Chapter Four #3
He pulls out a folded square of paper as he stalks down the porch steps. “This is the fee I can offer you. Half now, half at the… end.”
Numb, I meet him at the bottom step and take the paper. Fingerprints of soil cover the pages. Like he’s been holding on to it for a while, waiting. I look at the amount.
My cinnamon toast does a choreographed dive routine in my gut. With this kind of money, I can do something real for my mom. Or doctors can, with bills paid in full. I could send her to a big city with better healthcare and even rent an apartment to be close to her, all at once.
But I wouldn’t be able to do that part. Because I’d need to be here. With the Warlock.
My mouth is open, but I don’t care. He’s still scowling when I look up at him. His face must freeze like that. “This is beyond…” I don’t know how to finish. I got the job.
What if I can’t cure him? And I can’t abandon the Apothakery to work for one person, for who knows how long.
It’s not a regular illness. It’s magic in origin.
An oily tang sits on my tongue as I swallow down the terrible feeling that my mom’s illness is also viciously beyond any regular physical disease.
If I send my mom away to another hospital on the chance she might get better, I won’t be with her during what time she has left.
Would a different doctor even be able to figure out what’s wrong with her?
She’ll fret knowing her daughter closed the treasured Frost Apothakery and that, of all things, might kill her first.
“This is generous, Mr. Knight.” Deep breath. “But to be honest with you, I’m not sure you’re worth it.” I turn and move to leave.
“You’re looking for something, aren’t you?”
I halt.
“I have an extensive archive of books. Old texts, grimoires. That’s why you came. I’ll give you access to my archival library.”
How the hell does he know this? Are there Holler rumors about me? Maybe the worry is just that clear on my face. I’ve never been able to master a stoic mask like he has. Farewitches feel a lot, and we need that emotion. We bake it right into our food.
I shove down the unease clawing at my chest, and turn back. Again. “I can’t just close up my shop. I have no idea how long this is going to take.”
“Let’s be frank with each other, Ms. Frost. You’re clearly a young Farewitch who is desperate enough to close her shop once already.” He grits his teeth, like conversing with me is painful. Likewise. “Unfortunately for the both of us, I might be your best option.”
Crap. I can’t refute him there. He’s right about one thing, maybe the most important thing: The money is stellar, but the knowledge is invaluable.
“I’ll sleep on it and call you.”
“I don’t have a phone. I’ll give you three days to get your affairs in order.”
Infuriating man. “I’ll think about it.”
Back in my truck, I want to scream into my steering wheel, but the Warlock is still watching me. He doesn’t step off the porch’s last step. Odd. Are the wards he mentioned here to keep people out, or something in?
Or someone.
The idea of a trapped Warlock would probably comfort folks in the Holler.
But if he’s trapped somehow, he’s not the only one. I swallow. What would Momaw or my mom do now?
My pride crumbles. They were stellar Farewitches. I’d sell my soul for a teaspoon of their fortitude.
We need an answer. Now.
I launch out of my truck and storm back toward the porch for a. Third. Ridiculous. Time. I must look wild, because the Warlock’s head tilts in concern. Planting myself right in front of him, I try my best to hide my shaking fingers, hands, voice.
“I want any and all—all—archives of yours at my disposal.”
His lips twitch. “The kitchen and library are yours. But the rest of the house is strictly off-limits at all times. No ex—”
“No exceptions, yes, I got that part. And if it becomes clear I can’t help you?”
He grimaces. Picturing the worst-case scenario, or a stranger living on top of him in his precious seclusion? Definitely both. “I won’t take it personally. Further questions?”
A million. Why are there so many terrible rumors about you? Why did you disappear twenty-five years ago?
But none of that matters right now. I’ll find out myself, one way or another, only after I cure the person I love most.
“I want my own room,” I blurt. “And bathroom.” I need a win today.
“I certainly wouldn’t ask you to share with Ms. Zeen. Any other requests?” He taunts me with the same sarcastic tone from earlier. “If not, Friday is your first day.”
That’s that.
When I’m halfway back to the truck, he calls out one last time. “Your tomatoes—they were… adequate. How did you know I would even like your recipe?”
Adequate. Pah. They were phenomenal.
“You already had my apple butter in your fridge. You liked my food before I walked in.”
Then I give what I pray is such a casually blasé bow at the waist, no one can tell I’m cracking on the inside.
And I hope, so fiercely, that it irks him to no end.
My truck tires screech on the gravel as I peel out and leave him on the porch, his heavy dark gaze hovering in my rearview mirror.