Page 82 of Mane Brew

She laughs. “Of course you will.”

We walk through town hand in hand, and I try not to notice the stares. The whispers. The way people’s expressions shift from surprise to understanding to—in several cases—smug satisfaction.

Sunny intercepts us near Moonpetal Bakery, Biscuit perched on her shoulder.

“Biscuit says you’re both looking very settled,” Sunny announces cheerfully. “He also says he expects formal registration of the claiming within thirty days, in triplicate, filed with both the coven registry and the Protection Network archives.”

I blink. “Biscuit is familiar with filing procedures?”

“Biscuit is familiar with everything. He’s a very observant toad.” Sunny shoves pastries into both our hands. “These are celebration scones. They taste like happiness and mild vindication. I’ve been saving them for this specific occasion.”

“How long have you been saving them?”

“Four years.” She pats my arm cheerfully. “I had faith in the process.”

She disappears back into the bakery before I can formulate a response. Zeph is laughing so hard, she nearly drops her scone.

“Four years,” she manages. “She’s had those scones for four years.”

“Apparently everyone in Mistvale knew about my feelings before I did.”

We continue through town. More stares. More whispers. More significant looks that I pretend not to notice.

At The Crescent Cup, Marcus and Thalia are serving coffee to a cluster of exhausted-looking witches. Marcus appears at the door as we pass.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I had yesterday in the pool. Your scent changed after the battle—I knew it would happen soon.”

“My scent changed?”

“Vampires can smell emotional shifts.” He shrugs elegantly. “You’ve smelled like devotion for years. Yesterday you started smelling like acceptance.”

I don’t have a response to that. Zeph is nearly doubled over with silent laughter.

We escape before they can offer any more observations about my emotional scent profile.

The rebuilt Duskfire Brewery gleams in the afternoon light.

The damage from the Preserver attack has been repaired—better than repaired, actually. The eastern wall is reinforced with new stone. The brewing room has been expanded. The copper tanks gleam brighter than before, their surfaces etched with protective wards that the coven contributed as a thank-you gift.

The sign out front currently reads: “Open! Now Under New Management (Sort Of).”

“New management?” I raise an eyebrow.

“The brewery decided to update the sign on its own. I think it’s commenting on our relationship status.” Zeph pushes open the door. “Living magic has opinions.”

Inside, the taproom is crowded with familiar faces. The other couples have claimed their usual positions—Leire and Aslan in the corner, Sakura and Torin by the fireplace, Anouk and Caius at the bar. Four mated pairs. Four partnerships that broke a two-hundred-fifty-year curse.

Veren has commandeered a barstool and is critiquing Zeph’s newest ale to anyone who’ll listen, which currently appears to be no one. Elio watches him with the weary patience of a man who has had this exact argument before and lost.

“About time you two showed up.” Leire waves us over. “We were starting to wonder if you’d emerge at all today.”

“We had matters to review.” I keep my expression neutral.

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Aslan’s grin is insufferably knowing.

“Aslan.” Leire elbows him. “Be nice.”

She turns to Zeph with the deliberate solemnity of a woman who has been waiting for this moment for a very long time. “I’d like to formally note,” she says, “that I did warn you about the hands. At length. With wine. Months ago.”