Chapter 3 Coffee, and a Very Grumpy Goose

Nigel sneezed—a surprisingly violent, unaristocratic sound—as a cloud of lavender dust and flour burst from his nose.

"You insolent little peasant," he wheezed, his eyes watering as he tried to wipe a floury hand across his cheek, only to make the smudges exponentially worse. "Did you just throw baking ingredients in my face?"

"I just saved your arrogant life," Faelyn retorted, kneeling beside him with a bowl of warm water and a clean rag.

"The High Council doesn't hunt for kitchen assistants who look like they fell into a grain silo. They hunt for polished, sharp-looking court mages. Right now, you look like a lavender-flavored muffin."

He glared at her with enough heat to boil a kettle, but the dark purple veins along his neck flared, and he let out a choked gasp, slumping back against the counter.

The hex was devouring his strength.

A heavy boot smashed against the front entrance, making the splintered wood groan.

"Break it down!" a guard barked from the porch.

Before the heavy shoulder outside could hit the frame a second time, Faelyn yanked the copper paddle out of the handles and threw the door wide open.

The lead enforcer nearly stumbled headfirst onto the wet floorboards. Two armored guards stood behind him, rain streaming off their silver shoulder plates, swords half-drawn.

"Can I help you?" she snapped, crossing her arms and glaring at the lead guard with pure, unadulterated annoyance. "Or are you planning to pay for the door you just shattered?"

The lead guard narrowed his eyes, stepping over the threshold.

His gaze swept sharply across the ruined front room—the overturned jars, the spilled lavender, the thick coat of flour dusting the counter, and the pathetic-looking, flour-covered 'assistant' slumped uselessly in the corner against a pile of grain sacks, coughing like a dying sheep.

The guard didn't give Nigel a second look. He scoffed, stepping around a puddle of spilled plum glaze.

"We are searching for a high-risk sorcerer who fled the capital," the guard barked, peering into the dark hallway toward the kitchen.

"Tall fellow, dark raven hair, sharp features, wearing a fine silk-and-velvet traveling cloak. Have you seen anyone matching that description?"

Faelyn looked past the guard toward her flour-covered, lilac-haired, apron-clad helper near the sacks, then turned back to the Enforcer with a scoff.

"Does this look like a high-court hideout to you?" Faelyn lied smoothly, pointing toward the scorched crater steaming on the cobblestones outside.

"A thunder hex struck the street two minutes ago," Faelyn lied smoothly, pointing toward the scorched crater steaming on the cobblestones outside.

"It blew my door off its hinges, destroyed a week's worth of inventory, and terrified my helper into a fit of asthma. So, unless your dark mage is hiding inside a sack of rye, you're wasting my time while my shop freezes."

The lead guard stared at her for three long seconds. He glanced at the scorched street and then back at her flour-dusted face and angry demeanor.

"If you see anyone in dark robes, report it to the watch," the guard grunted, turning back toward the rain. "Clear the street, boys. The trail went cold."

They marched down the steps, their heavy armor clanking as they disappeared into the storm.

Faelyn slammed the broken door shut, jammed the copper paddle securely back into the iron handles, and let out a long breath.

She marched over to the corner and looked down at Nigel.

"Here's the deal," she said, pointing a finger at his face. "If you want shelter under this roof, you're going to work for it. You are my new kitchen assistant, Jules. You carry sacks, you scrub cauldrons, and you do what I say. Take it or take your chances in the rain."

Without waiting for his raspy reply, she unbolted the back door, reached out into the downpour, and scooped up a very wet, very angry Gerald.

"Come on, Gerald. You're sleeping inside tonight.”

She carried the squawking goose past a stunned Nigel, set Gerald down near the warm hearth, and began locking up the shop to figure out how in the hell she was going to fix this mess.

She turned on her heel and faced him, one hand resting lightly on her hip as her gaze swept over his flour-dusted, lavender-streaked form.

"Well?" Faelyn asked, a faint, wry tilt to her lips. "Aren't you coming, Mister Talbot? I mean... Jules."

Nigel mumbled something thoroughly ungentlemanly under his breath—a string of courtly curses muffled by the flour still clinging to his lips.

Bracing a hand against the counter, he forced his trembling legs to hold his weight, pushing himself upright with as much dignity as a man in a flour-drenched apron could muster.

His chest burned, but the agonizing bite of the hex had finally dulled to a low, throbbing ache.

Before he could offer a bitter retort, Faelyn disappeared into the back kitchen, her soft footfalls echoing against the floorboards.

She returned a moment later carrying a heavy ceramic mug and a thick, handwoven wool blanket.

Without a word, she draped the blanket over his broad shoulders and pressed the warm mug into his hands.

Steam curled from the dark liquid, carrying the rich, comforting scent of roasted coffee beans laced with a hint of toasted hazelnut and sweet cream.

"Drink," she said softly, her eyes searching his face for any sign of lingering weakness. "It'll help warm your blood after that storm."

Nigel froze, staring down at the mug cradled in his palms. A strange, sharp flutter hit his chest—a sudden, unbidden flip of his heart that had absolutely nothing to do with the dark spell in his veins.

He took a slow, deep breath, finally taking the opportunity to get a good look at her.

Up close, Faelyn Greenbriar was a vision of chaotic warmth.

Stray wisps of pastel-pink hair had escaped her loose braid, framing a softly sculpted face flushed from the heat of the hearth.

A smudge of white flour sat right on the bridge of her nose, and her bright, expressive eyes held a stubborn brilliance that not even a storm or a pair of High Council Enforcers could dim.

She wore a simple milkmaid-style corset dress dusted with lavender buds and sugar, completely clueless that she had just sheltered the Kingdom’s most dangerous fugitive.

In the cold, calculating halls of the Imperial Court, kindness was always a currency, traded for influence or leverage.

But here, surrounded by the scent of roasted coffee and rising bread, her gesture was simple. Unfiltered. Pure.

Nigel lifted the mug to his lips, taking a slow sip. The warmth bloomed instantly in his throat, driving away the last lingering chill of the purple hex.

"It's not terrible," he muttered, looking away from her intense gaze and staring stubbornly at the hearth fire to hide the faint flush rising up his neck.

"High praise coming from the Royal Alchemist," Faelyn teased, a soft laugh bubbling from her chest that made his heart pull a second time.

She turned toward the garden door, unbolting it to check on the night air.

"Drink up, Jules. The attic room is up those stairs. You’ve got six hours of sleep before we start prepping the dough for the morning rush.”