Chapter Six
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Start with the basics. The best recipes—and epicures for the soul—are often the simplest.
I am being bullied. By a kitchen.
I can’t get the gas range to give me boiling water.
Then the fridge refuses to open. Suspicious.
When I turn back to the island, my plucked basil is gone.
As another stupid tile trips me, at that very moment, the farmhouse sink goes rogue and unleashes watery hell on me.
I try to shut it off with furious fingers, with no luck.
Dripping, I look up at the ceiling. “If you didn’t want me to be here, you wouldn’t have unlocked the front door,” I shout skyward.
This house has a level of sentience somewhere between goldfish and poodle, but where is its soul, its heart?
Definitely the kitchen, if you ask me. “He asked me to come here. He needs my help. Be nice.”
After a moment of silence, the sink sprayer shuts off.
The gas range under my pot lights.
The fridge doors swing open.
And a greedy ivy plant releases the pantry’s doorknob.
Now we’re in business. “Thank you,” I say, tossing my soaked kitchen towel onto the island.
After the water boils, I pour it over some tea bags and, after a bit, pour everything into a pitcher with sugar I muddle with crushed basil. Usually folks use mint, but I find that the basil, which has reappeared, cuts through the gargantuan sweetness. Lastly, slices of lemon.
Hallelujah! Momaw Frost’s famous Southern sweet tea.
Typically good for headaches, but also known to cure a whole mess of little annoyances.
The basics. After all, it’s sugar, and what malady doesn’t often involve a headache?
Usually, the benefits of my recipes begin physically, relieving symptoms. Then the longer-term advantages appear.
A healthy mind so often follows and depends on physical health.
Another thought occurs to me: If the Warlock’s magic enlivens his houseplants, then it’s likely in the herbs and produce he grows.
Since magic is rooted in the land, sourcing ingredients right from the Manor’s backyard might make my recipes especially strong.
That could be the key. Using the same old ovens and supplies isn’t helping, so maybe all I need is a new kitchen to jump-start my recipe testing for my mom.
In the morning, I’ll try a recipe I’ve already crossed off, see if the new environment changes anything.
Then when I visit on Saturdays, I’ll bring what I can for her to try.
My spirits lift. It’s theoretical hope. But hope nonetheless.
Then I wait.
And wait. At the kitchen island, untouched glasses of ice sweat in the warmth as the sun slants across the kitchen. But no one comes.
Screw off-limits. The gardens didn’t get me, and I won’t let the house, forbidden rooms or not. If no one is going to indulge in what I was hired to do, then I’ll find them first.
As it turns out, it’s much harder than I expected to hunt down a Warlock in his own home.
Every time I pass a room that gives me a peek into his life, the door slams shut.
As if the house senses my curiosity. I almost lose my nose a couple times.
Every carved molding is a sculpture of ferns and vines of ivy, and stained glass windows cast colorful silhouettes of more flora across the patchwork rugs.
The wallpaper changes from room to room, sometimes mid-wall, but it always involves plants.
The more time I spend in these neglected halls, the less I’m sure one lone Farewitch can cure anything or anyone in this place. I can feel it, a fuzz on the tongue: Unease and rot have been growing in this skeleton of a home for decades.
Sticking to the safe hallways, I wander through the house until I hear noises. Second floor. End of the hall. A door is ajar, hiding a conversation. There’s another voice, much softer, with bright edges. If the Governess gets angry with me for trespassing, so be it.
I take my chances and step through the cracked door.
Chalkboard. An easel with paints and brushes. Low bookshelves, for a shorter person. Smells of eraser shavings and Governess Zeen’s perfume cling to the small room. A classroom. Or a farmhouse version of one.
There, sitting at the only desk, is the boy from the kitchen.
The moment he sees me, he launches out of his seat and runs over. His hazel eyes wink up at me. “Did you make more toast?”
I chose a good door. Smiling, I say, “Is that a formal request?”
There appear to be no computers or projectors in here. Maybe I can find an extra old laptop lying around the Apothakery to donate—oh God. Does this place even have Wi-Fi?
The boy distracts me from the major red flag with a pair of doe eyes. “I love the sugar bread. We only ever have oatmeal.” He utters it like a curse.
Despite the toast heist, the boy hasn’t absorbed any of the Warlock’s withdrawn prickliness. I wonder how long he’s been a ward here.
Standing by the chalkboard is Governess Zeen. She looks down her nose at me. “You’re interrupting Spanish lessons.”
