Chapter 6 Barter Day Chaos
"Nigel!" Faelyn dropped the paddle, her eyes widening as she caught him by the arms just as his knees gave out.
He staggered back against the brick wall, coughing violently.
The purple, vein-like lines along his neck pulsed with a harsh, jagged light, creeping upward toward his jaw.
His breathing came in shallow, ragged gasps, his skin ice-cold to the touch.
"Stay still," Faelyn commanded, her voice abandoning its usual sweetness for absolute, firm authority.
She hauled his arm over her shoulder, guiding his towering frame to the small wooden bench near the hearth.
Nigel collapsed onto the bench, his fingers digging into his knees as he fought to keep his magic from tearing his chest apart from the inside out.
"It's... fine," he gritted out through clenched teeth, his dark violet eyes wide with pain and humiliation. "A minor... resonance spike... It will pass..."
"Shut up, Nigel," Faelyn snapped gently.
She moved with swift, practiced grace.
She swept aside her baking tools and grabbed an old stoneware teapot from the highest shelf. From a wooden spice box, she pulled handfuls of dried root—soothing star-thyme, crushed honey-clover, and a thick aromatic bark that smelled of warm earth and sun-baked wood.
She threw the herbs into the pot, poured boiling water over them from the kettle, and held her hands over the steeping brew.
Faelyn closed her eyes, breathing deeply.
A soft, rosy light bloomed from her palms, bleeding into the stoneware pot.
She wasn't casting a complex counter-hex; she was pouring pure, unadulterated comfort into the water—the feeling of a warm blanket on a rainy afternoon, the steady beat of a healthy heart, the quiet safety of home.
She poured the deep, golden tea into a wooden mug and stepped over to Nigel.
"Drink this," she said, kneeling in front of him so she could look up into his pained face.
"I do not require... herbal infusions..." Nigel rasped, trying to pull away.
Faelyn didn't argue. She simply reached up, wrapped her warm hands around his freezing fingers, and guided the mug directly to his lips. "Drink, Nigel. Please."
The quiet plea in her voice broke through his stubborn defenses. Nigel swallowed hard, leaning down to sip the amber liquid.
It was unlike anything he had ever tasted in the Imperial Court.
It wasn't bitter like the high-level alchemical elixirs he used to brew; it was sweet, warm, and rich.
As the liquid hit his throat, a deep, blooming heat spread through his chest.
The icy wind in the kitchen instantly died down. The frost on the tables melted back into tiny droplets of water, and the purple, pulsing veins along his neck slowly faded beneath his skin, dulling into a quiet, dormant ache.
Nigel let out a long, shuddering breath, his head sagging forward until his forehead almost touched Faelyn’s shoulder.
The sheer exhaustion of fighting the curse for days finally caught up to him.
"Better?" Faelyn asked softly, her hands still resting over his on the wooden mug.
Nigel opened his eyes slowly, looking down at her. She was kneeling right between his knees, her golden eyes filled with genuine concern, her touch warm and grounding against his ice-cold skin.
"What... what did you put in this?" he murmured, his voice low and raspy.
"Gram called it Hearth-Glow Tea," Faelyn said with a gentle smile, her thumb lightly brushing the back of his hand before she slowly pulled back.
"It doesn't cure dark magic, but it reminds your body what warmth feels like."
Nigel stared down at the mug, feeling a dangerous and frightening realization take root in his chest.
Here, in a flour-dusted kitchen with a burnt loaf of bread on the counter and a soft-spoken baker looking at him with kindness, Nigel Talbot knew he was completely, hopelessly lost.
From the back window, a loud, judgmental voice shattered the heavy silence.
Gerald the goose poked his head through the sill, staring directly at Nigel’s tea mug before letting out a sharp, demanding quack.
Faelyn laughed—a light, bright sound that made the hearth fire dance—and stood up, dusting off her skirt.
"Alright, Nigel," she said, raising an eyebrow at him with a playfulness that made his heart leap. "Break's over. You still have to help me scrub the burnt rye off that stone."
Nigel looked at the ruined baking stone, then up at Faelyn; the corner of his sharp, aristocratic mouth twitched upward into a faint, reluctant smile.
"As you wish, Mistress Greenbriar," he murmured.
By late afternoon, the barter crowd had not thinned. If anything, it had grown.
Elmswood's Barter Day always spilled into a second day, and Faelyn's front counter had become a market of its own.
A basket of turnips sat beside the register.
Someone had traded a pair of knitted socks for a dozen Forgiveness Scones. Farmer Ernest's wife had left a wheel of cheese and a stern note on how to store it.
"Nigel," she called over her shoulder, picking up a tray of dried star anise. "Keep an eye on the reduction while I bring in the apple baskets from the porch, please."
"I am perfectly capable of monitoring a simmering fruit mixture," Nigel replied, stepping up to the hearth.
He took up the wooden spoon with all the solemnity of a man swearing an oath and positioned himself before the copper pot.
The reduction bubbled lazily, thick and glossy, the deep purple of a bruise.
It smelled of warm plums and cinnamon.
Nigel stirred in slow, careful circles, determined not to humiliate himself a third time that day.
For almost a minute, it went well.
Then he looked at the bubbling purple reduction. His instincts as a sorcerer flared up instantly.
To his practiced eye, the mixture was far too sluggish. The thermal distribution was uneven, and the sweet aromatic oils were evaporating into the air instead of binding with the fruit sugars.
A simple charm would stabilize the heat, Nigel thought, narrowing his violet eyes at the copper pot.
Nothing complex—just a tiny, precise nudge of fire to elevate the flavor profile.
He held two fingers over the copper cauldron, whispering a silent, high-level ignition ward.
A sharp violet spark jumped from his fingertips straight into the bubbling jam.
Instantly, the plum reduction violently reactivated. The fruit mixture turned a blinding, luminescent magenta, expanding upward in a frothing, hissing wave of supercharged magical steam.
“Oh, by the gods—” Nigel gasped, lunging forward to clamp a wooden lid over the pot.
“Faelyn?” he called a little louder.
The pot erupted.
A fountain of glowing fruit burst toward the ceiling with a sound like a cork leaving a bottle.
Nigel threw up an arm and ducked behind the prep table. Sticky droplets pattered across the rafters, the shelves, and the floor.
The air filled with the scent of plums and ozone.
Through the back door, with perfectly terrible timing, waddled Gerald.
He had come in to inspect the noise. He paused in the doorway, head tilted, as a great shimmering wave of magical plum glaze arced through the air and struck him squarely in the chest.
The goose vanished beneath a coat of purple.
“Nigel! What was that noise?!” Faelyn rushed back into the kitchen, dropping an apple basket with a loud thud as the sweet, pungent smell of burnt spellwork filled the room.
She took in the dripping ceiling, the empty pot, Nigel crouched behind the table with his hands over his head, and a very sticky goose sitting motionless in the doorway.
"What did you do?"
"Nothing!" Nigel straightened, fruit sliding down his temple. "A spark got loose. It was a brief, contained incident."
"There is plum on the ceiling!" Faelyn shook her head, rubbing her temples.
She looked at Gerald, who hadn't moved. He sat very still, glowing faintly.
His white feathers were tinged with a faint, luminescent lavender at the tips, and his dark eyes were wide with a bizarre, glowing intelligence. A faint ring of pink and violet light pulsed around him.
Faelyn set down her candles and crouched in front of him, her face softening with worry.
"Gerald? Sweetheart? Are you all right?"
The goose blinked slowly, shook out his feathers, and sneezed, sending a spray of glaze across the floorboards.
Then he opened his beak. "I want crusts.”
