They collapsed together in a tangle, warm and heavy-limbed.The chamber smelled faintly of amber and myrrh; the curtains were drawn back to let moonlight spill across the floor. Maude let herself sink into the mattress without thinking of bills, curses, or what she’d lost. Just warm cider, friends, and the blissful hum of exhaustion.
It couldn’t last. Because, of course, Oli had to open his mouth.
He murmured something so indecent that Selene and Maude both shrieked and shoved him off the bed with their feet.
He hit the floor with a satisfying thud.
“Barbarians,” he groaned. “Miscreants. Betrayers of hospitality.”
Selene cackled, burying her face under Maude’s arm. “Shut up and sleep on the floor like the scandalous dog you are.”
“Careful,” Maude murmured into her pillow, cider humming through her veins. “He’ll take that as encouragement.”
Selene wheezed laughter into Maude’s sleeve while Oli sprawled on the floorboards with all the grace of a felled tree. “One day,” he declared to the ceiling, “you’ll both miss me when I’m gone.”
“Out of spite, maybe,” Maude muttered, eyes already slipping closed.
Fifteen
Mistwood Hills had always been a bit crooked, but now it was…wrong.
To everyone else, life went on. Vendors shouted about fresh pears and fish salted straight from the coast. A fiddler perched on the corner played something jaunty. Kids darted between carriages, shrieking with laughter.
But Maude saw the fractures. The world was wearing a cracked mask.
The cobbles outside Lydia Dross’s florist stand crumbled when a cart rattled past, reforming themselves a shade darker, like mismatched teeth. Roses in the display bloomed bright and lush—then, as she passed, their petals flaked into paper, curling into the spines of little gilt romance novels. Customers barely blinked, more annoyed by the mess than the metamorphosis.
Across the square, the baker’s rival bell clanged from inside the smithy. Not one, but two notes, like a duet between hammer and anvil. The smith swore, yanking off his gloves, muttering about “haunted steel.”
Maude shoved her hands deeper into her coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold and against the looks. No one elseseemed to notice the way the curse crawled, thin as veins under skin, threading through the mortar and stones. Not yet. But she felt it. Every step on Blightbend vibrated. Binding. Fusing.
Bailey’s handwriting lingered in her mind worse than his absence. The interlock was a temporary stabilizer only. Masks fracture, buys time.Must be severed.His neat script burned behind her eyes. He’d meant it as a warning. But she wasn’t him. She didn’t have his reckless brilliance, his knack for pulling impossible solutions out of thin air. She was just…her. Capable, but not enough. Not him.
She’d flipped the sign on her shop toClosedlong before sundown, ignoring the confused stares. It wasn’t as though she’d been raking in business today, anyway. The thought of another customer asking for a glamour tonic while the street collapsed into a surreal nightmare made her want to hex someone into a toad. She didn’t even have a destination—just walked fast, boots striking the stones like punctuation.
“Maude!”
The shout cracked across the square.
She winced.Of course.
Wesley stood across the way, light in human form, holding a tray of sample pastries, smile bright enough to make her teeth ache. He waved as if nothing in the world was wrong. Like the roses weren’t busy turning into sultry fiction a few feet away.
She spun on her heel and strode off.
Boot steps caught up, quick and sure. “Hey—wait.”
“I’m fine,” she snapped, not slowing.
“Didn’t say you weren’t,” he answered, slightly winded. “Just asking if you’re?—”
“All saints, baker,” Maude snapped, whirling on him. “I said I’m fine.”
His brows rose. “You just?—”
“I just what?”
Wesley paused, choosing his words. “You look tired.”
