Oakley was an old man with dark skin and even darker, gnarled patterns. Old, but whether through a life of woodworking, or the magic seeping from Mistwood like the mountain’s fog, he was still strong.

  And for as old as he was, he was hardly the oldest thing around here. He sighed, leaning against the tea cafe—a new renovation of an old project of his—as Mettie approached. She didn’t look it—could a lavender and pink sheep woman even have a visible age?—but she was older, and she must’ve smelled fresh blood.

  “Aaaaw, Mister Wood! Good to see ya again,” she said, sharp teeth munching on a stick of cheap lavender incense. “What brings you in at this hour?”

  “Tea.”

  “Really? You don’t seem the type.”

  Oakley shrugged. “Helped build the place twice now, might as well see what it’s about now.” He rubbed a hand against the wooden walls, painted over fresh with a cheery yellow. It seemed to move softly to meet his hand, glad to see its father back. Even under the coat of cheery yellow, he still recognized them. “What about you?”

  “Oh, just seeing if Lil Miss in here needs a hand sleeping.”

  “Uh huh,” he said. He hardly doubted she’d make a visit in person just for that, not with as many little familiars and products as she has. “You’re doing business, aren’t you?”

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  “Hmm? And what if I am? This is a place of business after all.”

  “What kind of gimmick are you doing now to scam others? Come on now. We’ve done this dance before, so don’t play innocent with me.” Given that it was a tea shop, he could guess, but…

  Hooves reached up and pinched his cheek, dog-like teeth that had no business in an otherwise sheepy lady too close to his neck for comfort. “Aaaaw, you youngins are so suspicious these days! Whatever happened to neighborly trust?”

  “You eat dreams.” He wouldn’t pretend to understand the full implications, but it didn’t sit right with him. The thoughts in a person’s head, even in sleep, should’ve been private, and he refused to believe that it was harmless.

  “So? Not a scam if I advertise that. The money’s hers, the dreams are mine, sleep goes to the buyer. All above board. Ain’t no one getting dirt on Miss Mettie.”

  Oakley sighed and took a step back. “I know you were running people out. You’re not hurting that girl in there, are you?”

  “I’d say guilty as charged, but good luck proving it was me in court!” She laughed and took a drag of incense like it was a cigarette—magic was full of little oddities like that. “But no. Girl’s a doormat. No threat to me! Even planned on selling chamomile anyways, so might as well get my pound of flesh.”

  Oakley narrowed his eyes at her. He didn’t like it, but it sounded in character.

  “Why do you care so much anyways, Mister Wood?” Mettie said.

  “What, can’t get nostalgic? You know this was one of my first jobs back in the day.”

  “Oh was it? I’d completely forgot!” She tittered, waving him off, but it was in the way she tilted her head, going through the trouble of hiding both of eyes, that told him she was playing it up.

  But that wasn’t his business. “Just go easy on her.”

  “Hey, if everyone feels like they win, that’s just a good deal.”

  “Better actually be a good one.”