Chapter Two #2
“Fit as ever. I could debone a duck right now if you needed one.”
My gaze narrows on her. We’ve got the same blue eyes and pale skin, which means the same purple eye bags when we’re utterly spent. But my mom has always been a better liar than me.
Marigold Frost, current mayor, has overseen Foxe Holler with the thoroughness and care of a chef in her kitchen.
Marigold Frost, former Farewitch and my mom, is also dying.
The lead apron came for Momaw Frost but stayed for my mom.
She pats the bag I brought with me. “Did you—”
I pull out a bottle of Cheerwine, cold and sweating. A spark lights her eyes. She downs the sugary drink in crisp gulps. In a recipe for Marigold Frost’s immediate happiness, Cheerwine is the first ingredient.
“They don’t give me any of the good stuff,” she says after draining half the bottle. “You’re telling me Jell-O is better for my health than this?”
I don’t argue, giving in to a shiver instead.
The room is chilly enough that it would be a good place to work with buttery biscuit or pie dough, but other than that, this place reminds me of a meat fridge.
The only steady constant is the tight staccato of beeping machines.
What happened to the daffodils I brought?
Not a speck of yellow anywhere. Momaw would be appalled.
There’s a tray of food my mom has clearly been avoiding out of sheer stubbornness. A small bread roll (visibly stale), the aforementioned Jell-O, a mass of what has to be collard greens—no bacon, of course—and some clumpy dish whose defining characteristic is Already Digested.
Mom yanks on my focus. “The nurses have been extra chatty. The way the hospital’s squawking about you, it’s like you’ve gone and won the lottery, girl.”
Oh no. I’m too late.
I hoped to talk face-to-face first, before the he-said, she-said network of town got busy. Momaw’s voice rings strong in my head: Don’t be green, girl. Foxe Holler loves its lore and loyalty. If I befriend the wrong legend, make the wrong decision, bitter and upset townsfolk might try to debone me.
My mom raises both eyebrows, her way of being more tactful than her own mother. Unlearning generational bad habits and all that. “Does the Warlock really write in script?”
“What?” The letter burns in my pocket. Maybe I should check if it’s actually burning. “Oh, uh, yeah. His cursive is actually pretty good.”
“Phew. I don’t think that old man knows what century we’re in. Glad to know I’m not the most outdated soul in the Holler.”
“Least not while Beulah Buchanan and Gertha Fudge walk the earth.”
“Those two old busybodies could subsist on Communion wafers and hard candy till Judgment Day.” She eyes me real good. “You, on the other hand…”
Here we go. “Don’t start, Mom.”
“You eating?”
“You know how busy the shop gets. I’m surrounded by food if I want it. I’m fine.”
“A hot brown would do you some good; your nail beds are blue—”
“What did we talk about?”
“Yes, yes, commenting on bodies, I know. I don’t want to be another relic of a matriarch.” She props herself up, flat biceps shaking, and I catch her wince of exhaustion. I’d do anything to take some of the pain away.
Anything? Like heal a dangerous Warlock just to get access to his magic or money?
“What did he offer you?”
I release a breath, ruffling my bangs. Like the undercooked center of a cake, there’s no avoiding this. Eventually we’d eat our way here. “He said I’d be compensated handsomely.”
“Ha! Lies. That Warlock’s been hoarding money and magic in that decrepit old mansion for decades. Centuries, who knows. Doesn’t spend a single wheat penny.”
“If he really is as old and powerful as everyone says, what’s the harm in a quick checkup?”
“Ignoring the fact he’s been a blight on this Holler for as long as anyone can remember?”
“Can they remember?” The Holler has a growing population of old women whose memories are selective. “He might be familiar with cures, or magic we’ve never seen before. Combined with our recipes, it might make a difference…”
“And what’s the isolation done to his mind? He could be eating cute young blondes for dinner. He certainly isn’t going to the Piggly Wiggly for groceries.”
This is getting ridiculous. We don’t even have a Piggly Wiggly.
But logic doesn’t matter here. Because for as long as Witches have been butting heads in this town with anti-magic zealots like Gertha Fudge, they’ve liked Warlocks even less.
Small towns might warm up to grassroots magic and neighborhood Witches, but powerful beings like Warlocks don’t usually settle in one place, where their magic wouldn’t have room to expand and consume.
History shows us Warlocks often monetize what Witches are already good at, then demonize midwives and kitchen girls for those very same skills.
That rivalry is why the Witches in this Holler will withstand the threat of the Widow Witch and the damage her reputation does for magic, but heaven forbid a Warlock sends a letter.
