Chapter Eight
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Salt. Vanilla. Spice. The smallest ingredients have the biggest flavor.
Warlock Knight moves to the window with efficient speed, neck craning as he peers out into the sudden gloom.
The wrath in his expression makes him look older. Weary. Primeval.
I check the oven—still on. Cake baking, oblivious. Phew.
Governess Zeen races into the kitchen, kitten heels clicking. “No warning?” she asks, checking locks on doors and windows. Her posture is battle ready.
“None.” The Warlock’s face drops. “Where’s Lazlo?”
“He was right behind me—”
“Here!” The boy in question skids into the kitchen, socks slipping on the freshly shined floor. He flies right into the Warlock’s open arms.
“Remember, this is no different from any other time,” the Warlock says to him. “Do not leave the kitchen—stay close. The wards are strongest closer to me.”
“Excuse me,” I say, watching the entire exchange, motionless with nerves. “Not to be a bother, but are we under attack?”
I’m not sure it’s possible for this Warlock to be afraid of anything, but.
The opposite of confidence dances on his face as he looks at his ward.
Goose bumps dart across my neck. I’m missing something here, but my gut agrees: If there’s any kind of distress, the most important thing is to keep Lazlo safe.
“I’m a bit frightened,” I announce. Play along, I can do. “Would you mind standing with me, Lazlo? I could use a friend.”
Lazlo speeds over, determination on his soft features. He runs right into me, hands clutching at my apron. “I’ve got you, Ms. Honey.”
The Warlock sends me an odd look I can’t for the life of me place. Appreciation, but with… regret? Can gratitude be regretful? To be fair, if it could, he would nail it.
Another tremendous BOOM shakes the Manor. Windows vibrate and planters topple over, soil spilling across our clean floor. Ms. Zeen grabs the island for balance. The room keeps darkening with the outside world.
The Warlock throws himself at the back door to the gardens, the closest entry point into the kitchen.
“Are we at the center of a tornado?” I ask, glancing at my cake. Still level, miraculously. Perks of being a Farewitch.
“If only,” the Warlock says with a lot less urgency than he should, eyes on the gathering storm outside.
Not storm. A cyclone. What in the—
Something tugs at my apron. Lazlo stares up at me with wide eyes. “Do you… do you ever bake any sweets to cure being afraid?”
My heart seizes up like a drying slice of citrus. “Of course. But try this for the time being.” I take one of his hands, giving it a hearty, reassuring squeeze.
We don’t let go.
Lightning strikes the sky. Lamps flicker but the electricity holds. Wind tears at the windows, as if we’re in some nightmarish snow globe. Shadows seep under the garden door, like dark and twitching tentacles.
Squalls and shadows. Perfect.
“She’s stronger than last time.” Ms. Zeen’s voice carries none of its usual control. “The last few solutions we tried won’t work twice.”
Seeing the Governess actually concerned makes my stomach flip. If someone doesn’t tell me what’s going on, I might retch soon, which won’t be pretty because I haven’t eaten much today so it’ll be more dry heaving than anything.
The Warlock looks wildly about the kitchen, then does a double take. At me. “Then we’ll try something different.”
He reaches me in three long strides, avoiding fallen pots and broken plates. He rests a gloved hand on Lazlo’s head as he looks down at me.
“Can you trust me long enough for a favor?”
BOOM.
As some harbinger of death descends on the farmhouse, all I can think is Mom was right. Right about living in a forlorn and antiquated, pitiful haunted house on the outskirts of town with a Warlock supposedly responsible for a history of vicious magic, fire, and death.
But heaven help me, I nod back.
The Warlock steps closer, Lazlo secure between us. This is the nearest we’ve ever been.
“Wish for something small, Ms. Frost.”
“Um. What?”
“Something inconsequential that might solve your—our—problem.”
“I don’t understand.”
He bites the inside of his cheek, clearly frustrated. “Isn’t this disturbance getting in the way of your baking? Isn’t there something you’d like to do today you can’t when the weather is bad?”
The man is off his rocker.
Lazlo tugs on my hand. “Wish for something small to make your day better.” He stares at me expectantly, so hopeful.
“Sure… I…” Play along, Honey. And then it clicks. Of course.
I finally know what Warlock Knight’s magic is.
“I wish I could have a picnic in the gardens today. Where I can nap in the sun.”
The Warlock smirks, and I can’t tell if that one gesture is comforting or terrifying. He turns toward the ceiling, holds up a gloved hand, and snaps.
Light bursts into the kitchen.
The shadows disperse. The shaking quiets. The storm outside shivers to nothing.
In minutes, the early-evening sky looks exactly like it did moments ago. Whatever was wreaking havoc on the farmhouse is gone. Not just gone. Expelled.
