Chapter Two
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Butter is a sensitive soul. It will melt under heat and pressure and soon you’ll be peeling sticky, gloppy biscuit dough off your fingers. Cold hands—and a cold heart—can keep it strong.
The next evening, after I close up the Apothakery, I head into town and deliberately bypass the courthouse on the main square, where my mom’s mayoral offices are.
Marigold Frost won’t be there.
Instead, I stroll into Foxe Holler Hospital at precisely the moment visiting hours begin. The Warlock’s letter weighs heavy in the front pocket of my overalls.
Antiseptic floods my nostrils the moment I pass through the sliding doors.
I’m armed with a tray of the Frosts’ signature deviled eggs (for energy levels) and a slew of other curative baked goods to dole out to staff and families hunkered down in the waiting room, even to patients, whoever needs a pick-me-up.
Before women and Farewitches could own their shops, we had a long history of operating out of tiny home kitchens or making house calls.
In a small town with a small hospital, sometimes it’s easier for me to come to the customer.
A nurse with long silver-brown hair swoops in before I even make it to the front desk, kind face beaming. “Saturday already, Honey?”
“Despite my best efforts to decipher the pandemonium of my Momaw’s kitchen grimoire, there is still no spell for stopping time.” I hold up my offering. “Hope y’all like deviled eggs.”
Nurse Carolina Vázquez smiles, taking the tray. “Why do you think I let you keep visiting?” She drops her voice to a conspiratorial rasp. “I hear the Warlock passed you a note.”
I try not to give myself away by patting my pocket.
The hospital is frigid, but today my cheeks are warm with guilt.
I swear I can feel harsh eyes on me, like everyone in the waiting room knows I haven’t yet refused the Warlock’s offer like a good Witch should.
The Warlock is rumored to be ancient, even immortal, so I was expecting the letter to dissolve into dust. Go out with a bang.
But if I really thought that, would I have kept it in my pocket the last twenty-four hours?
I don’t answer that. What would my neighbors think, knowing I’d kept a probably cursed item from a Warlock whom everyone despises?
Carolina raises a perfectly threaded, graying eyebrow. “I heard there were fireworks. Or lightning? I can never understand old Beulah; she carries on too fast.”
I snort in a way Ms. Buchanan would surely frown at. “Greedy gossips. It’s been a literal day.” Folks have made it clear I’m a poor replacement for Marigold Frost, yet my name on their tongue is their favorite flavor.
She smirks like a best friend would, even though we’re on opposite ends of the millennial spectrum. “Did he really sign his letter ex-oh-ex-oh?”
“You’re terrible. All of you.”
Then her teasing expression falls like a bad soufflé. “I’m serious, though. He’s serious. He makes the Widow Witch look like a Halloween costume.”
It’s barely April, and the Holler is more anxious than ever.
Each spring, the Widow Witch earns her name and leaves behind one widow before the summer solstice.
My gut says some of these vanishings are just the nastier pieces of work fleeing the altar or the old marriage bed—and town—the minute the weather turns nice and they get bored.
She’s always felt like an old wives’ tale used to scare young women. I can hear the church ladies now:
The Widow Witch was once a young woman who remained unmarried and childless, so for bitter revenge, she preys on a loving couple each wedding season.
But the lore isn’t only hysterics.
One person always disappears.
Last spring, it was Sonny Cumberland. Younger than me, and newly married, too. Although gossip says he and his new wife already had words in the middle of church on account of whatever happened at his bachelor party.
“The town hasn’t seen this man’s face in twenty-five years. And to think, that big old mansion used to hold parties. With real people!”
“Maybe he likes his alone time.” It’s my go-to excuse to get out of social commitments. “Shoot, if I lived in a mansion, I wouldn’t leave, either.”
“No one likes themselves that much. You can’t be a recluse in a reclusive town. They cancel each other out. That just makes him suspicious.”
I lower my voice. “He’s only asked for a Farewitch, like any other customer.” So why am I sticking up for him so quickly? “Can anyone tell me exactly what is so terrible about this man? Give me a list of his crimes?”
“He’s a Warlock. That’s everything you need to know. They spread plagues, conjure storms, ruin crops—”
“Mess with hen egg-laying patterns?”
“Exactly! You and I know better than anyone they’re just elitist hoarders of powerful magic.
” Her eyes catch me with memories we share of my mom’s futile hunt to cure Momaw’s fatal illness with all the magic and money we had.
