Chapter Ten
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
When sourcing an ingredient you want, be willing to substitute. When sourcing an ingredient you need, be willing to trade.
Let it be known that the Farewitch of Foxe Holler is not a runner.
The baking life doesn’t leave many opportunities for sprinting, and it’s especially hard to run in chef’s clogs.
And yet, this morning, I’m chasing a ghost.
When the blue blur flashes by out the window, sweeping past the edge of my vision, I vault into action, nearly breaking an ankle on the porch steps.
The fellow isn’t getting away this time.
Truly, innocently, I mean to cut him off at the big willow tree to the north of the house, but the surprise attack proves too effective and I accidentally plow right into our postman.
We both go down, hard, into the dewy April grass.
I gather myself quickly, before he can flee again. “Why”—pant—“are”—pant—“you”—sneeze—“running?”
Foxe Holler’s postman is lanky, about my age, and as he pushes himself off the ground, his dark skin shines with sweat. With much aggressive flustering, he shoves a pair of chunky black-framed glasses back onto his face. “Why are you chasing me, lady?”
“Because you’re running!”
When I told the Warlock I’d catch our postman in action, swear on my mother’s grimoire, he only said, I think you’ve inhaled too much gas from the stove.
I straighten my apron. First impressions, after all. “I need to order a microwave.”
“Try that again?” The postman runs an exasperated hand over his closely cropped head.
Right. I am not losing my mind, heaven mark this fact. Even if I’m just staying a few short weeks, I need that harmless radiation power. The house will thank me when I’m gone.
“Hello, my name is Honey Frost and I’m the Farewitch. Pleasure to meet you. I need to order a microwave here to Knight Manor. Will you be able to deliver it? The bottom of the drive is fine. I can come down with my truck.”
He gapes at me, adjusting his glasses. “You live here?”
“For now. Just moved in.”
“Willingly?”
Okay… “I’m working for the Warlock.”
He inches back. “Willingly?”
I don’t have time for this. It doesn’t make sense for the Holler to be so afraid of Warlock Knight when there are actually dangerous forces like the Widow Witch lurking about. We got lucky a few days ago, but if the house’s wards are weakening, what damage could she do now?
Pastor Webb was right about one thing: The longer the Widow Witch waits to take someone, the more frenzied the town will become. Her victims are never just husbands, but brothers and nephews, fathers and sons, neighbors.
Maybe I need to expand my Farewitch repertoire from snickerdoodles to shields.
“Listen—what’s your name?” He looks familiar, but everyone in a small town is familiar.
He throws back his shoulders, showing off his blue postal uniform. His shorts are a little too short on his long legs but he still gives the outfit dignity. He clutches a package in his arms like a newborn baby. “Rett Claywell. Postman of Foxe Holler.”
“Claywell Claywell?”
“No, Rett Claywell—”
“You’re Arna Jean’s older brother!” I didn’t recognize him in the heat of pursuit, but now I see the family resemblance: great cheekbones, lanky limbs, and terrible eyesight.
“You’re the baker RJ talks about?” His incredulous voice makes me feel much, much worse about tackling the poor guy. “The overalls give you away,” he clarifies.
Arna Jean Claywell and I met when she appeared at the Apothakery insisting on a summer internship (that didn’t exist) while she was home from Howard University.
She came back every summer after that. No idea why this genius of a Bookwitch picked my shop to learn about managing a small business, but whenever running the Apothakery felt like trial by fire, she made the oven heat tolerable.
We’d daydream travel plans together, but the shop kept me too busy to go with her.
Eventually, she graduated, we said our goodbyes, and I lost my intern.
My corn muffins were bland with despair for a week.
But I had no idea her older brother was the postman I was looking for. Things are looking up after face-planting in the dirt.
“Rett, first of all, sorry I tackled you.” Get that out of the way. “And I appreciate your effort to deliver here even though it’s clear you’re not comfortable with Knight Manor.”
