Chapter Seven #2
What I do know is, the mysteries plaguing this house start with the Warlock and Ms. Zeen.
They’re tied together with some secret as knotted as the Warlock’s vines slithering around.
The Warlock is Lazlo’s only kin, but there’s more to that story.
I can see it in the melancholy that overtakes his gruff facade whenever he looks at the kid and doesn’t think anyone else is watching.
These three came together in a strange emulsion and are gatekeeping the recipe.
But until I can crack open the Warlock’s hard-boiled, bad-egg mood, I can at least make this house feel like a home for Lazlo.
By late afternoon, I conquer the last battlefield: the kitchen.
Elbow deep in a farmhouse sink full of sudsy water, I wonder if the Warlock’s magic could’ve done all this for us… Knowing him, he’d say no just to make me work for it.
But I don’t mind the hard work. It reminds me of the Apothakery, and a twinge of homesickness for that butter-yellow door pinches me.
Unsurprisingly, no matter how hard we clean, I can still smell soil.
Though I don’t mind it, now that dirt isn’t on my countertops.
It smells like summer, like the produce harvests that come with my favorite holidays on a Farewitch’s calendar: rosemary and lavender for Beltane on the first of May, lemons and tomatoes for Litha and the summer solstice, corn for Lughnasadh in August—
The summer solstice. When the Warlock thinks he’ll die. My mood trips.
He still hasn’t told me about his illness.
Dishes done, I get started doing what chefs do best: making new dirty dishes.
I blend butter, sugar, eggs, flour, and coconut, a peaceful smile on my face in the newly pristine kitchen. Shortly after I start toasting shredded coconut, the Warlock enters the kitchen. Unrequested. I must be seeing things.
As I bake, he fills a tin and begins watering various potted plants around the kitchen. There’s a pail in every room of the house I’ve been allowed to see, no doubt his sole decorative contribution to the Manor’s aesthetic.
He’s even more silent than usual, like he isn’t here at all. A ghost. But my shop is always such a storm of activity and stress, this shared quiet is peaceful.
It occurs to me then. He’s stalling.
He reaches the plants closest to me but stays on the other side of the island—far from the knife I was sharpening earlier. Smart.
Then he clears his throat. “I had several time-sensitive tasks to wrap up in the Manor this past weekend. And research. That’s why I wasn’t around.”
That’s probably the closest I’ll get to an apology. Not wanting to push my luck, I act unbothered as I toss in baking powder and salt and vanilla. “Is that what you and Ms. Zeen are up to all day? Did I interrupt all manner of nefarious Warlock projects when I arrived?”
No need to clarify if I mean the Warlock or the projects are nefarious. He can handle some mystery.
“If you must know, Warlocks choose a specialty of study, separate from their own personal magic. I chose curse magic.”
“But don’t Warlocks think curses are lower magic?”
“They do. But I’ve learned Witch magic can be… creative.” He pauses. When I glance up, he’s already looking at me. “As you can imagine, not many Warlocks research curse magic, so I’m often the person other Warlocks write to with questions. I try to answer where I can.”
So I was right. Kind of. He’s a consultant on the Warlock information highway, with crappy work-life balance. Typical of them, doing everything formally by letter. If he only learned how to use email, he’d have twice as much free time to get healthy.
“This house requires significant upkeep. The wards alone are an undertaking,” he adds. “I haven’t managed all of it well, since… the illness.” He forces out the admission like it almost finishes the job and kills him.
Now I feel bad. I’d lit into my employer and patient. Swell job, Honey. But I can’t help wondering, what are we warding against, and should I be carrying pepper spray? My gut tells me this isn’t the time to ask. He’s actually talking, giving me more info than I’ve gathered alone.
“I didn’t mean to ambush you earlier,” I say. “Bad mood—family stuff. I’m sorry.”
“But you did mean to threaten my plants.” His annoyingly stoic expression doesn’t falter, so I can’t tell if that’s a joke.
To be safe, I keep my eyes on my batter. Next, I pour in the PET milk, a.k.a. evaporated milk. As I fold in the toasted coconut, the Warlock clears his throat. “You’re right. The cleaning isn’t your job.”