The boy leans in to me to whisper as all children whisper, which is not at all. “That’s Ms. Letha Zeen. You know she’s serious because her name is only one letter away from lethal.”
“There are many lethal things in this house,” a rough voice says.
I jump ten miles to heaven and whirl to find the Warlock directly behind me. How did he move so quietly? Was he watching me this whole time? I think I see a brief glimpse of delight before it fades into a pointed scowl. He’s enjoying this.
“Hence why areas are off-limits and why we don’t wander,” he says.
Ms. Zeen tosses a textbook onto her instructor’s table in defeat. “Good afternoon, Mr. Knight. Now you’re both interrupting Spanish.”
He takes the slightest step back.
So, the Warlock of Foxe Holler is intimidated by his Governess. Understandable. The woman’s cardigan set is as pristine as a wartime general’s uniform.
“I thought French was Friday and Spanish was Monday.”
“German is Monday. French is Tuesday, and Mandarin and Cantonese on Wednesday and Thursday. Really, it’s all on the schedule I made you.”
The boy, ignoring them, offers me his hand. “I’m Lazlo. I’m almost a teenager.”
“You’re nine,” the Warlock rebuffs.
Then he does the wildest thing. He ruffles the boy’s head of hair. Affectionately. Lazlo rolls his eyes. “I’m almost ten.” He’s still beaming up at the Warlock. Beaming. Up at Warlock Knight. What kind of screwy parallel universe have I stumbled into?
So quickly I almost miss it, that dark shadow flashes across the Warlock’s face as he looks at his ward. It’s almost… melancholic. Then it’s gone, suffocated under a frown.
I recover from my shock enough to shake the boy’s little palm. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Ms. Zeen sighs from across the room. “Lazlo, please resume your verb conjugations.”
Lazlo scrunches his face in disgust. The Warlock holds a long finger to his tight lips and mimes a playful shush at the boy.
Definitely slipped into another dimension. I knew the house let me off too easy.
“You’ll be sure to get along,” Governess Zeen says to me when she reaches us and Lazlo’s back at his desk, head bent over messy papers. “Given your nearness in age.”
I feign a smile. War, is it, then? “I have a young face. Not as many wrinkles as others.”
Next to me, the Warlock snorts.
Ms. Zeen’s eyes narrow. “How old are you, dear?”
“Old enough. Ma’am.”
“Why isn’t your mother still the town Farewitch?”
“She needed to be the mayor.”
“Have you ever heard the saying Don’t trust a skinny chef?”
The Warlock steps between us. “That’s enough, Ms. Zeen.”
So not too intimidated to stand up to the woman once in a while. Standing up for me? Odd. But I’m not one to let grouchy old women scare me. If I did, I’d be out of business.
I give her a sugary grin. “Ms. Zeen, you should have eaten some of my fried green tomatoes. The oil might help grease your insides so you can pass that stick through your colon.”
Except I don’t say that. I’m a polite Southern lady. Manners.
What I really say is “There’s a batch of my Momaw’s basil and honey sweet tea in the kitchen. Please help yourself.”
“Not my preferred cup of tea.” Ms. Zeen returns to the chalkboard, leaving me alone with the Warlock, which isn’t much of an improvement.
He turns to me. “Follow me. I have something to show you.” Then he leaves the room without warning.
Oh joy.
We traverse the second floor in the opposite direction, across the entire Manor, which physically cannot be this wide on the outside.
A Barbie-Escher Dreamhouse, for sure. We pass endless closed doors.
Locked, probably. What’s he possibly hiding behind all of these?
I try to match his pace, but this fellow has some grasshopper legs.
Long and lean and—whatever. He never lets me out of his peripheral vision, anyway. He really doesn’t want me to wander.
When we reach the top of one of the four staircases I’ve seen on this floor alone, he finally speaks. “I told you the rest of the house is strictly off-limits.”
This hallway looks familiar. We’re on the third floor now, where my room is.
I think? “Everyone disappeared on me. Lazlo’s delightful, by the way.
” I remember the way he spoke to the boy, without the rough edges of his usual demeanor.
“You said you don’t like anyone, but you’re awfully nice to him. ” Tread lightly, tread lightly.
He almost looks surprised but quickly throws a mask back in place. But not before I see that bruise of sadness in his gaze. Maybe I’m not imagining the haunted look. “He’s a child. Despite any rumors you might have heard, I’m not unkind to children.”
“I thought I was also a child Farewitch.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. No retort, then? Though I’ve played myself, because now I’m extra curious what our age gap actually is… for research.
“Everyone under forty looks the same to me,” he finally says.