He looked at her hand, and a soft, incredulous snort escaped him. “A handshake? After all that? Saints, Harrow.”
“Take the win, baker.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His palm met hers, warm and wide, callused in ways that made sense now. He squeezed once—proper, businesslike—and didn’t let go for a beat beyond polite. His thumb twitched, as if he had to stop himself from doing something unwise—and then he released her.
She brushed a hand down her unruly curls. “Go to sleep, Wesley.”
He studied her face. “Are you heading home?”
“Not yet.” She forced her voice back into its old shape. “You go. I have a few things to wrap up.”
He looked like he might argue. Then he didn’t. “Don’t explode the town while I’m gone.” He tipped her a mock salute and jogged back across to his own door.
She watched him go, the swing of his shoulders unaccountably interesting. The Sugar High sign creaked, as if clearing its throat. He turned once at his threshold, caught her looking, and for one dizzy beat they just…smiled at each other like idiots.
Then he vanished inside.
The moment folded up and put itself away.
Maude breathed. In. Out. She turned, went back into her shop, and shut the door.
The room felt like itself again. The counter wore its scars without apology. The herbs on the wall hung with their old, ordinary gravity. The cauldron gave one last contented sigh and went quiet, runes dimming to a sleepy pulse.
Grim leapt onto her shoulder as if he’d always intended to, dug his claws in just enough to sting, then settled like an arrogant scarf.
“Yes,” she told him. “I know. You did everything. Please accept this promotion.”
He purred.
Maude returned to the counter, moving carefully, as if sudden motion might wake something. She tidied because she needed to put her hands on tasks that ended. Ironvine back into its jar, label facing front. Blackthorn wrapped in oiled paper. Rosemary bundled tight with twine. Bloodroot scraped, dried, stored. Yarrow’s pale heads rubbed between her fingers until they surrendered to dust. The moondust caps tipped into their tin with reverence, making the faintest chiming sound as they settled.
Last: shadowbell.
There were a few blooms she hadn’t needed to grind—a margin for error she’d refused to use. She lifted each with careful fingers, the petals cool and tender as night. Their scent rose—sorrow tempered, gentled by work done well. She slid them into a small glass bottle, stoppered it, pressed wax into the cork, and set it on the shelf where Bailey had kept rarities.
Her hand went to smooth the shelf and caught on a burr. No—paper. Something tucked between wood and the backboard, a corner curling like a beckoning finger. Maude frowned, slid her nails in, and worried the thing free.
Vellum. Bailey’s, from the weight. The edges were singed as if he’d held it too close to a candle. Ink had bled in places where damp had found it. She knew his hand the way you know the inside of your house in the dark.
Her stomach made a slow, unpleasant turn.
She unfolded it.
Lines. A diagram she recognized and wanted to pretend she didn’t. Couplets. A rune set.
The lamplight jittered. Or she did.
She read.
Not a sabotage. Not even close. The top line named the thing without flinching, and the name sat in her mouth like ice:interlock.
Her breath thinned to a thread.
Bailey had written like a man leaving a message under a floorboard for a future version of himself he didn’t trust to remember. Notes in the margins:
Interlock, variant: for the holding of what strains to part. Temporary stabilizer only. Masks fracture, buys time. Must be severed. Left unchecked, bond will keep seeking more until all is drawn into one.
The room seemed to tilt and then tilt back. The words held steady.
