Page 22 of Little Witch

"Fine," she said. "But if I go missing, tell the town I died doing something exciting. Not falling in a ditch or something equally embarrassing."

"Noted. I'll make sure the eulogy mentions bravery."

"And pumpkin bread. Mention the pumpkin bread I want left on my grave. I want people to know my priorities were in order right up until the end."

We were still bickering about the wording of her hypothetical eulogy when I felt it — a wrongness threading through the air two streets over, faint but unmistakable, the kind of pressure that settled behind my eyes before I could name what caused it. My steps slowed half a fraction. Amber didn't notice. Orias, walking a pace ahead, went rigid enough that I knew he'd caught it too.

He glanced back at me, a question in the look. I gave him the smallest nod.

"Actually," Orias said, stretching like the thought had just occurred to him, "I forgot I need to grab something from the hardware place. I'll catch you both at Jack's in ten."

"You forgot to buy a thing you've never once mentioned," Amber said, unconvinced.

"I'm a mysterious man with many needs." He was already peeling off down a side street before she could argue further, hands shoved in his pockets, the picture of someone with nowhere urgent to be, which meant he was taking it seriously enough not to want her following.

"What's actually going on?" Amber asked me, once he'd rounded the corner. "Is he making us spend time together so we talk? Because that is the kind of thing he always does."

I kept my voice easy, deliberately unbothered. "Orias forgets things constantly. Once left his own birthday party to buy screws for a shelf he never built. You know this, sweetheart."

"That's not what I asked."

"I know." I nudged her gently toward the crossing. "Tell me about the maze. What's the theme this year?"

She narrowed her eyes at me, clearly aware I'd dodged the question, but let it go, either out of trust or because the maze genuinely was a good enough distraction. "Haunted orchard. There's a scarecrow section that's supposed to be terrifying, apparently, though last year's scarecrows mostly just looked confused."

"Confused scarecrows. Truly the stuff of nightmares."

"You laugh, but Mrs. Findley took her commitment to costume design very seriously. One of them had genuinely unsettling teeth."

We kept talking the rest of the way to Jack's — the maze, the extra traders, some minor drama involving the cider stall and a feud over recipe ownership that had apparently been simmering since last year — and I let her carry most of it, asking just enough questions to keep her from noticing how often I checked the street behind us. Whatever Orias had gone to deal with, he handled it quietly enough that nothing followed us into town, and by the time we reached the shop the tight feeling behind my eyes had eased into something more manageable.

The smell of fresh bread hit the second the door swung open. I grabbed a basket.

"You take the baked stuff," I said, handing it over. "You'll know what's good. I'll get the rest."

She took it and headed for the bakery aisle without a second thought, already debating out loud with herself over pumpkin bread versus something called a maple plait I'd never heard of. I collected meat, cheese, a couple of bottles of cider, half listening to her narrate her decision-making process from two aisles over like it was the most important negotiation of her week.

"I've decided," she announced, reappearing with both loaves clutched against her chest. "We're getting both. This is not up for debate."

"I wasn't going to debate it. You can have whatever you want."

"Good. Because I would have won." She dumped the loaves into the basket with the satisfaction of someone settling an argument no one else had been having. "Do you have a favorite autumn food, or are you one of those people who eats the same thing year-round out of spite?"

"Pumpkin bread," I said. "Hands down."

"See, now I feel validated in my choices."

We paid, packed everything into two backpacks, and headed out to find Orias already waiting with his bike near the edge of town, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself given he'd just spent ten minutes taking apart something with claws behind the ironmonger's.

"Get your screws?" Amber asked, deadpan.

"Several. Very satisfying purchase." He winked. "Would you like a screw? They're going cheap."

He caught my eye over her head, gave a short, subtle shake of his head — handled, nothing that needed further explaining right now — and I let the last of the tension in my shoulders go.

"So who's riding with who?" Amber asked, glancing between the two bikes.

"You're with me," Orias said, already holding out the spare helmet. "Rowan hates sharing his bike now. He's become miserable in his absence."