His chest puffs out a smidge. “I always deliver my packages. Always. Folks deserve mail that isn’t just bills all the time.”
“But you know you don’t have to drop things and run, right?”
“It’s self-preservation. When you look like me, you don’t approach an eccentric old loner’s house. Even in the daylight. And in a uniform. Especially a uniform.”
Okay, point taken. “He’s not that old… Never mind. You don’t have to worry about any nefarious magic, or—or… Why are you afraid of the farmhouse, exactly?”
He swipes a layer of sweat off his scrunched forehead. “Why aren’t you?”
The Warlock asked me the same thing. Why do men always think it’s strange when a woman isn’t afraid of what they’re afraid of? “Because the Warlock employs me to be here. It’s my job. You get that. You deliver the Holler’s mail, I… bake.”
Not as strong a finish. But I don’t have the bandwidth or time to be afraid of more than one thing at a time, and right now, the honor goes to mysterious illness draining the life of my mom, then Widow Witch, then Governess Zeen.
Then, maybe, Knight Manor and its grumpy Warlock.
Rett eyes me with lens-magnified distress. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but I think you might be under a spell.”
“I assure you, I am not.”
“You’re not being held against your will?”
“No.”
“You’re not the victim of a magical curse?”
“No.”
“You’re not being forced to bargain for your ransomed soul?”
“What—no—Mr. Knight is a man who just also happens to be a Warlock. He’s our neighbor, not a serial killer.”
“Did he tell you that?” His eyes narrow. “Convenient.”
Oh, for the love of— “Would I be asking you about kitchen appliances if my life were in danger?”
This stumps him. He extends the package to me. Despite the impromptu rugby, it’s intact. “Heard. Even a haunted house deserves mail. But just so it’s clear, I’ll know if the Warlock ever delivers something… evil.”
“Via the postal service?”
“You never know.” He’s absolutely deadpan.
I tuck the goods under my armpit. “Come on in for a bit. For iced tea? It’s humid, and I tackled you. It’s the least I can do.”
His eyes widen as he stares up at the looming farmhouse. “Inside the Manor?”
I play my last ace, giving a casual shrug. “Arna Jean never believed any of that Holler gossip. Especially if Gertha Fudge was spreading it.”
Rett’s concern falters, gaze sharpening. There’s that competitive streak I know so well in his sister. A Claywell right down to his willowy bones. Got him.
He adjusts his tie and knee-high socks. “One glass.”
Ten minutes later, I’m serving the postman sweet iced tea in Knight Manor.
At first, the cabinet doors open on their own, like an oversized Advent calendar having a fret. Agitated little things. I’m guessing Rett only slipped through the Warlock’s wards because I officially invited him in? Vampires would thrive in the polite South.
What in the Julia Child is going on with this house?
“Play nice!” I shout to the kitchen, confusing the hell out of Rett. But the kitchen calms down. It’s been somewhat civil ever since I helped fend off the Widow Witch.
Bright side is, I think I’m beginning to understand this place. Rett is a brand-new person, untested. I, too, would be cautious of a stranger crawling around my insides. Ew.
As Rett takes a tentative seat on a stool, I open the delivery. My Weisenberger grits—excellent. I’m trying a Frost classic for the Warlock next. Truffle and goat cheese grits. Grits bolster a meager immune system.
As Rett sips tea, his wary eyes wander, cautious but curious, around the room. The kitchen behaves. “I feel oddly better than I expected to.”
“Sweet tea. Good for the head.”
“And bruised kneecaps?”
“Sorry.”
“I’ll forgive you if you give me the Wi-Fi password.” He pulls out his phone. “And yes, I can deliver a microwave. This isn’t amateur hour.”
“We don’t have Wi-Fi here. Yet. It’s a whole thing.”
“Doesn’t Wi-Fi come with, like, the heat and hot water these days?” Zero sarcasm.
“You’re very serious, you know. For someone our age.”