I square my shoulders and try to look as mature as possible in overalls.
“I know Warlocks have disappointed us before. We paid them to help cure Momaw, and they gave us a whole bunch of nothing. I know. But I also know what bills got paid or didn’t based on the groceries in the fridge.
” I gesture around the room we basically mortgage.
“We live in a town smaller than the population of a liberal arts college, Mom. The Apothakery is busy, but if five people go vegan, we won’t be able to afford ingredients, and we sure as hell can’t pay the hospital. ”
“Vegan? Here? Girl, Beulah Buchanan thinks we still use lard in the pie dough, and I don’t have the heart to correct her…”
“Mom.”
“Honey, I’m going to be too tired to argue with you soon.” She downs the rest of her Cheerwine. “Focus on the Apothakery, on our neighbors. The good folks we know. Do not accept the Warlock’s offer.”
Is that an order? I want to snap, my frustration surfacing. Or my hunger.
When she crosses her arms, I know the conversation is over.
“Shouldn’t you be out on a Saturday night?” she adds, like she’s just asking me for a mint and not commanding me to avoid a mysterious and treacherous ancient Warlock in an isolated danger-palace far from everything and everyone I know.
I slump back in my chair. I’d call her out on the lousy diversion if I weren’t so tired. “With who? Ms. Buchanan and her poodle?”
“I don’t know, a date. Just because we Frosts don’t take husbands—”
“Word choice.”
“—or partners, doesn’t mean we have to be celibate.”
“Ew, Mom, really? Word choice.”
The Frost women before me have always gotten away with tolerating men just long enough to keep the Farewitch line going.
Our family’s tradition is the source of consternation for the conservative old church ladies, who love to gossip about promiscuous Witches.
Because of the Widow Witch, we Frosts aren’t the only folks in the Holler who dodge marriage, but the church ladies are too afraid of the Witch to make a true fuss over neighbors living in unmarried dens of sin.
Feeling conflicted about this no-win scenario is one of their top-five hobbies.
“Just don’t spend all night looking at all those old recipe books and family grimoires,” my mom adds. “I’ve told you before, you won’t find anything in there.”
Same argument, same ending. I want to holler in frustration. Our kitchen grimoires are our bibles. What if we missed something? What if I missed something? These thoughts keep me from sleeping most nights.
Especially considering the Farewitch of Foxe Holler is a fraud.
Sure, I can cure concussions with apple dumplings, inflammation with butternut squash, a bloody nose with hush puppies, and the flu with burgoo.
I can hold my own with remedies that keep the Holler running.
But if I can’t puzzle out the mysterious wasting disease eating away at the woman who raised me, and the woman who raised her, what kind of Farewitch am I?
I don’t get the chance to mount a final protest because at that exact moment my nemesis walks in.
Silas Key, I can admit, is an objectively stylish force in his usual three-piece pinstripe suit, which today he’s traded for a linen version for the warmer April weather.
But that doesn’t matter, because every time I see him, he looks increasingly like a formidable mayor while my mom looks less and less like one.
“Silas,” I say. More of a grunt than a greeting.
Bless his heart, he tries to smile, but my scowl probably doesn’t make it easy. “Ah, Honey. Delightful.”
He’s my mom’s number two, the person who would take her place when she… if she, I mean… Well, in so many words, Silas is me. Marigold Frost goes around collecting people-pleasing young folks to fill her chef’s clogs.
But my mom doesn’t need a Silas, a number two. She’s going to get better; I’ll see to it. Even if it means I don’t avoid a mysterious and treacherous ancient Warlock in an isolated danger-palace far from everything and everyone I know.
Silas brushes a perfect comma of blond hair off his forehead. “I’m sorry to interrupt the obviously jolly energy in the room, but I need our mayor to sign a few documents.”
“Too tired,” my mom sighs.
“Marigold.”
“Silas.”
“Marigold, do we have to argue like an old married couple every time I need you to do a single clerical task? You’re still the mayor on a Saturday, you know.”
“Frosts don’t have husbands—”
“Or partners,” I interject.
“—or partners, Silas, you know that. And I enjoy our bickering.”
He rolls a pair of brown eyes. “So you’re not too tired for that?”
“We’d never work, anyway. Marriage would take the fun out of this.”
“To clarify, would that be because of our quarter-century age gap, or the fact that I’m looking for a husband?”
My mom throws out a hand. “Fine. Hand them here. You can entertain me with the story of your latest date, because my daughter isn’t going on any.”
Her assistant slash number two slash secretary grimaces as if he’s recalling a particularly terrible memory. Interesting.