Chapter Five #2
Lord, here we go. “You and every other soul in town, apparently.”
But she’s confined to her hospital room, which means… Silas. Rude.
“This is Foxe Holler, daughter dearest. When folks think of magic, the Widow Witch always comes to mind. The whisperings lately are even more damning than usual.”
“Whisperings from who?” I’m getting fed up with all this speculation. Just because someone is odd and lives alone doesn’t mean they deserve to be shunned. “The church ladies? Please. Gertha Fudge never met a rumor she didn’t like. She’s always wanted to leash magic.”
“Even if the Fudges of the town dislike magic, we know magic isn’t inherently bad. Whatever higher magic the Warlock practices doesn’t bother me,” she continues. “It’s men with magic you want to be wary of. Are there any women in that house with you?”
“The men include an eccentric gardener who doesn’t believe in phones and a little boy. I’m fine.”
“Even so, I had Carolina place a protection spell on you while you’re up there. Warlock-proof. She’s a good Hearthwitch, but it won’t last forever.”
Proof against what, exactly? He’s grumpy as all get-out, but the Warlock has not raised a single menacing finger toward me, to the point I don’t even know what kind of magic he possesses.
What good is this higher magic the Witches bemoan if a Warlock doesn’t ever use it?
The most dangerous thing at this Manor thus far is the kitchen.
“Does she have any spells to protect me from the house itself?” I ask dryly.
My eyes roam the skeletal facade of the farmhouse, which must be hiding other forbidden pockets and rooms. I can’t tell how a Warlock’s supposed extensive library of invaluable magical texts would even fit inside this place. So many shadows for secrets…
I pace down the side steps and to the gardens as we talk, letting the bar on my phone decide my direction.
Green surrounds me. Bushes and trees and flowers and vegetable beds.
Blooming plants and thorny ones, edible and, I’m sure, poisonous.
Even a cactus, though this is not the right climate.
Magicked to thrive, no doubt. Bees and hummingbirds and dragonflies buzz by.
Roses and sunflowers and squash blossoms and strawberries.
Care and attention. Life, not destruction. I’ve never been in a place so active with growth yet so grounded in delicate silence at the same time. Where the inside of Knight Manor is decaying, the gardens are blossoming with life.
“I’ve been thinking—if the Warlock’s health is off, unbalanced, his magic would be, too, right? Magic is strongest when it’s local, so an ill Warlock’s power could—”
“Cause weird occurrences…” my mom says, catching on.
Moms are great for brainstorming. “Still, whether his reputation is based on intention or accident, the Widow Witch has more than earned hers. If that man’s caused an imbalance of magic, she’ll hunt it down and you’ll be caught in the cross-spell. She’s a Hedgewitch, after all.”
A seven-course meal of flavorful language runs through my head.
I’ve never met one, but Hedgewitches work magic between dimensions of being.
Life and death. Present and past. Reality and illusion.
If anyone comes close to having the grand—and uncontrollable—higher magic a Warlock does, it’s a Hedgewitch.
Witches live by the creed that all magic is neutral, and that rotten magic simply comes from poisonous intention and misuse.
But there are some forms of power more unstable than others, more prone to mirror emotion and the darkest parts of ourselves.
More prone to terrible debt. No matter what, all magic has a cost, and the universe always hunts for balance.
I wonder if other towns have a Hedgewitch problem like us. Maybe they have their own threats. Maybe the big cities have more than one. Shoot, Foxe Holler could be the safest place of the bunch.
“All the more reason everyone needs to be at full strength,” I counter. “That means you. I’m going to have you healed in no time. I think I’m close to finding the right recipe, and his archive of spell books—”
“Don’t heal the Warlock, Honey.” Her voice dips but it might be the static of the shoddy connection. “You’re my only child. Whatever debt you gather there isn’t worth it.”
That’s like saying you’re not worth it.
“Honey, if there were ever a moment to mind your poor mother, this is it. What in heaven compelled you to accept his offer?”
