There was no note. Just a small line inked on the parcel:Eat me.
Infuriating. Thoughtful.Infuriating.
Maude considered marching the lot straight back to his bakery and informing him she did not need his fussing, thanks; she was perfectly capable of starving herself like a responsible adult. Instead, she opened her door, shouldered in, and carried it to her counter.
Inside, the shop’s runes hummed low—Bailey’s old wards approving of the fresh coffee like they were in on the joke. Shelves of amber jars watched from the walls; the cauldron sat cold on its ring; the list she’d inked last night waited on the worktable, four corners under paperweights.
Weftmark Looms: North Gate—BOUND(lucky her cottage sat beside it—handy geography for the most unhandy curse of her life).River Quay—BOUND. South Gate—Tonight? East Gate—Samhain.Beside it: another list, the one that lived behind her ribs. Volunteers: names she didn’t want to ask and would, anyway. And underlined twice:Samhain.
She ate the hand pie standing up, pretending her knees hadn’t just sighed in relief. The pear tartlet she set aside because she had self-control. She poured coffee, took one scalding sip, and tried very hard not to think about last night: the almost-kiss, the way his fingers had pushed hair from her face, the way the world had narrowed to breath and river wind?—
She set the mug down a little too hard, coffee sloshing over the rim.
He must regret it. She’d seen it before. Regret wasn’t apologies or explanations—it was normalcy, perfectly performed. And, saints, wasn’t she the expert at that game? Maude decided that was fine. Great.Perfect, actually.
Maude rolled her sleeves. The Lantern Ward would need more poultices before noon, and if she kept her hands busy she could pretend her heartbeat wasn’t still echoing against her molars.
By midmorning she had three trays cooling: greenglass paste for burns, iron-spine salve for sprains, fever-break balm steeped with willow and moonleaf. She decanted into jars, wrote labels and sealed each with wax and a thumbprint. She worked the way she always had: methodically, sparingly, in a rhythm old enough to quiet ugly thoughts.
Outside, the town kept decorating itself like a very determined gallows.
When the sun stood high, the bell chimed. Maude blinked at the sound, frowning. No scrape. Her door usually dragged across the warped boards like an old man hacking up phlegm. She hadn’t heard it this morning either. When did that happen? She’d been too tangled up in Wesley’s care package to notice the absence.
The thought crawled in anyway: had he fixed it?
Absurd. Completely absurd. She shook her head, but then remembered the way he’d stared at the frame that last day their shops had been stuck together, like the hinge had personally insulted him.
Before she could chase the idea further, Selene breezed in with a wicker basket hooked over her arm and her hair in a braidedcrown. Her coat swung just a little too dramatically. She looked like a selkie princess on her way to steal the crown jewels—and probably succeed.
“What is this?” Maude asked.
“Lunch with my friend,” Selene said, innocent as sin, already setting the basket on the counter.
“You don’t have other friends?”
“Rude.” Selene produced covered bowls and two spoons out of nowhere, as if she’d stashed the tableware up her sleeves. “Pumpkin-ginger stew from the wharf’s cauldron kitchen. And these are sea-herb crisps from my people; try not to be a cultural disaster.”
Maude eyed the stew. The steam carried nutmeg, pepper, roasted squash. Her stomach released the trumpet fanfare of betrayal. She sniffed. “Fine. But only because bribery is my love language.”
They ate at the worktable. Selene kicked her boot against Maude’s under the bench, smiling at nothing in particular. Outside, a troupe of children marched by, their papier mâché skull masks askew, a parent trailing them with costumes under one arm and a look of quiet despair.
“How’s the Lantern Ward?” Maude asked, reaching for a crisp like she hadn’t been trained to refuse help from birth.
“Chaotic,” Selene said cheerfully. “Two festival-related sprains, one toddler who tried to swallow a torch charm, Mrs. Kettle came in because her cat keeps coughing up fortunes instead of fur, and she swears it’s rigged because they’re never good ones.”
Maude snorted into her spoon. “Tell her to stop reading them. Problem solved.”
Selene’s mouth twitched, but her eyes were watchful. “You look less corpse-adjacent today.”
“I hate that.”
Selene smiled but didn’t push. That was one of the reasons Maude loved her. They finished the stew; Selene slid two folded invoices toward her: one for hospital stock, one for the free stockMaude insisted didn’t exist. Maude signed both with a flick and nudged a crate of poultices across the floor with her heel.
“You’re giving us the greenglass for free again,” Selene said softly.
“Accounting error,” Maude said.
“Right.” Selene shrugged into her coat, lifted the crate with ease, and paused at the door. “You deserve it, you know.”
