Chapter Seven
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Don’t leave dishes in the sink or else you’ll invite nightmares, and always hang up a horseshoe in your home for good luck.
The Frost Family Apothakery has officially been closed one week.
Chaos reigns. The dash of panic is now a full-blown, heaping tablespoon.
During hospital visiting hours over the past week, Nurse Carolina saved me from a waiting room of demanding townsfolk.
No one has anything better to do than bother a girl dropping off a pan of sorghum-syrup sweet potato casserole.
Half the town is furious I’ve closed the shop (“and for a Warlock, no less!”), and the other half is now requesting house calls, like my workload isn’t gastronomically astronomical as is.
Because I can’t help myself, I agree to make consistent special deliveries for some of my sweeter regulars.
I’m starting to admire the Warlock’s skill with the word no.
If only my neighbors knew the unparalleled and beloved Mayor Frost is suffering from whatever illness took Momaw, their previous Farewitch. I’ve never itched to scream out the truth before now. But Mom would never allow it.
Not unlike how the Warlock failed to mention he’s literally dying. Not just gravely ill. No, that would be too easy.
After he yanked that particular dusty rug out from under me with his admission a couple days ago, I saw no sign of him all weekend. All this fuss to get me here and then he doesn’t even bother to show up to try my food, his potential cures.
Governess Zeen also wants nothing to do with me and only appears to make copious amounts of hot tea.
No idea how she prefers that dishwater stuff over my sweet tea.
The old bat must subsist on terror and dust alone.
Occasionally, Lazlo snatches a snack and flees.
He’s friendly but also might think me a spook, or a storybook crone fattening him up to eat him.
So when I do find a spare minute to scarf something down, I eat alone.
On top of everything, my mom called me bright and early this Monday morning: No luck with the sorghum sweet potatoes. Still feeling wretched, my joints are screaming with the rain this month… Keep trying, probably just a bad batch of potatoes…
By noon, I’m in a mood so sour, I’m turning milk to buttermilk with a glance. Literally. The house itself must sense my mood, because it doesn’t bother me.
So I decide to bother it.
My quarrel begins with what I’ve ignored so far: the inexcusable seven-layer cake of anonymous grime on every surface.
The entire Manor looks like it’s under a musty camera filter.
The only place cobwebs don’t hang is between the plants.
I can’t cure the Warlock’s bad mood, but the state of this place could very well be partly responsible for his plague-like stuffiness.
A Frost woman is a helligan of a resilient creature.
But can I cook, bake, decorate, knead, sprinkle, poach, and sear on countertops and in pans where dust is always the first ingredient?
No way in hell. Hoarder that she was, Momaw Frost would somersault in her grave if she saw this place.
Cluttered kitchen, cluttered mind, girl.
I leave the knife I was furiously sharpening in the kitchen (for the best, can’t let my kitchen safety escape with my patience), and when I get to the third floor, I’m huffing.
I think the house added extra stairs just to delay me.
At the opposite end of the hall, far from my own bedroom, the very last closed door is secluded in an alcove, by itself.
I pound on it.
I guessed right. For the first time in three days, the Warlock deigns to honor me with his existence and opens his bedroom door. His mistake.
“You,” I say. Strong start.
His eyebrows go up. “Have I missed an argument we had I wasn’t there for?”
He’s in his usual gardening uniform: Henley, boots, bandana.
He never wears a hat, hence the sun spots on his cheeks.
And he’s covered in soil, again. I bet he left footprints on as many staircases as possible, just to irk me.
His dark hair curls at his temples with sweat from the sun.
So he was in the garden, on the other side of those windows, while I was in the kitchen. Alone.
“How am I supposed to cure you if I never see you? You wanted me here as soon as possible, neglect to mention you’re dying, and then you never show up to meals.”
His annoyance morphs into indignation. “Me? You. You took basil from my garden.”
Damn. So he did notice. “Yes, for the sweet tea I made that you never drank. Are you saying I can’t use the herbs growing out here? They’re herbs! That’s what they’re there for.”
He wrings his gloved hands. Agitated? Crafting a spell to wish me out of existence? “You may use them, but only if you ask me first. The garden doesn’t like to be touched by strangers.”
If all the plants around here are as sentient as the house… Fine, I probably should’ve asked. “Only if you promise to eat what I make you.”
