“Give me that,” Selene said, snatching the box before Maude could pull it away. She flipped the latch with all the reverence of a thief mid-heist. “Oh, saints’ teeth—what have you done?”
Maude only waggled her eyebrows. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
With a flick, she shrank the box to a manageable size and tucked it into her satchel. That was when Wesley appeared.
He wove through the midday crowd with infuriating ease—like the press of bodies simply parted for him. Sunlight struck off him as if he’d stolen it: gold bright in his hair, bronze along the cut of his jaw. He wasn’t in costume. Just a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled, trousers neat, bootsscuffed.
But when he saw her, he smiled. And the world tilted a fraction.
“Witch,” he said by way of greeting, voice warm.
“Baker,” she shot back, deadpan.
His eyes swept over her cloak, her sash, the rosemary tucked. “You clean up terrifying.”
Heat crept up her neck.Treacherous. She turned to Selene as if glaring could redirect blood flow. “Why did I invite him again?”
Selene only smirked, which was acrime.
Then Oli crashed into them—literally, sequins and glitter flying like confetti—already holding four mugs of spiced cider. “My favorite people!” he sang. “And Wesley.”
“Charmed,” Wesley said dryly, taking a mug.
They fell into step like a troupe: Oli leading with scandalous commentary, Selene laughing at every outrageous thing, and Wesley—of course—at Maude’s side. Close enough that his sleeve brushed hers once, twice. Close enough that the scent of him—yeast, cardamom, clean soap—cut through cider and smoke. She told herself she didn’t notice.
As they wandered the Samhain festival, Oli heckled the fire-eaters until one threatened to set his hair alight. Selene dragged them to a mask stall where enchanted visages whispered ghost-echoes with every word. Maude let herself be bullied into trying one. She spoke three words—“Get bent, Oli”—and nearly collapsed laughing when Wesley doubled over at the sound.
“Beautiful,” Wesley wheezed, bracing a hand on his knee. “Say it again.”
“Die,” Maude intoned, the mask echoing like cathedral bells.
She ripped the mask off and shoved it at Selene, but Wesley was still looking at her like she’d turned the world sideways for a second.
They ate their way down the square: roasted squash stuffed with sage and cheese; skewers of charmed apples that sparked cinnamon when bitten; hand-pies filled with spiced meat and fig. Wesley kept handing her things without asking. She kepteating them without complaint. This should have concerned her. It didn’t.
It was…easy. Easier than she had any right to let it be.
When the crowd pressed too close, his hand lingered at the small of her back. Warm. Steady.Maddening. When smudges of ash from a roasting pit clung to her sleeve, he brushed them away with infuriating care. Each touch was nothing. Each touch waseverything.
She didn’t stop him. That shocked her most of all. Because usually? She bit. Or hexed. Or both. Instead, she found herself watching him. The way his mouth curved easily when he laughed. The way he carried himself—easy, unbothered—even while Oli tried to scandalize a fiddler by demanding a ballad about goats at full volume.
She’d called Wesley an idiot so often, it had become doctrine. But he wasn’t. Not tonight. Maybe he had never been.
He was…a friend.
Maybe—terrifyingly—something more.
Her fingers curled into her skirt.
Grief had taught her that need was weakness—that it gutted you clean when it left. She had promised herself never again. But Wesley wasn’t asking her to need. He was just there. Hand at her back. Brush of ash from her sleeve. Food passed without words. And she let him.She let him.
Maude was not careless. She was catastrophically careful—and also, apparently, doomed.
The music shifted, and the square opened like a mouth; the crowd flowed toward the fountain for the next set. Fiddles sawed, pipes trilled, the drum grinned. Someone whooped.
Oli grabbed Selene’s hand with a flourish.
Wesley offered his to Maude.