Outside, I shrug as I pour batter into two waiting round cake pans. Inside, I’m ecstatic. Was that a delicate little thank-you?
“I noticed you stock my apple butter, but I’ve never seen you in the shop. Should I be complimented or insulted?”
He lowers his watering pail. “Despite his eccentricities, our postman will begrudgingly pick up and make small deliveries for me, if I leave him a note and payment. I sent him in for a few jars when I was thinking of hiring you.”
“So we do get mail and deliveries. Good to know.” The Cumberlands’ general store made it clear I’m not welcome until I reopen the Apothakery.
“I need to send out some orders while I’m here.
My older customers can’t just pop over to a Farewitch in the next town over.
And my younger ones with children don’t have time to make a casual half-day round trip. ”
“Good luck. He doesn’t come close to the Manor. He parks at the bottom of the drive, hauls everything up and tosses it near the porch, then dashes. I’ve never seen his face.”
“Ah. Eccentricities.”
“Eccentricities.”
As I slide the cakes into the AGA, I think back.
Have I seen a courier buying apple butter?
I only know the Holler’s postman sticks to his routes and is kind to the church ladies—they praise his calves constantly—but he, like the Warlock, is one of the few folks I’ve never formally met.
Am I so wrapped up in my day-to-day tasks at the Apothakery that I never noticed him?
I need to look up once in a while at the people I’m feeding.
At last, the Warlock joins me at the island, watching the dance of my hands as I gather the ingredients for frosting. “The Manor has yet to scare you, however.” His words are low, cautious. Hanging on the you. A question.
“Not true. I’m just scared of other monsters more.
” Like incurable illnesses. As I whip leftover coconut pieces into the frosting, my muscles take over, like I’m right back in the kitchen with my mom, and I unconsciously hold up a spoon of frosting to the Warlock—then catch myself and hand him the utensil instead.
I almost, disastrously, spoon-fed the Warlock of Foxe Holler. Scream.
He either doesn’t notice or ignores me, but takes the spoon. His eyes widen, but all he gives me is a hum of acknowledgment, the sound deep in his chest. Watching him lick the spoon is way more enjoyable than it should be.
I need a change of subject. Now. “Tell me about your symptoms while we wait for the cake.”
“If we must.”
“We must. How will I know if my recipes help relieve any pain if I don’t know what the pain is?”
He avoids my gaze. “Lethargy. Irritability. Constant bodily aches.”
“You might be on your period, Mr. Knight.”
That gets me eye contact. I wish I could tell if he’s laughing on the inside or about to blow a fuse.
“Does dying count as a symptom, Farewitch?”
“Ha. Funny. We’ll have to go to the farmers’ market together soon, to look over ingredients. I need to see what you’re drawn to, what you might like to eat—”
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t leave the Manor.”
“Excuse me?”
“The Manor, Ms. Frost. The grounds. Property. Call it what you like.”
I think I assumed no one in the Holler ever sees him because he just… comes out at night. Or something equally as vampiric. “You never leave. Never never.”
“Correct.”
My attention homes in on him. “Have you ever left?”
“When I was young.”
“And when was that?”
His lips purse. Just when I thought I had a grasp on his oddities, here we are again. I have a hard time believing this Warlock is afraid of anything, but something has him cautious.
“Don’t leave? Or can’t leave?” I press.
“The difference in semantics is irrelevant in my case.”
“Okay, so why don’t you leave?”
“A number of reasons.”
“Great, plenty to choose from.”
His eyes narrow. “The less the Holler sees of me, the better. That’s the only answer you need.”
As if the universe is a dramatic, mischievous thing, at that very moment the afternoon glow outside vanishes, like someone dropped a giant lid over our soup pot of a farmhouse.
An earsplitting BOOM of thunder shakes the Manor to its foundation.
Unabashed fury cracks the cold stone of the Warlock’s pale face. His teeth clamp together, jaw working, as he looks heavenward to the ceiling.
“Not now,” he growls to the sky.