Where was the Warlock of Foxe Holler, this Mr. Knight, fifteen years ago when his town’s Farewitch was dying?
I intend to find out. Given I’m here and not at the shop preparing tomorrow’s dough, it’s obvious I could do with a bit of elite powerful magic.
“Warlock or not, he’s a resident of this Holler. Which means he’s entitled to the help of the Farewitch.”
The nurse’s face softens. “What are you going to do?”
That’s the headline of the day, isn’t it?
FAREWITCH FROST FACES FIASCO OR FATE?
Another odd thought takes over. A silly one, really. If no one has seen this Warlock in decades… how old is he, exactly?
“Does anyone actually know what the Warlock did twenty-five years ago that sent him into isolation? Beyond speculation and making him the devil in every farmer’s almanac?”
Carolina shrugs. Her dark eyes gloss over for a second, then refocus. “Something terrible.” She shakes her head. “I’ll take you down the hall.”
Like every other Saturday, I follow Carolina down a hallway that reminds me of egg whites.
The chemical smell, abrasive overhead fluorescent lighting, and the fridge-cold air are all a well-known ritual at this point, but that doesn’t make this comfortable.
Though I’m partial to rituals. What’s a recipe if not a brief, previous ritual?
This is our ritual. And it’s a lie.
Well, a partial lie. More a half-truth? Mom always told me I should’ve studied law.
I do visit to be friendly, to make sure the evening staff don’t run out of snacks because the day staff get first dibs on the treats folks bring in.
It’s not odd to see a Farewitch visit a hospital so often, but the patients here are mostly dealing with severe illnesses I can’t cure.
Cancer, lupus, Alzheimer’s… I respect a Farewitch’s limits. All magic has its ceiling.
No Witch or Warlock can create life or conjure extra time where there is none.
The Frosts have always worked alongside modern medicine.
A chamomile and lavender cookie can brighten someone’s day, but with a Farewitch’s spell, it can literally help a patient get some calm rest to help their recovery.
Lemon and olive oil cake distracts a fussy baby whose tired parents have been up all night, but with one of my sigils baked into the bottom, it can deliver a little boost of anxiety-fighting goodness.
Other types of Witches do spellwork, too.
As a Hearthwitch, Carolina is leagues better than me at serious defensive warding.
Even someone without any magic can craft medicinal tinctures and homeopathic cures.
But without the inherited Farewitch magic, the intention and family affinities, those cures are just like any other over-the-counter fix at a drugstore.
Exhibit A: the truth. I do provide the magical sustenance.
But Nurse Carolina provides the discretion. When we reach the wing for longer-term residents, we stop outside the usual room. No name on this door.
Exhibit B: the lie.
Carolina nods at the door. “You should get in there. Rough day for her.”
Then I’m alone, one hand pressed against my overalls pocket with the letter, the other on the doorknob.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for Carolina keeping an eye on things.
The emotional debt I owe rivals the hospital bills.
She took care of Momaw Frost those last few months and understood the grim situation then, just as she understands the same…
sensitive situation we’re in now. Maybe it makes me ungrateful, but a delicate tablespoon-of-vanilla-sized part of me wishes I never needed to get to know her in the first place.
The Warlock’s invitation—demand?—gnaws at the back of my brain matter.
What could plague a Warlock that he can’t cure himself?
Especially if the rumors are true about his archives and he has endless magical texts and spell books at his disposal.
I’m not sure whether to be highly suspicious and afraid… or intrigued. Or all three.
A voice comes through the door. “I know you’re out there. Stop overthinking and come in already.”
I sigh. Caught. When I enter the room, a middle-aged version of me sits up in her hospital bed.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Whatever Carolina was saying about me, she’s fibbing. I’m a star patient.”
Marigold Frost is all stern nods and raised eyebrows to anyone who doesn’t know her, but a smile slips through for me.
Her graying-blonde hair rests in a plait over her shoulder, since Farewitches know ponytails stir up headaches after a long day in the kitchen.
She was once a plump woman from sampling her concoctions as she went.
But now, she’s not so much warm loaf of bread as, well, breadstick.
When I came home, I thought she was just pale and thin from the stress of being the Holler’s new mayor. But back then, our biggest heartbreak was still only Momaw’s death, and we were both blessedly na?ve.
After giving her a hug, I take my usual seat by her bed. “How is Mayor Frost this evening?”