Selene laughed, bright and ringing, then softened again. “We’ll make it a good day, okay? Eat stupid things. Win a riggedgame. Put a hex on a pumpkin. Maybe kiss someone under lanterns.”
“I’ll kiss your forehead if you stop talking.”
“It’ll have to do,” Selene said. She scooped Grim—who had slunk in at some point to supervise breakfast—off the windowsill and deposited him in Maude’s arms for precisely three seconds of enforced affection.
Grim tolerated it like a monarch permitting taxes. His nose was less pink now. It still glowed faintly in certain light. Maude set him down, and he trotted to the bed, climbed onto her pillow, and began kneading like he was trying to pummel tenderness into the linen. The room felt—dangerously, treacherously—good.
Selene gathered the detritus of the morning. “Oli says noon at the square, but I want to go out sooner. The charm-casters sell out of their best nonsense before midday.”
“And by ‘best nonsense’ you mean…?”
“Glow-thread for braids, nipple tassels that spin on their own, liar’s dice, and a teapot that screams when the water’s ready.”
Maude closed her eyes and laughed. “So…essentials, then. I was worried you’d say something impractical.” She checked her buckles before standing. “We’re meeting Oli at noon?”
“We are,” Selene agreed, and then, because she couldn’t resist, “And Wesley sooner?”
Maude opened the star-marked lid and took a long, long drink of coffee. “If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll arrive late and at a safe angle.”
Selene grinned. “I’ll leave you to brood. Don’t be late.” She disappeared down the hall.
Silence rolled back in, warm rather than harsh. Maude looked at herself in the scratched mirror: black skirt, fitted bodice, the rosemary at her temple, the sash slashed across her like a dare. She looked like a woman who had made choices and was going to keep making them even if the town’s favorite hobby was narrating her wrongdoings.
She picked up the lemon curd and tucked it into her satchel—because somehow he knew she loved it. Then she slid her ledger in beside it, pressedDENIEDinto a fresh page just to feel the satisfying thunk, and snorted despite herself.
Happy Samhain, Alderman. I brought your conscience.
The festival bells started in earnest outside, notes stacking like ladders into the sky. Maude squared her shoulders, checked the weight of her pocket vials, and headed out of the room—the house’s amber runes warming in her wake like the place was exhaling,There she is. Go start trouble.
Twenty-One
Against all odds, Maude didn’t feel like an abnormal shard jammed into a puzzle. Begrudgingly, it was as if she’d finally stepped into a picture everyone else had been painting without her.
The midday sun spilled over the square, catching on banners and streamers strung high across the lanes—paper moons, glass stars, pumpkins carved into wicked grins that squinted in the glare.
Stalls crowded shoulder to shoulder, every surface dripping with ribbon, laurel, and charm gone a little overboard. Steam curled from cauldrons of cider, sweet and spiced, while the air tangled with roasted chestnuts, candied pears, and woodsmoke laced with sage. Children darted through the press in masks like nightmares, laughter clattering like bells.
A fiddler played fast enough to start a fight. A drummer answered, low and steady. The whole square moved to it—feet stamping, skirts flaring, mugs clinking. Fire-dancers spun near the fountain, sparks streaking upward like meteors.
Her sash readVIOLATIONin stark black letters. The rosemary Selene had braided into her curls scratched faintly at hertemple. Each time a gaze snagged on her, she pretended not to notice.
“Maude!”
Selene tore through the crowd like a comet, skirts hitched in one hand, nipple tassels attached and spinning wildly of their own accord.
Laughter rippled; applause broke out. Someone nearly dropped a mug. Selene didn’t care. She went straight for Maude, eyes bright with feral delight.
“What is that?” she demanded, breathless, pointing at the box Maude clutched tight.
Maude smirked—slow, dangerous—and flipped open the battered wooden box. The lid bore her runes, faint heat pulsing through the grain. “Something better than tassels,” she said. “Fireworks.”
Selene’s grin went wicked. “You’re going to blow the pants off Alderman Veyne.”
“Off him,” Maude said, hefting the box, “and every sanctimonious crony he’s got lined up beside him.”
Selene whooped so loud—her tassels spinning into such a frenzy that they nearly lifted her off the ground—that the fiddler lost his place.
Maude threw her head back and cackled, helpless against it.
