grew teeth. A small vial of Bailey’s old fire-starting tincture went into her satchel, tucked beside her rune stones. Another flask—this one filled with a potion for warding off frostbite—was stoppered tight and slipped into her coat pocket.
The space was chaos, as always, but it was her chaos, and every object had its place. Her hand lingered on the jar of shadowbell seeds Bailey had once harvested himself. Seeds wouldn’t help; they needed the flower in bloom. Still, she brushed her thumb across the glass, then shoved it back into place before her chest tightened too much.
“Closed,” she murmured, flicking her hand at the hanging sign on the door. The letters shimmered, shifting fromOPENto a more pointedCLOSED. IF YOU TOUCH THE DOOR, I CURSE YOUR PETUNIAS.
Satisfied enough with the decision, Maude scrawled a quick note on a scrap of parchment.Cancel my order. Keep the coin. I don’t care. She folded it once, sealed it with wax that smelled faintly of rosemary, and slipped it under Grim’s collar. He gave her a withering look, but she scratched between his ears anyway. “Drop it at Madam Quill’s stall, then come back. Don’t let her talk you into anything. And if she tries to pet you, bite her.”
Grim blinked, unimpressed, and padded off toward the window, clearly weighing whether her request was worth the effort.
Maude didn’t wait to see if he’d follow through. She swung her bag over her shoulder, pulled her hood low, and marched toward her cottage. Inside, she packed quickly: two clean tunics, one wool coat, leggings thick enough for mountain air, and boots already scarred from years of foraging. Her knife slid into its sheath. She bound her hair back in a braid so tight it made her scalp ache—better than loose strands whipping in her face when she needed her wits.
When she stepped out, her street buzzed with its usual strangeness. A brass weathervane spun in circles though the air was still, and Mrs. Calloway’s mailbox was already growling at a delivery boy.
She hurried, her bag heavy, her mind heavier. At Oli’s stables, Wesley was already waiting, leaning against the fence with a bundle of supplies slung over his back. To her faint surprise, he’d followed the list exactly: rope, flasks, rations. Even the boots looked decent. He caught her assessing glance and smirked.
