“That I should at least warn people in advance.” Maude stared at the wall like it had personally offended her. “Rude.”
Selene made the kind of face people made when they were restraining themselves from squealing. “You like him.”
“I like my cat.”
“You don’t have a cat. Grim ownsyou.”
“Semantics.”
Selene glanced at the basket again, at the little star on the lid of the finished coffee. “So, he knows your order.”
Maude picked up the lemon curd and turned it so the ribbon faced the wall. “He knows I eat food, yes.”
“And that you like curd.”
“I like that it makes people pucker.”
“Sour on the outside, gold in the middle,” Selene murmured reverently. “Maude, distilled.”
They slipped into an easy rhythm that had, somehow, crawled back into Maude’s life: Selene combing out the fuzzed ends of her curls, fingers deft as she teased them into shape. She tucked sprigs of rosemary at her temple, murmuring something about adornment while Maude muttered about fortification.
“Corset,” Selene ordered, pulling the fitted bodice tighter than Maude would’ve dared on her own. It cinched clean lines through her waist, lifted her chest just enough that Maude shot her a glare. Selene only smirked and reached for the pot of rouge, pressing a red stain over Maude’s lips until her reflection looked like someone who knew how to flirt with murder.
Maude reached for the black skirt that swished like whispering when she moved and added a narrow leather belt for her pouches. Alderman Veyne’s “conscience” required props: a strip of cream linen she’d inked into a sash—VIOLATION—and a little steel stamp with a skull carved into the handle.
“You’re dangerous,” Maude said, half-impressed, half-accusing.
“I listen when you monologue,” Selene said smugly, tilting her head to admire her handiwork.
Maude slid the sash over her shoulder. The beams hummed, runes glowing faintly, approving.
Selene watched her with that look again—the one that said I see you, even when you try very hard not to be seen. “You look like yourself.”
“Tragic.”
Selene leaned a hip against the trunk. “And you look…not murderous about today. Which is new.”
Maude considered the floorboards. The lines cut by Bailey’s hand, the small shine of the old polish, the way the house settled around her like a cloak. “I’m tired,” she admitted. “There’s that. And there’s a festival, which is basically sanctioned chaos. My natural habitat.”
“And there’s Wesley.”
Maude didn’t look at her. “He’s…helpful.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And infuriating.”
“Keep going.”
“And—” she grimaced, then surrendered, “—not entirely awful to be near.”
“I am so happy I lived to see this day.”
Maude sighed, then stood, testing the fall of the skirt, the set of the sash. She reached under the bed and dragged out a battered wooden box. Inside: a ledger with crisp blank pages and a brass inking pad, both of which she set neatly into her satchel beside her vials. “If anyone tries to touch the looms, I’ll cite them.”
“For what? Crimes against peace and quiet?”
“For disorderly existence.”
