By noon, Wesley appeared in her doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows, flour still dusting his jaw. He took one look at the crowd, then at her, and had the audacity to grin. “So this is what success looks like.”
“Careful; your smug is showing,” she muttered, binding another eclair with a shimmer of sparkle-dust.
He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, watching her work. After a beat, his brow furrowed. “Have you eaten lunch?”
“I’m busy,” she said, not looking up.
“Well then,” his tone turned infuriatingly light, “you won’t be wanting this.” He produced a small paper packet from behind his back, unfolded it, and revealed a still-warm cheese roll, crust blistered, edges flecked with rosemary.
Maude froze, gaze darting from the roll to his face. He raised an eyebrow, waiting. She snatched it, bit down, and nearly burned her tongue.
“When was the last time you ate, Harrow?”
She chewed, swallowed, ignored him. The bell above the door chimed again—loud enough to slice the air.
Town magistrates.
The crowd parted instinctively, murmurs swelling like storm clouds. Three officials swept inside, gray coats buttoned to the throat. At their head was Alderman Veyne—gaunt as a crow, with a nose too long for his face and eyes that seemed permanently damp.
His gaze moved like a blade over the shelves stacked with jars, over eclairs still faintly glowing from her last spell, over the children smiling with sugar and delight. Then, at last, to her.
“Curious,” Veyne said, his voice soft but cutting, like the scrape of steel on stone. “Last week this street sagged under blight. Today it feasts.”
Maude’s fingers twitched toward the hem of her sleeve, nails worrying the seam.
“Excellent work, Rivers.” Veyne clapped Wesley’s shoulder. “The street hasn’t looked this lively in years. A remarkable turnaround.”
Another inspector scribbled in a ledger, his gaze flicking toward Maude. “This was nearly a disaster. You’refortunate no one ended up dead. Next time, we’ll shutter these doors before you can light another candle.”
Her teeth clicked together, biting down on words she wanted to hurl.
“We understand.” Wesley’s voice was smooth, too smooth, like a balm poured over boiling water. Then he turned, his eyes bright as sea-glass as he added, “But let’s be clear—this wasn’t my doing. You owe the stability of this street to her. I mixed what she told me to mix. Drew lines where she pointed. That’s not a partnership—that’s me following orders.”
Veyne’s quill stilled above the page. “The fact remains—the collapse began with your hex, Maude. Are we to praise the arsonist for dousing her own flames?”
He wasn’t wrong. But Maude was feeling petty.
“Better an arsonist who puts out her own fire than a bureaucrat who starts one and leaves it to spread.”
The room shifted. Murmurs rippled through the crowd still lingering near the door. Even Veyne’s pinched expression faltered, his gaze burning. “Careful,witch. Insolence doesn’t erase culpability.”
Maude’s jaw locked, but before she could spit something out, Wesley spoke—voice smooth as honey. “Then perhaps you’ll judge us by outcomes. The street is standing. The people are safe. That’s what matters.”
The magistrates shifted, unsettled, but Wesley’s calm was a current they couldn’t quite fight. Veyne sniffed, scribbled something into his ledger, then snapped it shut. Without another word, the three swept out, robes trailing in their wake.
The crowd scattered, chatter filling the silence like bees stirred from a hive. Coins clinked, footsteps retreated, and soon only a few stragglers remained, reluctant to leave the spectacle.
Maude stayed rigid, every muscle coiled tight, her pulse refusing to slow. She should’ve been grateful—he’d deflected, shielded, drawn their righteous anger off of her. Butinstead it felt like he’d stripped her bare in front of half the town, her failures and triumphs paraded together under their judgmental stares.
Maude sighed. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“You did the work.” Wesley shrugged. “Credit belongs where it belongs.”
The words slipped under her defenses, unsettling in their simplicity. For a breath, she almost said thank you. The words hovered, fragile and feathered, aching to take flight. She swallowed them whole instead, the taste bitter.
The bell above the shop door rattled as the sun slid toward the horizon, its last light bleeding copper and red across the crooked glass panes. Maude nearly sloshed the simmering pot of Willow’s Rest Draught—her own sleep elixir that slowed the pulse and coaxed even the most restless mind toward dreams—when Oli’s voice came sweeping in before him, warm and unapologetically loud.
“Pack it in, darling witch. We’re abducting you.”
