Chapter Nine #2
“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not a prisoner,” I say. If anything, my world has always been my kitchen, and now it’s bigger than ever. “As every Witch will tell you, magic is neutral. And the sole purpose of mine is helping people.”
“Allow me to get to the point,” Webb says.
“The Widow Witch hasn’t yet tithed a husband this year, and the longer she waits, the more the town grows concerned she could be planning an even greater reckoning.
There’s a strong chance she could use the Witches’ upcoming holiday—Beltane, isn’t it?
—as the moment for her confrontation. For safety purposes, it could behoove us to cancel the festivities your kind was planning. ”
This. This is why Webb came all the way up here only to use his church ladies as his megaphone. If it’s their initiative as concerned neighbors, it doesn’t look like Webb and his dogma have too much influence.
“Take heed, Miss Frost,” Ms. Fudge says.
“Wise Pastor Webb speaks truth in his sermons, which you would know if you attended service. The Warlock is a threat. Destruction always follows that kind of unchecked power. Witches are trouble, but a devious Warlock is worse. Now is not the time to be in bed with one.”
My cheeks flush. “I’m not in bed with—I’m a Witch!”
“Hmph. A Farewitch. Magic might be a plight against God’s natural order, but your magic is less threatening than a mediocre Hearthwitch’s. Should we worry ourselves over violent scones, ladies? Or donauwelle for demons?” she asks her followers.
Nervous chuckles float on the April breeze. “I don’t even make scones,” I mutter. Though, if I ever finish writing my cookbook, I’m drafting Donauwelle for Demons next.
“And how you can work in this dungeon…” Ms. Fudge trails off, eyes peeling back the Manor imperfection by imperfection.
“Hey!” We cleaned this dungeon. The dungeon looks nice now. There are candles and the smell of cinnamon and the Warlock even let me clip three whole fresh flowers from his garden for the island. This is my creepy Manor and no one insults it but me.
On cue, the glass in the front windows shivers. Threatened and threatening. The last thing I need is an old lady in the ER with concussion-by-fallen-shingle.
“So all magic is bad magic, then?” I try to find a sympathetic weak link, but no one will turn against their luncheon leader.
Especially not now that I’ve drawn a line in the battlefield flour by closing my shop and allying myself with a Warlock.
An outsider. Imagine, holding a grudge so tight, they stay angry at the only Farewitch they have to keep their maladies at bay.
For all their gossiping, these women haven’t even figured out their own mayor is dying as we speak. For a hot second, I want them to. I want their white eyebrows to climb high with shock. That would teach them to speculate about other people with blind prejudice.
“What in high heaven is all this commotion?” says a voice from the doorway.
Governess Zeen stops behind me, one foot still in the foyer. She collects herself quickly, donning a mask of stone when she sees Gertha Fudge.
“Why, Letha Zeen,” Ms. Fudge croons. “I wasn’t sure you were still alive up here, taking care of a Warlock. Wayward souls don’t do this Holler much good, but I’ll still pray for you.”
The record should be clear: Governess Zeen has all the frightening parts of Momaw Frost without the grandma hugs, and scares me a helluva lot more than the Warlock.
Most days. But such a foul taste lands on my tongue listening to Fudge condescend Ms. Zeen on the steps of her own home.
My good mood extinguishes, and I snap like a dried angel-hair noodle.
“Maybe Ms. Zeen’s kindness doesn’t depend on having an audience, Ms. Fudge.” Arms crossed, I stalk forward, making sure my clogs are obnoxiously loud. I let the sugar leak out of my voice. “I could make y’all all the sweets in the world and you’d still turn out sour.”
Jaws go slack. Ms. Zeen glances at me, her stern facade slipping like an egg over nonstick. Ms. Fudge recovers first and throws back her bony shoulders. “Careful, girl, or you won’t ever be welcome at church. Should you ever choose to attend, that is.”
“Now, Gertha,” Webb says, placing a gentle hand on Ms. Fudge’s shoulder, his other still holding his apple. But his gentle is just slow and creepy, like a mannequin part come to life.
Ms. Zeen sniffs. “You toss people out all the time anyway, Gertha. It’s your specialty. You’re too hard on good people.”
