Maude narrowed her eyes. Selene tipped her chin toward the Sugar High Bakery box—note still glaring up with its smug littleEat me, the pear tartlet she’d set aside sitting like evidence.
Shit. She’d forgotten about that.
Maude rolled her shoulders back, spine stiffening. “That’s nothing.”
“You ate contraband hand pies from the enemy.”
“I confiscated them.”
Selene’s grin spread, sharp as a secret. “See you tonight?”
“Maybe,” Maude lied.
When Selene left, the afternoon thinned into its usual slow stretch. She got some customers: Mrs. Haddingham stumped in, took her daily sprig of thyme with the gravity of a blood oath, and left without a word. Two teenagers in cloak-hair and terrible eyeliner came for “something that makes your eyes black,” and left with charcoal salve and a lecture on avoiding organ failure. A young mother asked for a sleeping charm “for the baby, obviously,” with haunted raccoon eyes that begged for a dose for herself; Maude tucked a quiet-breath sachet in the bag for free and pretended she hadn’t.
Then the novelty crowd: a pair of sisters, hair braided with ribbons, a box of Wesley’s sugar moons balanced between them like treasure.
“We heard you can make them…sing?” one ventured.
“Briefly,” Maude said.
She laid a thread of runes across the pastries and the crescents hummed a four-note lullaby sweet enough to calm a banshee.They clasped hands like she’d parted the clouds. When they left, the shop felt the tiniest bit warmer. She did not smile. (She did.)
By early evening, Maude had cleared the counter, relabeled three jars, and restocked cough elixirs. She flipped the sign toClosedand was reaching for her coat when the bell chimed again and Oliver Hale swept in like a wealthy storm, carrying a picnic.
The basket was ridiculous: braided willow, embroidered cloth, enough food for a rehearsal dinner. He dumped it on the counter. “Supper,” he sang.
“You’ve mistaken me for someone who’s fun.”
“Never.” He arched a brow, caught sight of the pear tartlet she had totally not been saving, and smirked. “Oh, good, dessert.”
Maude stared at the basket, then at him, then back at it. The math did itself. “Wesley told you.”
He had the grace to look sheepish for half a second, then decided against it. “He might have mentioned that you needed extra help. I might have mentioned to Selene that he mentioned it. Do not bite the courier’s head off; it’s very pretty.”
“I don’t need people looking after me,” she said, folding her arms so tightly a rib complained.
“Right,” Oli said brightly, “you’re the only one allowed to look after people.”
She bristled. “I?—”
He ticked items off on elegant fingers. “Let’s consult the record: Maude Harrow has quietly financed potion stock for the Lantern Ward for months. She repaired Old Rook’s roof when it failed in a rainstorm at two a.m., because he was too proud to ask and too frail to fix it. She spent three nights on the stables floor weaning Pickles off a fever tonic, because the healers gave up and you did not. She slipped that scholar from the bookshop a tea so he’d stop dreaming himself mad. She stabilized a cursed street with her own hands and no sleep, and would absolutely do it again rather than ask for help.”
He lifted his gaze. The teasing softened; the care didn’t. “Youlike to act like you’re heartless, Maude, but you’re the one who keeps giving pieces of your heart away.”
She stared at him. The shop, the lanterns outside, the hum of the runes—everything sharpened and blurred at once. She sat down hard on the stool and pressed her fingers to her forehead. “Saints, Oli. What am I going to do?”
“You’re going to do whatever you’re going to do,” he said matter-of-factly, “because you’re you. But you’ll do the right thing. You always do.” He let the beat sit, then added lightly, “And for the record, I vote we appoint Wesley as head of Maude Maintenance.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Democracy at work,” Oli said, unbothered. He began unpacking the basket: roasted root vegetables shimmering with herb oil; a slab of butter bread; a wedge of sharp cheese; small hand pies that were definitely stolen from Wesley’s production like a raccoon raid in human form.
He set a fork in front of her like a challenge. “Magistrates’ patrol doubled today,” Oli said, slicing the cheese. “They’re sniffing for infractions like boarhounds. Lydia told one of them your sign was ‘too pointed.’”
