For giving something so sacred. For making her feel like she was the selfish one, clinging to grief like a dragon hoarding bones.
Maude fought the urge to shove him away, to spit every venomous word she had saved for him since the day his bakery doors had opened. But her arms betrayed her. They lifted, hesitated, then clutched him tight, fingers curling in the fabric at his back. She buried herself deeper into his chest and let the tears fall.
They came hard, hot, and endless, streaking down her cheeks until the ruins blurred into nothing. She didn’t sob—there was no sound, just the violent shake of her shoulders, her chest heaving like it couldn’t contain the heartache anymore.
And he held her.
One broad hand cradled the back of her head, the other firm at her spine as though she might shatter if he let go. His chest rose and fell beneath her cheek, slow, steady. When she finally forced herself to lift her head, her face worn and damp, she found his eyes waiting. They were glassy, rimmed faintly red. His cheeks flushed as though he’d stood too long by the fire. He blinked hard, but it didn’t mask the truth of it—what he’d given up. It had scraped him raw, too.
Maude thought of him humming in the mornings, tuneless, infuriatingly cheerful, as if mocking her gloom. How she’d resented it. How she’d muttered curses under her breath each time he did it. All this time, he had been humming his mother’s song. Carrying her with him into every loaf, every roll, every cake while Maude steeped in her fury, crafting spells and potions with Bailey’s voice in her head.
And now that song—its sound, the shape of it—was gone. Surrendered to the ruin. Did he still know the tune? Could he still feel it in his bones, or had the guardian truly stripped it clean away?
The thought gutted her. It was too much.
With a ragged sound, Maude shoved back—broke free of his arms, turning hard so he wouldn’t see the tears that still hadn’t stopped. She wiped at her face furiously, scraping her skin until it burned, until it felt like something she could control.
She dropped to her knees before the newly blooming shadowbell, the flowers glowing faintly in the hush of the ruins. Her hands shook as she reached for them, but she forced her breathing even, steady enough to cut the stems clean and tuck each bloom carefully into the pouch at her belt.
Behind her, Wesley didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She could feel his presence, though—warm and watchful, like the hearth-fire she wanted to ignore but couldn’t.
Eventually, his shadow fell beside hers. He knelt without aword, his long fingers moving with surprising gentleness as he helped gather the blossoms.
Neither spoke.
And though she wanted to hate him, wanted to shove him back into the mist and pretend he hadn’t given something up so she didn’t have to, she couldn’t.
Not with him kneeling in the dirt beside her.
Thirteen
The ride home blurred into one long, bone-deep ache. Hooves struck the soil in a dull rhythm, leather groaned, breath rasped. Wesley rode a little ahead, shoulders squared, the moon catching the line of his coat and the rigid set of his back.
Maude kept her eyes there. She told herself it was something to follow, something solid. But the truth sat heavier: he steadied her.
They didn’t talk. Not after the ruins. The silence clung, thick as damp wool, not empty at all but swollen with everything they’d lost.
The mist wolves didn’t return. Maude couldn’t say whether the tithe frightened off or appeased them. She only knew the absence of them felt like borrowed grace, a reprieve she hadn’t earned.
The Peaks fell away behind them, craggy silhouettes shrinking into gentler hills. Trees thinned and the path widened, but neither of them suggested stopping. They rode hard, letting distance eat up the night. By the time Mistwood’s lanterns winked faintly across the valley, Maude’s bones buzzed with exhaustion, every muscle hollowed out and humming.
It was well past midnight when they clattered into Oliver’sstables. The horses came in heaving, hides lathered and steaming, but grateful to be done. Maude and Wesley worked in silence, moving by habit—slipping bridles off, offering water, dragging brushes through their coats. Maude’s hands shook against Pickles’s mane, the tremor running all the way to her shoulders. The gelding pressed his great head into her chest with a weary huff, solid and warm, and she bent low, whispering thanks into the soft curve of his ear.
When she finally turned, Wesley was standing there with his hands shoved into his pockets, eyes shadowed. His hair was mussed, his shirt smeared with dust and travel, and he looked—well, he looked human in a way she hadn’t quite seen before.
He shut Pickles’s stall door, then straightened. “I’ll walk you home.”
She let out a dry laugh. “Home? No.”
His brow furrowed.
“I’m going to the shop.”
His mouth dropped open slightly, incredulous. “Now? You can barely stand.”
She squared her shoulders, though her legs trembled under the effort. “I have to end this, Wesley.”
Something in her tone made his expression shift. His gaze lingered on her a beat too long, heavy enough that she felt it. As if he were searching her face for something she hadn’t said aloud. His jaw tightened. Then he gave a single nod—curt, resigned. Whatever he thought he’d found in her words, it wasn’t what he’d wanted.
