THIS FAE. STRAIGHT MIC DROP
“Tell Bea we are bringing the pastries, and that is final.”
Lin leans halfway out of the Cackling Hen doorway, wooden spoon in hand like she is ready to declare war across the street. Her pince-nez glints in the afternoon light while her tie-dyed dress ripples dramatically behind her, making her look like a rainbow-clad general marching into battle.
I laugh as I step backward onto the sidewalk, coffee warm in my grip, steam curling up from the lid. The rich aroma mingles with the crisp autumn air. “You are going to have to fight her for it.”
“I will,” Lin fires back without hesitation, already turning to shake that spoon toward the diner as though Bea can feel the challenge through brick and glass. “Tell her I am ready.”
Toni stands beside her with folded arms, watching the whole thing with quiet satisfaction. Her freshly dyed pink pixie cut gleams under the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees, and the chains hanging from her culottes jingle softly with each subtle movement. The Clash logo on her shirt fits, given her sister’s militant stance on pastries. “You stay ready, you hemp-loving goose.”
“Bea should be terrified. I’m scrappy.” Lin snaps, puffing out her chest like a bantam rooster defending her territory.
“Bea makes better pies,” Toni adds, calm and helpful in the most unhelpful way possible. Her blue eyes twinkle with mischief, clearly enjoying the way her words land like a perfectly aimed dart.
Lin gasps, pressing her free hand dramatically to her chest. “Traitor.”
I shake my head, smiling as I lift my cup in a small salute. The warmth seeps through the ceramic into my palms, grounding me in this moment of pure, ridiculous affection. “You two are ridiculous.”
“You love us!” Lin calls after me, waving her wooden spoon like a flag of victory.
“I really do,” I mutter as I turn down the street, the grin lingering longer than I expect. The admission surprises me with its truthfulness, settling warm and solid in my chest.
Crazy-ass Witches.
A few weeks ago, I did not know a single person in this town. I was a stranger carrying nothing but grief and reluctance, planning to patch things up and disappear as quickly as possible. Now I have front-row seats to pastry rivalries and people arguing over who gets to supply my grand reopening. I have friends who declare war over baked goods and call me out for loving them in the same breath.
It still feels a little unreal, like I’ve stepped into someone else’s life, one where I actually belong.
The breeze carries a sharper edge today, cool enough to slip beneath my sweater and settle against my skin. October has stepped aside without ceremony, leaving November to take its place with quiet authority. The shift feels steady and natural instead of abrupt, like the town has decided to embrace the change.
I pull my sweater closer as I walk, the soft fabric providing just enough barrier against the chill. My braids shift with each step, the weight of them familiar and comforting against my back.
The cold inside the wards has a softness to it, a restraint that keeps it from biting too deep. It reminds me of the season without punishing me for it, like walking through autumn in a snow globe, contained, protected, perfected. I glance toward the boundary at the far edge of town, where the world beyond carries on without that protection, harsh and unfiltered.
“There is probably snow out there already,” I murmur, my breath fogging in the cold before dissipating. “I am not complaining.”
A couple approaches from the opposite direction, bundled more heavily than I am. Their scarves are wound tight around their necks, hands shoved deep into coat pockets. Their attention shifts toward me as they pass, and I brace myself out of habit, for the curious stares, the whispered questions, the way strangers usually look at the new person in a small town.
“Miss Thorne,” the man nods his head in my direction. The greeting is easy and warm, carrying no hidden weight or expectation. The woman beside him smiles, a genuine expression that reaches her eyes.
There is no hesitation in their voices, no curiosity weighing down the moment, no lingering stares that make me feel like I have stepped into the wrong place wearing the wrong skin. Just acknowledgment, acceptance, the kind of casual recognition that speaks of belonging.
I blink once, then smile, waving like the mad woman I am becoming in this place. “Hi.”
They continue on their way without fanfare, leaving me standing there with something loose and warm unfurling in my chest.
I keep walking, that warmth settling low and steady, having nothing to do with the coffee in my hand and everything to do with the simple miracle of being seen and accepted. I sigh, letting myself relax into the peaceful rhythm of my walk back from my very amusing lunch break.
Ruby Springs spreads out around me like a living painting, all warm brick and weathered wood, windows glowing with soft light. The red spring runs alongside the street. The sound of it has become as familiar as my own heartbeat.
Bits and Bobs comes into view before anything else.
Lucien’s shop sits where it always has, quiet and composed, its presence steady against the flow of the street. The building itself is unremarkable in the way that only truly remarkable things can be, bricks and mortar that somehow manage to feel both ancient and timeless. I have passed it every day without giving it more than a glance, and that realization slows my steps more than I expect.
How have I been so focused on everything else that I’ve barely acknowledged the space where he spends his days? The man who’s been nothing but patient and kind, who brings me coffee and checks on my progress. The man who finds himself at my dinner table most nights. I haven’t even been to any of their houses, don’t even know what their lives look like beyond the pieces that involve me. Have I been that self-absorbed?
My focus drifts to the window. Objects rest inside with deliberate care, arranged in a way that draws attention without demanding it. A small collection of antiques sits near the glass, each piece carrying a weight that feels older than the building itself, older than the town, maybe older than the state. Each piece holds a story waiting to be discovered, secrets wrapped in silver and wood and glass. Everything here is deliberate, I have no doubt, every placement, every angle, every beam of light that falls across the displays.