He runs a tongue over his front teeth. That one tiny movement steals my focus. “As long as you promise to improve your mood. The plants can feel you’re upset and they’re withering.”
“Withering?”
“Withering, Ms. Frost. Withering.”
“If they’re withering, it’s because of the state of this place,” I retort, remembering why I climbed the stairs in the first place. “The house is a mess. It needs to be cleaned, and not by me. I’m a Farewitch, Mr. Knight. Not a maid.”
“The house is fine.”
“Fine?” I edge closer to him but he doesn’t back up. “This is a gorgeous farmhouse and your ancestors would be ashamed—ashamed—to see the state it’s in. What are all the wards for, anyway? To protect the dust? We’re cleaning. Now.”
He looms over me, a monolith hovering at the edge of his shadowy bedroom. “As much as I would adore watching a smart-mouth take her chances with the forces I’m warding against, the wards protect us, Witch. All of us. Besides, this house does not like to be jostled.”
“The house can get over it. I can’t work in filth. Your plants sense moods, my ingredients sense bedlam.”
“Bedlam is a strong word.”
“The hardwood under the furniture is a different color. Sir.”
His eyes roam my face, probably looking for weakness. He won’t find any. “I said no.” Then he shuts the door in my face. Or he tries.
Before he can, I jam my heavy clog in between the door and the frame.
The look this man gives me. My insides curdle. I should… not have done that.
But I’m committed now, come hell or high water. I cross my arms, trying to fake enough confidence he doesn’t notice the sweat on my upper lip.
Shadows dance across his face; his eyebrows pull in, frown deeper than I’ve ever seen it.
I suddenly feel very small, very young, and very much out of my depth.
I swallow the dryness in my throat. This is the Warlock my mom warned me about.
This is the Warlock the town fears more than the Widow Witch.
Before I can run, strong hands go around my waist on both sides. Then he lifts me right out of his doorframe and sets me back into the hall like I’m no bigger than a misbehaving poodle but twice as troublesome.
The door slams and I’m alone.
My gut nose-dives. If I’d eaten breakfast, I would vomit it up with relief. I take deep breaths, letting my nerves recover. When it’s clear I’m out of immediate danger, I get angry all over again. This man doesn’t get to close doors mid-conversation with me.
The house must be siphoning off my sanity tablespoons at a time, because somehow, I’m brave or delusional enough to knock again.
I know he won’t answer, so I call through the door. “If you don’t work with me here, I’m going to help myself to your garden. I’m armed with nothing but a pair of dull sewing scissors from 1979.” Probably not as old as you.
Silence on the other side.
“They’re very rusty.”
The door flies open and the Warlock steps around me into the hall. “Lazlo!” he shouts to a room a few doors down.
Another door cracks open and the boy appears, textbooks in his arms, most upside down. “I wasn’t skipping class, promise!”
The Warlock dismisses the excuse with a wave of his hand. “We’re cleaning. Now.”
Confused, the boy drops his books and follows his guardian down the stairs.
“Don’t forget the fireplaces,” I call after them, flush with a pride that won’t quit tingling under my skin. I did it. I made the Warlock of Foxe Holler follow instructions.
The Warlock gives me a murderous glance over his shoulder.
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawls in reply, voice low.
My cheeks go so red. Something in this house is burning and it isn’t the oven.
The farmhouse gets its first bath in decades. Nowhere is safe.
I play the Dolly Parton I’ve got downloaded on my phone obnoxiously loud so I can’t hear any complaining.
Ms. Zeen, Lazlo, and I tackle our bedrooms and the library and classroom, while the Warlock takes everywhere I’m not allowed to explore.
Windows are open, rooms aired, floors shined.
Rugs beat, limescale scrubbed, bookshelves dusted.
Snaggletooth vines come down from windows outside, and sunlight returns to Knight Manor. We even have skylights!
The house tries to fight, doors locking me out and in, floorboards lifting and sinking. A few bats fly out of dark crevices, but that delights Lazlo to no end.
Eventually, the house gives up. About the same time, I notice the Warlock’s permanent glower loosens and a bit of guilt simmers off as he watches Lazlo chase bats through the house to the rhythm of Dolly.
Even Ms. Zeen looks like she might hate me just a little bit less. Or more? Pleased with the cleanliness, or seeing me cough on bleach fumes? Hard to tell.