She arched a brow as she capped the jar on the counter. “Hard pass.”
The door swung open, revealing Selene trailing Oli, cheeks pink from the cool evening. Maude hadn’t seen her in days, and something uncoiled in her chest at the sight. Saints, she’d missed her.
One corner of Selene’s smile quirked, like she already knew the protest by heart. “We’re going out. Just one night. The Silver Thistle. There’s food, and cider that’s allegedly worth selling your soul for.”
“I already have food.” Maude gestured toward the shelf of powders that could kill or cure depending on her mood. “I already have a drink. And I alreadyhave you two.”
“Exactly.” Oli swooped closer, grin wide. “So why not combine all three into one glorious evening of my company in public?”
“Because that sounds like punishment.”
Selene giggled behind her hand—warm, conspiratorial—and Maude’s sulk cracked just a little. “We’ll be back before midnight. Promise.”
A sigh escaped her as she uncorked a bottle and sniffed the contents. “Fine. But if this involves dancing, I’m putting warts somewhere creative.”
“Excellent.” Oli clapped once, delighted. “Nothing says friendship like threats of bodily harm.”
The Silver Thistle was older than half the town, built low and crooked into the roots of an ancient tree. Lanterns dangled like fruit from its branches, green flames guttering inside glass globes etched with runes. The door creaked like a coffin lid when Oli shoved it open.
Inside, the gloom gave way to warmth. A hearth blazed against one wall, its smoke curling through gaps in the stonework like lazy phantoms. Tables crowded close, each one scarred with old knife marks and burn rings, sticky with spilled cider, yet softened by sprigs of lavender tucked into jars at their centers. A fiddle played somewhere near the back, threadbare notes weaving around bursts of laughter.
At one table, a cluster of nixies played cards with a centaur whose hooves clicked irritably against the floorboards each time he lost. In another, a banshee hunched over a cup of black liquid that shimmered faintly while goblins heckled her hair.
It was dark in all the ways Maudepreferred—shadowed, strange, and thick with the sense that if you blinked wrong, you might catch a glimpse of something you’d regret.
“This,” Oli said, sweeping his arms like a host unveiling a masterpiece, “is atmosphere. Drink it in.”
They slipped into a booth, and Selene waved down a serving girl who looked mostly human if you ignored the small horns curling above her ears. Drinks and plates began to arrive with dizzying speed: mulled cider so spiced it steamed, dark bread slathered with honey, roasted pheasant that gleamed under candlelight.
Oli immediately lifted his mug. “To Maude! For finally prying that pastel nightmare off her shop and reclaiming her dignity!”
Maude huffed a laugh. “Don’t start.”
Selene lifted her mug anyway. “To Maude.”
“Thanks, guys,” she muttered, clinking hers against theirs.
The conversation spiraled fast. Selene, halfway through her second cup of buttered rum, launched into stories of healer training, punctuating each disaster with wild hand gestures that nearly smacked a passing goblin.
“So Lydia Dross storms into the hospital two weeks ago,” Selene began, “claiming she’s cursed. Says she can’t stop hiccupping.”
Oli raised a brow. “Hiccups? Hardly life-threatening.”
Selene wagged a finger. “Oh no, not just any hiccups. Every time she hiccupped, she passed wind.”
Maude nearly choked on her cider, coughing into her sleeve.
Selene smacked the table proudly. “Yes! Exactly! A full symphony. Like clockwork. Hic—fart, hic—fart. The whole street was howling before she even made it inside.”
Oli gasped so loudly that the satyr at the next table turned. “Selene, you can’t tell this story. Client confidentiality!”
“She forfeited confidentiality the moment she weaponized her digestive tract.”
Maude snorted. “Please tell me you fixed it quickly.”
Selene winced, sheepish. “Definequickly.”
Oli clutched his heart. “No.”
