By the time they reached her cottage door, she felt suddenly self-conscious. Too full. Too warm. Too…light. The cider sat in her belly like a coal, glowing. Wesley’s steady presence at her side only made it worse. Was this what happy felt like? It had been so long, she’d almost forgotten the shape of it.
The words burst out before she could stop them, like steam from a cracked kettle.
“I don’t know if I can do this without Bailey.”
Silence. Then Wesley’s head tilted, the shadows shifting across his face. “You can. You already are,” he said simply. “You’ve been carrying more than you think, longer than you realize—and you haven’t broken yet.” He leaned closer. “I’m no wizard, but I’m a damn good ally. Next time you need help, ask. I’m only ever a couple of steps across the street.”
Her back pressed against the door, cool wood grounding her as her breath caught. Something trembled under her ribs, harsh as grief, soft as relief. The part of her that always snapped back with barbs—sarcasm as armor, cruelty as cover—went mute.
“Thanks,” she muttered.
His answering smile was soft, so unguarded it almost hurt tolook at. Then he held out the parcel he’d been carrying—his extra skewer wrapped in parchment.
“Take it. You’ve been eyeing it the entire walk home.”
Heat flared across her face.Caught. “I wasn’t?—”
“Maude.”
Her name on his lips landed like a touch. She snatched the bundle from his hand, scowling, but the scowl cracked and—traitorous, unstoppable—she laughed.
The sound startled her first. Startled him, too. He looked at her as if the world had just been rewoven before his eyes, as if he had waited lifetimes for that single thread of joy.
Slowly, as if testing the air, his hand rose. Fingers brushed a curl from her cheek, the warmth of him lingering, seeping further than she dared allow. His face tilted close, the river wind weaving his hair into hers, binding them in a breath’s span of silence.
Her pulse answered in thunder, a storm breaking in her chest.
And then Grim, promptly as ever, dropped squarely onto her shoulder from a window above.
Wesley startled, cider sloshing down his coat. “Shit!” he barked, jerking back.
Maude froze. Then— “Right. Bye.”
She fumbled for the door handle and slammed it shut before she could see what expression he wore. Inside, her chest heaved, the cider still burning her throat. She pressed her forehead to the wood, eyes shut tight.
Grim purred, vibrating smug satisfaction into her collarbone.
“You little saboteur.”
Eighteen
Morning made a show of itself—fog lifting off the river like a shrug, gulls heckling the rooftops, Mistwood Hills blinking awake one creaking shutter at a time. Lanterns were strung like pearls along the street; vendors were elbow-deep in cinnamon and gossip; children in antler headbands rehearsed Samhain lines at full volume—“FROM THE SHADOWS, WE—no,Milo,louder”—while parents pretended this wasn’t their personal nightmare.
Everywhere Maude looked: ribbons, carved gourds, paper bats, and the kind of cheery industry that should’ve made her want to hex a scarecrow on principle. Instead, her mouth twitched like it hadn’t gotten the memo.
She pushed through the bustle, letting the tide of festivity carry her down the lane until the familiar crooked sign of the Elixir Emporium came into view. There, perched primly on the little table by her door, sat a neat bundle—waiting for her with the air of something far too pleased with itself.
Brown paper. Twine. Steam curling out of the seams. Beside it, a lidded tin that smelled like caramelized promise, a small star carved into the metal lid.
Maude did not look across the street.
She absolutely didnotclock the lack of smoke ghosting out of Sugar High’s chimney, or the way the bakery windows were still dim, as if their sunny tyrant had not yet begun his day-long assault on teeth. She bent, eyeing the parcel as if it might sprout fangs, and pinched the twine with two fingers and maximum suspicion.
“I don’t want you,” she told the parcel.
Then her stomach groaned like a fiddle being strangled.
She cracked the lid of the tin. Coffee steam hit her in the face: smoky roast and clove, orange peel, a whisper of cardamom. The paper parcel yielded two shapes, unmistakably Wesley: one sweet, one savory. The savory was a hand pie glazed with rosemary-honey, the crimped edges browned perfectly, the scent of charred mushroom and leek sneaking out. The sweet was a pear tartlet under a glossy vanilla-bean lacquer, its crust so flaky her fingers picked up confetti.
