It all felt ordinary, almost soothing—except for the rumble that thrummed under her boots.
She was too tired to be properly afraid.
The ley-point was here. Old as the town—older, maybe—vibrating at the bend where river met sea and trade had been struck for centuries. Bailey always said ley lines carried memory. Oaths, promises, bargains—you could hear the bones of them if you pressed your ear to the cobbles.
She stopped in the center of the wharf, shouldering off her satchel. Her body was still running on scraps after the night with Oli, the two of them bent over the first loom until dawn, his voicefull of political promises and coffee-laced optimism, her hands blistered from weaving ironvine and blackthorn until they bit. When he’d finally left, she’d stripped down and scrubbed herself raw in the bath, then collapsed into bed and slept like she’d been struck with a mallet. The sun had moved across the sky and set again before she’d dragged herself upright.
A wasted day. But the sooner she set the three looms, the sooner this mess would be contained, and maybe—maybe—she could rest. Maybe even take a much-needed break from it all.
Oli’s ambition flickered through her head as she dropped her satchel on the cobbles.
A seat in the court.
She huffed. It was a game only he could stomach—meeting hunger with charm until it thought itself fed. Though…if he pulled it off, everything in Mistwood Hills might shift. Maybe it would mean protection. Maybe it would mean more knives waiting in the dark.
Maude knelt and drew the salt circle, voice flat with exhaustion as she muttered the working lines. “Second loom,” she said to the empty dock.“Anchor. Drain. Hold.”
The pulse under her feet deepened. Dust skittered inward across the stones. And then, like a held breath snapping free, the pull began.
Crates groaned, splitting; the air bent sideways. A lantern snapped its hook and careened into the circle before crumpling to ash. The river’s surface rippled, tugged as though invisible hands were dragging it up the bank.
Maude braced harder, pressing both palms into the ironvine ring. “Hold,” she hissed, sweat burning her eyes. “Justhold?—”
Her heart slammed. She didn’t move. Couldn’t.
The ring buckled, flexed, then locked with a low boom that rattled her ribs. The pull collapsed inward, the sucking wind cutting off so fast she nearly fell face-first into the dock.
Silence crashed down with such force it rang in her ears.
Maude dropped her arms, hands scraped raw against thebuckled wood. Her lungs burned, her body shaking with exhaustion.
“Maude?” Wesley’s voice cut across the docks.
Through the haze of flour dust, he stumbled into view, a torn sack at his feet and white powder plastered over his coat like some ghostly disguise. All around them, crates had toppled, gulls shrieked overhead, and half the traders were coughing through the mess—one man wringing out his fishnets now powdered pale, another swearing as his apples rolled off the pier.
Maude stayed crouched in the center of the wharf, the ring still blazing hot beneath her palms. Wesley’s eyes went wide as they locked on her. “I thought we fixed this.”
“We patched it,” she said, throat tight with strain. “That’s all. The curse is still feeding. I had to cut it off before it spreads.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“Didn’t matter if I told you. It still had to be done.”
Wesley was breathing hard. His eyes searched hers, narrowing with worry. “Have you told anyone else about this?”
She swallowed. “Oli knows.”
His shoulders loosened. “Good.” He stood, wiped his hands against his trousers, then held one out to her. “Come on.”
Maude only stared at it. Her own fingers shook faintly where they pressed into her knees, and she curled them into fists, willing the tremor still.
His gaze lingered—on the pallor of her face, the cracked press of her lips, the way her shoulders sagged. She felt him measure all of it.
“You need food,” he said at last, firm but not unkind. “When did you last eat?”
Her silence was answer enough. His mouth set in a hard line.
“I don’t know much about the craft, but I’m fairly certain spellwork and an empty stomach is a bad mix,” he said. “Bad for your aim. Bad for my nerves.”