That’s the moment I’ve had enough. “After how Momaw passed, did you really think I wouldn’t?”
That shuts her up. But she needed the reminder. There is no sugarcoating this wasting illness into submission.
Farewitches are supposed to have decades of formal training, apprenticeships with other Witches as their mentors.
Momaw wallpapered her old farmhouse with maps, and whenever I stayed over as a girl, she would point to places I’d never heard of, a wild story for each one.
Through my twenties, I should’ve had time to keep learning.
I’d start my training only after I’d seen those storybook places, perhaps gone to culinary school in France, tried a barraquito in Tenerife, baked a lover a birthday cake…
All of the Frost women should have gotten more time. If I have to sacrifice some of mine so my mom can have more, then prepare the pyre.
Then I realize why my mom’s call settles so oddly in my chest. “I thought you’d be more distraught over the part where I closed the Apothakery.”
“Folks won’t wither and die if you don’t fill their orders for a couple weeks.”
“The church ladies might.”
“I’m more distraught over the company you’re keeping.”
“I can’t figure out why everyone is so afraid of him. Including you.”
She won’t like being lumped in with Gertha Fudge and the quick-to-judge church ladies. She sighs. The phone line crackles. I’ve caught her. “You leave the minute there’s a sign of something unsafe. You hear me?”
Everyone in Glasgow can. “Loud and clear.” I think about the rotting floorboards, the crumbling roof, the suspicious substance growing in the grout in the bathrooms, the black dust that makes me want to Google Can you get black lung from a butler’s pantry?
“You know, your father didn’t have magic and it made things so much less complicated. Simple.”
I stop strolling. She never brings up my father. She’s being… frighteningly nostalgic.
“And this is the first time Frosts have closed the shop. You could actually find yourself with extra time on your hands.”
Moment gone. What was reminiscing was actually an A+ subtle guilt trip in disguise. “Any extra time I have, I’m going to prepare my regular orders so I can drop them off whenever I head back into town.” And I’ll be scouring a library.
Her sharp huff cuts through the poor cell service. “Rest can be rest without being productive rest, you know.”
“Says the woman still managing the town’s sanitation schedule from a hospital bed.”
“You and Silas have been talking too much.”
I agree.
“If you don’t show up to visit on Saturdays, I’ll know something is wrong. Unless you’ve got a date or some such, then don’t worry about little ole me.”
So much for her pitching a fit.
“I’ll give you a few weeks to make this work. Eyes open, girl. Be smart, be careful.”
Exhaustion creeps into her voice now. We’ve only been on the phone a few minutes, but she’s already spent.
Like a good mom, her concern just makes my own uncertainty flare. “What if I can’t cure him?”
“Just remember to stick to the basics. In our line of work and magic, the right cure is usually the simplest.” Pause. “Just in case, hang up a horseshoe for luck.” Pause. “And eat your breakfast. Black coffee does not count, young lady. Dehydrates your skin.”
Here we go. Even in my thirties, I can’t escape parental lecturing. “Not much cell service up here in the boonies. I’m losing bars—”
“Remember, don’t leave dishes in the sink! You’ll invite nightmares—”
“Love you, too, see you tomorrow—oops. Connection’s dropping. We might cut—”
“Don’t you dare hang up on me!”
“I can barely hear you. Truly, terrible service out here…”
Then I definitely dare, and hang up before I have to do my impression of going through a tunnel. No one wants that.
In the calm of the garden, I breathe in. Honeysuckle. Basil. And sweet, sweet silence. No wonder the Warlock spends all his time out here. Or doesn’t have a cell phone, for that matter. He’s starting to make a little sense, crumb by crumb.
The basics.
As I think, I twist off a sprig of fresh basil, half expecting something to pop out of the ground to bite off a pinky. The Warlock’s magic somehow involves his plants. I rub the delicate basil leaves between my fingers, inhaling the distinctive fresh smell. Perfect.
And just like that, I know the first recipe I’m going to make for him.