Chapter Six #2
We’re going to have to get along for me to have the best chance of healing him, so I try a different tactic. “Can I at least have a tour? A small one.” No one has seen the Manor for a long time. Now that it’s clear he didn’t lure me here to use me as fertilizer for his garden, I’m nosey.
He frowns. “You’ve seen the kitchen. The foyer—a large empty waste of a room. The other rooms on the ground floor are empty common rooms, washrooms. We have a parlor, but it hasn’t been touched in ten years. Ladybug infestation. There’s a reading room—”
“Let me guess: It’s empty and hasn’t been used since dial-up.”
“No, Ms. Zeen does her sewing in there. Keep up. We have a dining room, when there used to be gatherings and holidays. Now another waste of space.”
“Where does everyone eat? The kitchen table?”
I kid you not, the man has to process my question to answer. “Our bedrooms.”
For the love of— “Together, I mean. With each other. Communal meals.”
“I don’t understand. I usually eat standing in the garden. When I remember.”
I halt in a random hallway.
He stops when I don’t follow. “You look like you’ve swallowed a cicada, Ms. Frost.”
Breathe, Honey, breathe. Like Momaw Frost said when little me was just learning, and the centers of my cornbread were raw but the tops were burning. Breathe, like my mom repeated to me over and over again at Momaw’s funeral.
When he remembers. Good. Lord. When he starts walking again, I stomp after him. “You can call me Honey.”
“Is that a family name?”
I try to hide my surprise. An actual question about me that isn’t about being a Farewitch. I nod. “Lots of Frost Farewitches have been Honey. It was that or Hazeleen.”
He flashes me one of his blander scowls, which I know now is his default. “I won’t be calling you an endearment. I’ve never called anyone honey.”
Without meaning to, my head jerks in his direction at my name. I’m not sure how that information makes me feel. It settles in my stomach like a bubbly drink. Fizzy, jittery. Has he always lived alone? “Everyone uses it. It doesn’t mean anything to me but my name anymore.”
He scoffs like that statement bothers him. But I have no idea why it would. He clears his throat. “And your husband calls you…?”
Another personal question, albeit a clumsy attempt to pry. We’re making leaps and bounds today. “If I had one? Often. Because he’d have a phone. And answer my questions.”
Indignance sparks in his face. It’s worth it. I don’t know what makes me so bold. Maybe I’m hangry. I’ve been running since I got here.
“Not that the verbal-only tour of the Manor isn’t stellar, but you seem like you’ve never invited a guest into your home before. Ever.”
“We’re not a bed-and-breakfast, in case you were under a different impression.”
Bless him, he has the confidence. “Your spooky gated entryway might be responsible for that. It’s a tad deceiving.”
“It serves its purpose. I don’t like new people.”
But I don’t think that’s it. I think he’s worried new people won’t like him. “You at least need a mailbox. We can’t all communicate via the United States Postal Smog.”
His lips switch to the side. We’re miles from a smile, but I still let out a mental Hurrah!
Which ignites the other question in my brain-stove from earlier, now that I might have his guard down. “Can you tell me about your magic? It’s not as effective as memories, but that could help me understand your illness.”
His shoulders go stiff like I’ve asked him if he prefers boxers or briefs. “No.”
“We still need to go through your symptoms, your family history—”
He makes a turn down another hall, ignoring me yet expecting me to follow. Another nonanswer. It’s totally pointless trying to talk to this man.
Finally, he stops outside a set of carved oak double doors.
As I approach, I make out the details of the artistry that has to be hand carved: lighter wood inlays of bamboo stalks, vines of ivy running around them like a woven tapestry.
The size of the doors hints at yet another room that can’t possibly exist based on the Manor’s silhouette from the outside.
Without preamble, he pushes the doors wide and says, “Beyond the kitchen, you’re allowed in this room and this room only.”
“Does this place at least have Wi-Fi?” I ask after him.
But he’s already disappeared through the doors. Jackass. Definitely no Wi-Fi, then.
I follow him in—and stop short.
Eclectic chaise longues and tiny cocktail tables greet me, and windows promise wonderful natural light if ivy weren’t overtaking the exterior of the farmhouse, covering the glass.
