Chapter Three #2
The memory comes with a homing beacon of an instinct and I head for the back of the floor plan, where I’m positive the kitchen will be. Logically, it’s safe to assume he’ll interview me there. This doesn’t feel like trespassing. I think. I’m welcome, right?
As I go, the place is an absolute rabbit warren with halls and nooks and spiral staircases that climb nowhere.
The scent of loamy earth follows me, but I can’t tell if it’s the soil-giving-life type or the decaying-into-the-ground kind.
Everywhere I look, tiny intricate carvings of plants and herbs decorate the crown molding, the banisters, even the wood doors.
Stained glass windows bloom from the walls, the glassy images of basil, rosemary, sage, and thyme tossing slants of green-tinted sunlight into the otherwise dim and dusty house.
If this man weren’t a Warlock, I’d say a Greenwitch lives here.
So far, the inside doesn’t promise to remedy any deficiencies in confidence the outside creates. It’s in such a state of disrepair, my brain demands order, so I quickly make a mental list of all the ingredients for this disaster of a recipe:
⒈／⒉ of a dining room table, leaves missing
12 dining room chairs (for what people?)
7 random trunks, empty, possibly once for clothes?
A healthy number of rugs and quilts that all need cleaning
Countless potted ferns and palms, arranged evenly throughout the first floor
Banjos that seem to multiply every time I look away
A grand piano, under a painter’s tarp
A child’s bike?
But even with my curiosity, I don’t meander. I’m here for a reason, and I have a feeling the less time I spend wandering around this place, the better.
Just as I thought, a narrow door tucked away at the end of a hall, close to the dining room, at last reveals what I’m looking for.
Despite the rest of the place, the house’s kitchen is… Wow.
I spin in place as I take in literal walls of windows.
Several look out toward the front porch and the drive even though we’re at the back of the house.
The kitchen must be one of the later additions tacked on at an impossible angle.
Warlock magic, or shoddy architectural design?
The windows offer the perfect view of unwanted visitors; someone in the kitchen definitely could have seen me coming.
Copper pots hang from the tall ceiling alongside dried bundles of herbs, directly over an island the size of a pontoon boat.
There’s even an elegant gas range, and there next to—
Lord above, it’s an AGA stove. With five ovens. Five! The glorious beauty is a welcome shot of comforting espresso to my unease. Gorgeous. The Apothakery has two ovens, sometimes, and I’m constantly fighting the two devils over their cold and hot spots.
All right, I’ll admit it. Knight Manor has one helluva kitchen.
As I move to get a better look at the AGA, I trip over a loose tile and nearly land on my face. A tile I’m pretty sure wasn’t unseated before.
My cheeks warm. Can a house be annoyed at someone? If what I’ve heard is true, the Warlock’s magic would be powerful enough to saturate this farmhouse with… personality.
Great. This should be fun.
Then there’s a shuffling sound, and I whirl around.
When I listen, it’s quiet again. I’m alone. A shiver runs through me so fast, my arm hair rises. Get it together, Honey. Probably a bat, by the state of this place. Could be the old house settling. I get the impression lots of things here squeak. I pray there are no mice.
Extra careful stepping over the tile now, I head for the massive fridge.
The heart of a house, a fridge is where Farewitches start, if we make the rare house call. I’m a professional, but also nosey, and scouring a fridge can be a great step in the right direction toward a diagnosis.
On cue, the fridge’s double doors screech when I yank them open.
A viciously sour smell smacks me in the face.
We’ve got grape jelly, probably to go with the peanut butter on the counter.
Soy sauce. Two cartons of eggs, somehow not the source of the smell.
An obscenely large bunch of radishes that would love some butter and salt.
Kids’ Yoo-hoo drink boxes taking up extensive shelf real estate, and a single chilled bottle of what is either rice cooking wine or baijiu. Lastly, apple butter.
Mine, from the Apothakery. I’d recognize those jars anywhere.
The inside is as pitiful as the smell promised. But as I close the doors, a weird sort of smile inches onto my face. This looks like my fridge on particularly busy weeks.
Then someone giggles.
I whirl again and come face-to-face with a severe-looking older woman eyeing me across the island, arms folded and mouth cross.
“Ah!” I slap a hand over my racing heart. Wait—I’m the one who doesn’t live here. “Sorry, ah—did you… did you giggle?”
The woman’s narrow cold eyes are gray, like her hair. “Do I look like I giggle?”
I make the mistake of taking a second to answer. The hair, perfume, and cardigan-skirt set are giving off major grandma energy. Momaw gave me plenty of those stern looks. Suddenly, I feel underdressed in my overalls, even though they’re my good ones, linen, instead of my usual torn denim.