“Why—how dare you, Letha, after all I’ve done for you? Life is too hard on good people. Everyone needs to learn that.” Ms. Fudge shakes her cane at the Manor behind us. “You tell this—this ungrateful boy that I will protect my town when he inevitably crosses the line.”
I wave toward the house. “Tell him yourself. I’d be happy to go get him.” I would not. Please don’t call my bluff.
“No thank you. We don’t consort with his type.”
“His type is my type. So leave.”
Ms. Buchanan is the only church lady who doesn’t gasp, bless her. The other ladies throw breathy huffs in my direction.
Ms. Fudge points a knobby finger at me. “Back in my day, a Witch knew her place. Snubbing the warning of your elders will be your undoing, girl.” Her watery eyes narrow.
“Where the Warlock goes, the Widow Witch goes. Get out of that Manor while you can, before the Warlock steals something you can’t get back.
You might just save your soul. What’s left of it.
” She drives her cane into the old wood boards of the porch, punctuating each word.
I must be delirious with adrenaline, because a hazy bubble shivers and swells around the church ladies and Pastor Webb, a glow that vanishes before I’m sure it’s real.
The wards. The Warlock’s protective barriers have been poked enough, it seems. He was surprised the Manor let me in for my interview.
But then why even allow these folks onto the porch?
Then I realize—that haze was the house trying to force out this intrusion, like it’s detected harmful pathogens. But the wards aren’t strong enough. They’re weakening as the Warlock’s magic wanes. The Widow Witch’s impromptu visit likely didn’t help, either.
Before I can ponder how long the wards might last, Pastor Webb steps much too close to me. His voice drops, mouth turning down. “I don’t think a simple young Farewitch is the enemy here, Miss Frost. Magic is. Do not step in the Lord’s way. Or mine.”
My nervous system does a one-eighty at his change in tone.
Finally, he departs, still tossing that apple. With a last vicious glare at Ms. Zeen, Gertha Fudge and the church ladies follow, hobbling away with more speed than I thought possible.
Old Blanche has the balls to turn around. “You’re lucky we’re busy with Easter preparations. And we’ve never liked your Benedictine. It’s not even green!”
A rotting shutter on the side of the house chooses that moment to detach and hit the ground suspiciously close to the old woman. She screeches and teeters away. I hope she’s got a strong pacemaker.
“It’s not supposed to be green!” I shout at her retreating back. That woman was plenty happy buying my food a couple weeks ago.
Shaking with rage that might be hunger and low blood sugar, I’m so furious I don’t even notice Ms. Buchanan is still on the front porch, Beauregard eating what I hope is only a bug at her feet.
After a moment, Ms. Zeen coughs. “Well. Thank you.”
I flash her a smile. Are we friends now?
The Governess grimaces. “I’m not that grateful.”
Right.
Beauregard barks, and like some kind of pooch radar has gone off, a small shape skids to a halt at the open front door. Lazlo.
I don’t have time to stop him before he flies across the porch to Beauregard.
“Well now, I thought I knew everyone in the Holler,” Ms. Buchanan says, not batting a single cataract.
She does, but she also doesn’t always recognize folks, what with her spotty memory. I’m just grateful Lazlo didn’t appear before now. What would the church ladies have to say about a child living in this so-called dungeon?
“I’ve never seen a poodle!” Lazlo says.
The dog thumps a happy tail at the sudden activity, definitely falling in love.
Ms. Buchanan bends to Lazlo’s eye level, which isn’t far since she’s already hunched. “This is Beauregard. Beauregard, say hello to this handsome young fellow.”
The poodle licks Lazlo’s cheek. The boy’s smile breaks language barriers. Has the kid never seen a dog before? He grasps Beauregard’s curly fur, and the dog presses into the scratches.
“His fur is the same color as my hair,” Lazlo says.
“Would you like to play with him, sugar?” Ms. Buchanan says, sweeter than I’ve ever heard her.
Lazlo’s so excited, he can only nod. She hands him the leash and then boy and dog run off into the Manor, before I can worry over how the house feels about pets.
“That pup needs a young one. Too much energy for these old bones,” Ms. Buchanan says to me. “Would it trouble you if I came here to buy what I need? I don’t care where you are, no matter what those old biddies said. As long as I can get my jam cake.”
“If you’re not afraid of the Warlock,” I say.
She lets out a laugh that’s both warm and a little bit terrifying. “I’m not afraid of anything. Especially a man.”