Chapter Four #2
“I don’t invite outsiders here lightly. Indulge me,” he says, but his attention is on something beyond the back windows, the gardens. There’s that haunted something again. Sadness? Or guilt?
“If it’s magic in origin, have you consulted with other Warlocks?”
“Discretion, Ms. Frost.” His tone doesn’t leave any air for debate. “How does your magic work, exactly? I didn’t know your predecessors, and I’ve never met another Farewitch.”
He wouldn’t have, not here in the Holler. Witches know Witches, and Warlocks know Warlocks. But the two groups don’t mix. The last Warlock to actually live here in the Holler was… I have no idea.
“Farewitch magic is basically practical healing made stronger. It’s not automatic by any means. I suppose it’s a… triangle of sorts.”
The oil is almost ready, so I turn back to my ingredients.
“We start with the same ingredients, tools, the pantry anyone might have access to. Then we add our magic that comes from intention, spells, rituals, incantations, the inherited family recipes. The lore of ingredients or sigils, folk knowledge passed down through generations…” He’s got me so on edge, I’m rambling.
“Lastly, Farewitches manifest a unique affinity. It’s like a thumbprint…
Or, it flavors how our magic helps people. ”
The oil is perfectly hot. I drop my scraggly clumps of flour into the skillet, one at a time so the oil can keep up its heat.
The noise of the robust sizzle dances around the kitchen.
Flour and cornmeal turn crispy. Garlic and onion and oregano and paprika tickle my nose.
The place begins to smell like a real kitchen and not a floor model of one.
What’s magical is how frying oil instantly makes a place feel lived in. A house into a home.
“Do other kinds of Witches have affinities within their magic?”
“Sure, though they might refer to it in a different way. But a Farewitch is always born with an affinity. They usually repeat through bloodlines, though not always. My grandmother’s was a skill with herbalism.
And my mom’s was—is elemental magic. Fire and heat.
She can manipulate and control temperatures.
A coveted affinity for a Farewitch, obviously. ”
“And yours?”
I hesitate. Farewitches don’t consider our affinities secret or private by any means, but when I tell someone mine, they ever so gently pull back. Like I might steal something from them, when in reality I’m just listening to what their memory wants to tell me.
He shifts in his stool, restless at my lack of an answer. “I need to know if your magic will only help me live longer with the illness, or if it will actually fix the problem. Does your healing promise me time or health, Ms. Frost?”
I drop a plate of expertly golden-brown fried green tomatoes on the island in front of him. “I’ve found, Mr. Knight, that the key to health is usually time.”
He leans back, staring at the tomatoes. And staring. If he wore glasses, the lenses would steam. The Warlock of Foxe Holler has apparently met his match in the form of fried Solanum lycopersicum.
I nudge the plate. I know I’ve chosen the perfect recipe. He might be a stoic wall, but his memories aren’t, and he should feel some type of good after eating this, whether physically or even just emotionally. “Don’t let them get cold.”
In a gesture that’s alarmingly endearing, he picks up a fork and knife to saw a tomato into neat pieces.
I notice the utensils then—carved Chinese characters crawl up the intricate stems, but the fine silver is old and tarnished now, like the rest of the farmhouse.
Folks usually eat my fried green tomatoes with their hands. He’s gruff but he’s got manners.
But he still hasn’t removed his gardening gloves, even to eat. I take it back. Unsanitary. Although if it’s because of his illness, it’s not my place to question him, especially since he’s had decades of isolation to hone his quirks.
It’s been a while since my heart’s gone wonky waiting for someone to try that first bite of my food, and I realize I’m holding my breath. This isn’t just any customer. If he doesn’t like it, will he obliterate me on the spot? Or worse—insult my cooking?
He places a chunk of tomato on his tongue and chews. As his jaw works, his shoulders release the smallest, tiniest edge of their tension.
His eyes close.
Victory. I slide a ramekin toward him. “I like to dip mine in apple butter. Sweet and salty.”
A dollop goes on his next bite.
But then he sets down his utensils and stares at his barely touched plate. Two bites and he’s finished? I bartered my coveted molasses fudge for Farmer Kelsey’s tomatoes! Maybe I’ve miscalculated, overestimated the recipe and my own skill, flown too close to the culinary sun—
His eyes find mine. They’re already brighter. Color fills his cheeks. “Don’t avoid my question: How does your magic’s thumbprint work, exactly?”