“Ah, no. I mean—I’m sorry. The front door was open, I think, and I didn’t want to be late just standing in the drive, so I thought I’d wait here, and since I was invited, I figured no one would mind if I let myself in—”
“Please, Ms. Faust, no need to pontificate.”
“It’s Frost. Like frosting.”
“I’m sure.”
Frost like frigid, I should’ve said. I throw out a hand. “Honey Frost. Farewitch of Foxe Holler.” I sound like I’m asking a question, unsure. “Stellar to meet you.”
The older woman looks down at my offered hand like I’m holding a cracked, goopy egg. She doesn’t shake it. “We know who you are. Mr. Knight is unfortunately expecting you.” Her voice lowers and I swear the sunlight vanishes for a second. “We didn’t think you would show.”
I remember the Warlock’s letter. Regretfully. Unfortunately. What is it with these people?
“I’m the Holler’s Farewitch. I can help anyone, or I can try.” Nice. Real confident. “All someone has to do is ask.”
“People-pleasing is a trauma response, dear.”
Surprising that the fifth member of The Golden Girls is online enough to know that vocabulary, but I keep that retort to myself.
I’m getting tired of this woman’s crusty top layer, but I’ll find some way into her goodwill. I’m good at wiggling into places I’m not supposed to be. “Right, well, thank y’all for having me.”
She cocks her head; the French roll of her hair doesn’t roll a bit. A single hair doesn’t even flutter. “How much do you know about the Warlock and Knight Manor?” It’s almost like she’s surprised I remember why I’m here.
“Admittedly, only whatever the rumor of the month is…” My words die under her withering stare. Now that I think about it, I’ve never seen her before at the shop or in town.
Who are these people tucked away at the edge of the Holler? If I had to guess the true identity of the Widow Witch, this lady would be in my top three.
“Where are the rest of the staff?”
“It’s just me. And before you ask, I’m no Witch. The Warlock is the only one with magic in this house.”
“Excellent,” I say, mustering confidence I don’t feel. That explains the state of the upkeep. “Independent working women, us two. Solitary work is good for the soul. Don’t bother a cake; you have to leave it alone to cool right.”
She scrunches her nose. “Do you often talk to yourself in inspirational quotes?”
“Oh, it’s something my Momaw used to say. I’m writing her advice into a cookbook. Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong—”
She heaves a sigh. “You have an hour to make something for Mr. Knight. Consider it your interview.”
Hold on a mother-loving second. “Uh—I’m sorry, what—”
“Is there a problem?”
She has a few months left, at best. We need an answer. Now.
A pitiful Farewitch, I might be. But a slipshod daughter? Never. I can do this. “Not at all. May I meet the Warlock now? I need to speak with him about his illness before I begin.”
“No, you may not.”
What. She’s kidding.
Farewitches draw from a common source of power with intention and the right ingredients, but each of us inherits our own unique twist to the magic that helps us find our focus in the kitchen.
A magical thumbprint, of sorts. I might not be the best Farewitch, but I know my strengths, and my particular magical affinity requires the patient.
“I’m sorry, but that’s not how this works. I have to see him to begin my process and make a preliminary diagnosis. Farewitch magic needs—”
“That won’t be possible. He’s busy reinforcing the wards around the Manor.”
“Warding? Against what?”
She looks down her nose at me like I should already know.
What in the hell is going on—I’m invited!
How’s he going to try what I make if he doesn’t show up?
I came here to cure an ailing Warlock who, despite having some monstrously powerful magic according to the town, obviously doesn’t possess the right kind or amount to heal himself.
The mysteries keep building and I’ve had enough.
“He needs to make an exception. Otherwise, I can’t do my work, Ms.—”
“If you can’t find a way, then make one.
Otherwise, leave.” Glare. “And you may address me as Ms. Zeen. I’m the Governess.
” Her eyes wander over me again, mouth wrinkling up like the shriveled skin of roasted potatoes.
Yup. Definitely the overalls. She’s clearly offended by clothing on the onesie family tree.
“I don’t believe Warlock Knight is going to like you one bit,” she says, and then turns on one kitten heel and is gone.
He’ll get over it. That’s what I want to say. But what comes out is a lackluster “That’s unfortunate” the Governess doesn’t even hear. I will most definitely be leaving that prickly pear of a cake alone to cool.
Once again, I’m by myself in a large empty kitchen, feeling more alone than when I arrived.
There’s another giggle.
Maybe not so alone.