The only lingering sign of the Warlock’s magic as it vanishes from the air is the faintest taste of… thyme, dissolving on my tongue.
Powerful magic, indeed. I’m beginning to understand these fear-soaked rumors about the Warlock and his history.
In the following stillness, Ms. Zeen rights overturned pots while the Warlock sweeps scattered soil. He moves slowly, like he’s waking from a nap. His cheekbones stand out and I think he’s paler, the color of an onion. A tired onion.
With the danger gone, Lazlo releases my hand. He steals some shredded coconut scraps on the counter and escapes back to his room. Like everything is just fine.
I finally break free of my paralysis to sputter, “What the hell was that?”
The Warlock and Ms. Zeen answer at the same time.
“The Widow Witch.”
Now I know they’re off their rockers. “The Widow Witch?” Giving my voice wrinkles, I recite the church ladies’ favorite bit of story: “The Hedgewitch notorious for leaving a single widow in her licentious wake each spring.”
Ms. Zeen harrumphs at me. “Is that your best impression of an old woman?”
The Warlock looks her way. “You do use words like licentious.”
“Hush.”
My hands land on my hips. A real Witch, sure, she is. Missing husbands, sure, there are. But… “No one here is even married. What could she possibly want with us? Why would she risk hurting Lazlo?” He’s a literal child!
I don’t get an answer because just then the Governess suddenly points to a corner of the kitchen where dirt cakes the tile. “Mr. Knight, look.”
No, not dirt. Scorches. But not just any normal fire damage.
Seared into the tile floor is a streak of still-burning letters. A message.
YOUR TIME IS MINE.
“What does that mean?” I ask, glad the Warlock chose to send me an old-fashioned letter earlier this month. The Apothakery’s old floors would not hold up against fire and brimstone.
Ms. Zeen and the Warlock exchange a knowing glance.
“It just means I need another rug for the kitchen,” he grinds out. “It’s nothing, drivel. The Widow Witch delights in wreaking havoc. Likely just so there’s a need for her chaotic sense of balance and order.”
My fingers go cold, the tips white and numb. Staring at my humble Farewitch hands, I see burns from fights with the oven, but never a real brawl. If the Widow Witch’s body count is accurate… I am woefully out of my league here.
“But why you?” I ask. He doesn’t answer, and that tells me everything I need to know. “What did you do to piss off the Widow Witch?”
“I might have upset her a time or two over the years,” he sighs. “Warlock magic can sometimes leave things… messy. Unbalanced. And the old bat is petty.”
Fine, keep the sordid details. “Does she ever manage to get inside?”
“She very well might have today.” Ms. Zeen pins the Warlock with a stare.
He coughs, focusing hard on rehanging a vine over the kitchen table. “I wasn’t paying as much attention as I should. My wards flickered.”
Because I was peppering him with questions.
Crap. Warding for a Farewitch isn’t really a conscious thought; it’s more just an intrinsic guarantee since our shops absorb magic across generations.
I assumed warding worked the same for Warlocks, but they don’t have those deep generational roots of inherited power and protection, do they?
If Warlock Knight has to spend all his focus and energy on warding, watching for peril, no wonder he’s so withdrawn.
Ms. Zeen’s expression grows puzzled as she surveys the damage. “That’s the strongest storm from her yet. It should have floored the house. Something besides the usual wards stopped her today.”
“Odd,” the Warlock mutters. “She’s only interested in correcting imbalances of magic. And if there’s unbalanced magic, her power is usually weaker. It’s why she always collects on her deals in the first place.”
I squirrel away that clue, and another rumor begins to unravel: Maybe the Warlock isn’t responsible for destroying crops. Maybe the Widow Witch just follows him, her magic affecting the environment as she tries to balance some debt of his. But what debt has the Warlock accrued?
The Warlock turns to me with a hard stare. “We should be licking our wounds.” Then he’s stalking toward me, broom in hand, like I’m a mess he’s going to tackle. “You have a protection spell stuck to you. I could smell it on you the moment you moved in.”
My neck tingles. He smelled me? Oh! Carolina’s spell. I owe her a massive thank-you. “My friend is a Hearthwitch, and she crafted it for me. But I didn’t ask her to.” For some reason, it’s important he knows I didn’t come here expecting the worst of him.
“The spell has impressive range. I suppose not every resident of Foxe Holler is extraneous.”
“Like how every Warlock isn’t his worst rumor?” I shoot back.
One of his thick black eyebrows goes up. I’ve noticed they stay untouched by time even though his hair is peppery gray at the temples. His eyes flick over me. “It’s not just that spell.”