Swallowing a satisfied smile, I manage to breathe.
“Any Farewitch knows fried green tomatoes are good for curing the blues, especially seasonal affective disorder. But my affinity is memory magic. When I touch someone with intention, they show me a memory of a meal, their body’s way of telling me what it’s craving, what it needs.
That’s where I should begin treatment. The strongest cures come from the strongest flavors: the ones we’ve had before. ”
“That’s the magic.”
“And the limit. For me to see a memory, it has to involve food. Luckily, we spend a lot of our lives eating, and the best memories usually happen over a shared table.”
He pushes away his plate. “You took a memory from me?”
“You shared one. I never take—you still have it. With a new patient, I need skin-to-skin contact. I always get permission to touch someone.” I’ll blame his blunt questions on a Warlock’s typical ignorance of anything Witch related.
He eyes his food with caution. Maybe the memory I saw that looked harmless to me has reminded him of something painful.
Clamoring for an explanation that might save me, I add, “Also, the old ladies in the Friday cards group claim your family used to hold parties here. A favorite menu item was supposedly the fried green tomato hors d’oeuvres, so I figured you must have eaten them ages ago, back in… well, back.”
His gaze narrows further. Crap. Is he… mad?
Upset that I just called him old, or that I clearly uncovered a very invasive weed he’s spent decades trying to smother?
I was elbow-deep in powdered sugar yesterday and now I’m tiptoeing around a Warlock in an isolated house with no one around to hear my screams. How in the hell did I get here?
His stool screeches across the tile as he stands. “My memories are private. This entire endeavor is a mistake.”
What. I cross my arms. “You’re ill. I don’t think you have a choice.”
The intimidating facade on his face slips like an egg on nonstick, but only for a second. “I’ll find another Farewitch.”
“Be my guest. Foxe Holler’s only got me, and another Farewitch would never leave her own community. You and I both know local magic is the strongest.”
“Leave. Now.”
“Hell no.” I didn’t close the shop, lie to my mother, and drag my ass all the way into the boonies of the boonies for a No thanks. “That meal was perfect and you know it.”
Just then, the lights in the kitchen flicker off. The air stills, dead. Out of the corner of my eye, I see plants begin to grow exponentially fast from their pots, vines racing across the tile for my feet.
The Warlock is in front of me before I can blink, his shadow looming over me. “I don’t need a child Farewitch lecturing me about my own magic. I’m more than familiar with the consequences of its shortcomings. Get. Out.”
My cheeks burn. More than the thought of the Warlock’s plant monstrosities dragging me to the depths of his garden to suffocate me, that embarrassment at being called out for my inexperience does it.
Fine. Maybe I am a crappy Farewitch. But at least I was willing to listen.
As I stomp back through the maze of a farmhouse, my thoughts reel.
I didn’t ask for this. Any of it. The job, the town, the shop, the legacy.
I’m not even sure I want it. All I want is for my mom to celebrate her next birthday.
If I can’t tunnel my way into this Warlock’s life long enough for his magic and knowledge to point me to an answer, then forget this mess.
I’m yanking open my truck’s driver door when I hear the porch creak.
“Wait.”
I don’t know what it is, but something in the Warlock’s voice makes me turn back around.
Unbelievable. Farewitches are just people pleasers with aprons, it’s true.
But it’s more than that. I can’t abandon what might be my last chance at finding the cure for my mom. A Farewitch doesn’t give up so easily.
On the front porch, his arms are crossed. “Unfortunately for the both of us, you are the last option I have. You’re also the only person not afraid to come here.”
“I’m not surprised,” I reply, keeping a healthy distance. “Your house needs to learn to trust new people. Or at least not pelt them with pots.”
“I’ve lived here for years and I don’t trust anyone. Why should it?” His expression remains completely unreadable. Never have I heard such a cranky non-apology. “You have the job if you want it.”
My heartbeat jumps like a mixer on high speed. No freaking way.
“You’ll have to live here, of course. I presume that won’t be a problem.”
My mixer heart zooms faster and starts sparking. Wait, what—