Maude snorted and pulled the butter bread apart. The heat steamed between her fingers. “How’s your scheming?”
“Thriving. The Seat Gambit proceeds. I have a majority of endorsements, one bitter rival, and a wardrobe that could run for office without me. I just need to not commit homicide in front of witnesses for three days.”
She swallowed a smile. “Manageable.”
“Borderline.” He studied her face for a long second. “You look like you slept a little.”
“Four hours,” she said. “Record-breaking.”
“Then you’ll do it again tonight after you set the South Gate.”
She didn’t ask how he knew. He knew because he paid attention;it was his entire job, and sometimes his gift. She nodded once.
He packed half the food back into the basket, thrust it at her, and kissed her forehead in that infuriating big-brother way he’d invented the day they met. “Eat. And if you won’t appoint Wesley to Maude Maintenance, I’ll unionize him and do it, anyway.”
“I’llsalt your bones.”
“Hot,” he said, and sauntered out, whistling.
When the door shut, the shop’s quiet came back like a tide. Maude leaned her elbows on the counter and let her head drop to her hands for one long breath. Grim hopped onto the ledger and curled his warm, heavy body across her lists like a furry paperweight. His ears still held a faint pink glow at the tips—a reminder that containment wasn’t a cure, that time was a thread she was burning on both ends.
Outside, laughter rose, and the brass trio slid deliciously off-key. A string of lanterns lit all at once, one-two-three, like a held breath exhaled.
She moved. Locked the till. Checked the wards. Blew out the front lamps one by one until the shop was an amber sigh. Then she shouldered the basket Oli had forced on her and tucked the pear tartlet into the top of it like a tiny bribe she’d earned.
On the worktable, the Weftmark list waited.South Gate—Tonight? East Gate—Samhain.Under it, in her own tight script, a note:Ask for help (ugh).
She stared at it until the letters swam, then drew her coat tight, stepped into the evening, and locked the door. The street glowed gold and violet, lanterns swaying, shadows long. Somewhere, a child shouted a line about ghosts with triumphant terror. Somewhere else, a magistrate sniffed at a sign.
Maude stood in the doorway for a heartbeat and listened to the town dress itself—ornamented and doomed in the same breath. Then she tucked the basket under her arm and stepped into the warm, strange night to save it.
Nineteen
The sign at Sugar High Bakery still smelled faintly of frosting, even at the late hour. Maude stood on the stoop, arms folded, cobblestones under her boots tacky with what looked like a toffee spill. She had brought a thank-you. If it could be called that.
Balanced in her hand: a paper cone stuffed with roasted chestnuts she’d hexed to squeak “ow” every time you bit one. Juvenile. Petty. Wesley would love it.
She knocked with her boot. The door swung open, steam curling out, and Wesley leaned against the frame, hair askew. He blinked at her, then at the cone.
One eyebrow climbed. “What…is that?”
“Chestnuts. Obviously.” She thrust them at him like a weapon. “Eat one.”
He plucked one free, popped it into his mouth, bit?—
“OW!” the nut squealed in falsetto.
Wesley choked and nearly spat it back across the doorway, laughter folding him in half before it broke free.
Maude smirked, satisfied. “Thank-you gift. You’re welcome.”
He wiped at his eyes, still grinning. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Speaking of ridiculous,” she said, folding her arms. “My door doesn’t scrape anymore.”
That grin faltered, hesitation flickering through. “Right. Uh. I may have…fixed it.” He shrugged. “The hinge was driving me mad. Figured you’d rather hex me later than listen to it forever.”
Maude blinked at him. He said it like a man confessing to a crime, waiting for judgment. Saints—what had she done to him, that fixing a hinge made him look ready for the gallows? Still, it was one less task off her endless list—handled without her asking, just because he’d noticed.
