Chapter Eight #2
I know he’s studying me like a magical puzzle, not checking me out.
But I still feel naked under his scrutiny.
“Uh—well, Farewitch magic bakes into a space over generations. The protective and healing qualities of our spellwork can flavor a house, like a cast-iron skillet. Maybe my magic has settled into this kitchen a little and helped.”
If that’s the case, I’ve never seen it work on someone else’s kitchen so quickly.
I don’t even sound convincing to myself.
This man’s sharp attention makes me ramble.
The Warlock reaches around me, close, to lean the broom against the island.
That thyme smell overwhelms my nostrils.
My breath hitches, like my lungs are greedy for it.
“Whatever magic you have, Ms. Frost, it isn’t little,” he says, the words soft. I don’t see his expression before he moves away. “The sooner we clean this up, the sooner you and I can both get back to work.”
I respect the skill at compartmentalizing, but still.
This is the Widow Witch, not a carpenter ant infestation.
The Holler expects her once a year—how often does she terrorize the Manor?
But they’re already cleaning, and after my earlier blustering, I refuse to be caught as the only person sitting on my hands.
Ms. Zeen continues tidying up the aftermath while the Warlock brings traumatized plants to the farmhouse sink. He refills them with loose soil, and I join him to wash the dishes I’d used for the coconut cake.
If we’re all going to just carry on as normal, I’ve got questions.
“Tell me about your magic,” I say, ignoring his immediate apprehensive frown. “I need to know more to find the right recipe, or craft one from the skillet up. You have to give me something to work with.”
Could be it’s because we’re shoulder to shoulder, not eye to eye, at the sink—he allows the interrogation. “It’s a higher magic called the Language of Small Wishes.”
“Wish magic?”
The lore around the more mysterious higher magics, those older powers rare even for Warlocks, has always intrigued me.
For all their lessons on magic as I was growing up, Momaw and my mom never bothered much with the topic of Warlocks (Waste of your time, girl, you won’t ever meet one).
No wonder the rumors about him never got specific enough to mention the actual classification of his magic.
He nods. “Narrow, limited wish magic. I can’t conjure wealth or send someone to the moon.
Small Wishes, asked for in small ways. It’s a word puzzle of sorts, language you have to play with more than a firm set of rules.
I can grant my own wishes, but only simple, mundane tasks.
And I can’t grant the wishes of the people whom I, well, live with.
Or have, for a long time. Family, whether by blood or bond. Like Lazlo and Ms. Zeen.”
Immediately I think of my mom. I can’t help it. Could there be some tiny, perfect way of phrasing a wish that could save—?
“Before you ask, no, I can’t cure someone of anything. Disease is complicated. Otherwise, I would have figured out my own malaise a long time ago.”
Makes sense. Power needs checks and balances.
Witch or Warlock, magic can’t create life from nothing.
I try not to show my disappointment. What’s one more closed door?
I’ve knocked on so many since my mom became sick.
And the Warlock doesn’t need to know about my mom.
I don’t want him to feel I’m just here for her…
even if that’s why I came here originally.
Like any good Farewitch, I do want to find him a cure.
“And the gardening? Do you make the plants grow?”
“That’s a balance of both the manual and magic.
Like a Farewitch, I have to begin with something concrete—seeds, planting, watering—do the work myself.
But along the way, I can give my plants a bit of help.
Make them stronger, immune to pests, withstand a frost. I can grow herbs and flora you won’t find native to the area.
Or have tomatoes all year long. Make colossal strawberries.
” A twitch of his lips. “I like to be outside, to use my hands. I’d work in the dirt even if my magic were limitless. ”
As he talks, he moves his traumatized yet freshly watered plants and their pots from the sink to the counter.
“You know, if I had Wi-Fi here, I could look up some of this stuff about Warlocks.” I’m just thrilled he’s talking, even if his opening up involves rusted hinges that scream and resist.
“That cell phone of yours isn’t all-powerful?”
“Not this far out. Think about it. So many questions you wouldn’t have to answer.”
His voice drops so low, I almost don’t catch his next words. “But then who would I have to aggravate and pester me?”
I have no idea what to say to that. I’m not sure he even meant me to hear it.
He seems to register his own words half a second too late and quickly adds, “Would you like to try another wish?”
“Please,” I say with an embarrassing amount of eagerness. I’ve never met anyone who belongs to the school of wish magic before.
Ms. Zeen looks up from her cleaning. “Sir, you shouldn’t—”
“It’s all right,” he calls to her, turning to fully face me. “Go ahead, Ms. Frost.”
“I wish… I had enough room in this sink to… bathe.”
Wow. Pathetic. But he doesn’t react to the silly phrasing. I can learn.
He snaps, the sound dull through his gloves. In a blink, all the dirty dishes and utensils are clear and dry, resting on the counter. The sink is completely empty.
Herby thyme hits my tongue again, and I beam. “That is stellar.”
His shoulders relax. Or slump. “I won’t always be around to wash your dishes for you. Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.”
“Your health can’t take that, sir,” Ms. Zeen scolds.
My joy sputters. “What do you mean?” Then I notice his eyes, sunken in the purple shadows of his sockets. Of course. He’s not just tired—he’s exhausted. Are his symptoms finally showing?
He waves a hand at his Governess. “Small tasks like that don’t bother me. Ms. Zeen is just overly concerned for me.”
“Someone has to be, sir.”
His chest swells, as if he’s trying to catch his breath. “I don’t use my magic very often as of late. Being ill… I try to conserve my effort. My power. Before, I could have banished a dozen storms from the Widow Witch if someone had wished it.”
As a Farewitch, my hands are my best kitchen tool, and they always ache to touch. But I resist the urge now. Lord knows what kind of trouble a reassuring shoulder pat would get me in. “Your magic—it’s weakening as you do.”
The grim set of his mouth confirms it. “I prefer to keep the information private.”
And here I asked him to demonstrate for me, like a card trick. I deserve Ms. Zeen’s scornful stare. “Do you keep your wish magic itself secret?”
“Not secret, I just don’t advertise it. Magic like that encourages people to… lean in.”