An impressive grand piano anchors a corner of the room, and beyond that is a huge stone fireplace for robust family gatherings.
It’s a lovely sitting room… but also not lived in, another ode to a time before.
As my eyes adjust to the dimness, I can see this room is just a foyer. I step down into a sunken level off the first, into another, even larger room that has me salivating (no small feat).
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, ladders poised to reach high shelves.
Rows of mahogany worktables and cushy chairs comfy enough someone prone to naps might succumb.
Dozens of lamps chase away gloomy shadows.
A narrow balcony winds the perimeter of the room, with a spiral staircase that twists down, down, down to other levels.
There must be a door into the library on every floor of the house.
A thousand tomes stare back at me, new ones with shiny leather to wrinkled fellows to treasures so loved they don’t have covers anymore.
I’m here to cook, but this is what I really came for. Warlock Knight’s library.
While the rest of the Manor smells of soil and bad dreams, here I get a robust whiff of paper, leather, burnt wood in a real fireplace. Some of my stress falls away. I could curl up in here for hours, days, lost in a book while a pot of something is on the stove.
Oh yes.
Oh no.
It’s perfect. Too perfect.
Another odd feeling creeps in. The Warlock put my room on the same floor as the library, the one place he knows I’m interested in. I’m… touched? Then I remember it’s probably just to keep me from wandering around too much, not to make my life easier.
As I move through the room, perusing shelves and cabinets, my mood keeps lifting despite my best efforts to be surly about this whole living-with-the-Warlock situation. Novels, records, historical texts, grimoires, flora and fauna guides, spell books—I see it all.
This endless collection of books must have something new to help my mom.
I can feel it. I can believe in the possibilities here.
Fingers impatient, I start lifting books from shelves.
I wonder if there’s anything about the Warlock himself, his past in the Holler.
If he would tell me what kind of magic he has, I could narrow down the rumors worth examining, or disproving.
This looks like a collection he’s been building for centuries—why would he care about burning a small-town library?
Ms. Zeen also doesn’t seem like the type of woman to tolerate sharing a home with a murderer.
She’d probably do the murdering herself.
Depthless rabbit holes, all of this. I bite my lip as I think, making to-read piles.
As I survey one of the stacks, a framed picture suddenly falls from a shelf to the wood floor, clattering like all get-out.
At least it wasn’t aiming for me this time.
Almost like the Manor is listening to my inner curiosity, trying to be helpful.
I cradle the small framed photo. A young woman smiles back at me from a black-and-white portrait. Midnight hair, sharp cheekbones—it’s the woman from the Warlock’s memory. There’s that jade pendant around her neck. Her resemblance to Warlock Knight is even clearer in this picture—
“Already snooping?”
I nearly skyrocket through the roof, a repeat of the classroom. “Jesus!” I jump away from the man who has now managed to sneak up on me twice. A third time and my soul will vacate my body. “Wear a bell or something. And I don’t think it’s snooping if I live here. Sir.”
He watches me with stern hazel eyes. “In spite of any reservations you might have, if I can’t convince you to stay, I hope my library and archives will.”
The words almost sound like a threat. He spies the picture I’m clutching to my heaving chest. His expression goes from stern to downright displeased. With a swift, gloved hand, he pulls the frame from my grasp. “Where did you get this?”
“The house threw it at me.” Not a lie.
One black eyebrow goes up.
Still jumpy, I scramble to fill the pause. “Who is it?” Open up. Give me something!
“Someone no longer here.” He places the picture face down on a table. “How is your room?”
“Too close to Governess Zeen’s, but I’ll take it.”
A knowing Ah comes from his direction.
“She said you wouldn’t like me,” I offer, trying to break this weird tension.
He doesn’t deny it. Or reply at all. Instead, he runs a gloved finger over the piano. Dusty. No one’s played in ages. The whole house is like that, either dust or soil.
Cautiously, I break the silence. “Do you have any other family around?”
“Please don’t feel obligated to get to know me, Ms. Frost. As you proved in your interview, you don’t need to in order to be a sufficient Farewitch.”