“I’m a United States Postal Serviceman. I have to be.”
Again, total deadpan. I like him. “I’d like to send orders to a few customers while I’m here.” Two weeks left. Don’t panic. “Some of my older folks need repeated remedies but aren’t very mobile.”
“My routes are structured. I can’t just make extra stops for informal nonessentials. It’s unprofessional.”
“So you’ll bring mail to the haunted house you’re avoiding at all costs, to the point you’d rather toss packages at the flower beds and make a run for it than ring the doorbell. But you won’t deliver cookies to the old folks’ home. Have I got that right?”
“Yes, that sounds right.”
“I see.” I might let the cabinets have him next time. “I see that you’re ridiculous.”
He pokes the counter. “I’m trying to be the best postman I can be, which means ensuring everyone gets access to the postal service.
But Pastor Webb’s stopped Communion service for houses too far out, and he’s got his followers thinking the post office should follow.
The Marrow family is the latest to be too independent for his taste.
Conserve resources for the heart of the community, he says. His church doesn’t even pay taxes!”
I pause. Since when did Webb’s interest in keeping an eye on folks expand beyond his churchgoing crowd?
The Marrow name rings a bell. They’re Witches—Greenwitches, I think.
The Marrows have always kept to themselves, not unlike a certain Warlock.
After witnessing Webb’s fervor firsthand, I’m not convinced he’ll stop with just families on the outskirts of town.
Hell, everything and everyone in a holler like this could be outskirts.
“And I’m trying to be a somewhat competent Farewitch,” I say. “Everyone deserves their packages. Everyone deserves their medications. Right? Or does Pastor Webb run the USPS?”
“He does not.” His posture slips. “Touché.” His glance goes sideways, a little too casual to be casual. “Mayor Frost is your mom, so you must know Silas Key.”
“… Vaguely.” I’m not sure where this is going.
“I’ve been trying to get a meeting with him for a while. To talk about my route concerns and Pastor Webb.”
“You want a meeting with him in exchange for helping me send out food.” Which means I’ll owe Silas a favor. My brains screams No way. “Deal.”
The postman gives me what I think is his closest thing to a smile. “I have to get back, but thanks for the tea. Please refrain from tackling me again.”
“I will if you leave packages like a normal person.”
“No promises.”
“Great.”
“You know, Webb might be forced to cool off if Mayor Frost says something. It wouldn’t hurt for your mom to make a public appearance once in a while.” When Rett finishes the last of his tea, he stands. “Why’d the Warlock hire you anyway? I thought Witches and Warlocks don’t get along.”
I dodge the question. “He’s ill. That’s all I can say.”
“Figured he’d invite you here at some point. He loves your apple butter.”
“He said you picked some up for him recently. That might have gotten me the job, so thank you.”
“Recently? No. He’s left me letters with instructions to pick up and deliver from your shop for years.”
My breath disappears, my brain a few steps behind. “Years?”
He doesn’t hear me as he heads for the front of the house. “Oh, give RJ a shout. She just got back in town.”
As soon as he’s gone, my phone dings with a text from my mom.
I’ve been graced with some rare inside service.
Just a question about when I’m visiting next, but it reminds me of something.
I hunt through my texts and find my old group chat with the other Witches in Foxe Holler: Carolina, Arna Jean, Ms. Marrow, her daughter (never answers).
After graduation, Arna Jean left to travel before job hunting, but it’s been years since I’ve seen her.
She must be about twenty-five, the same age I was when I came back to the Holler.
Oddly nervous, I start typing.
kentucky fried coven
Welcome back, RJ
proof of life?
Arna Jean Claywell
Honeydewwww
what’s this about closing the shop
Ms. Marrow
Hi y’all! Are we organizing something for Beltane this year?
Carolina Vázquez
I can host, but not if pastor webb is breathing down my neck
Why is he leaving me voicemails about you, Honey?
Arna Jean Claywell
Up to no good, honeydew?
Mom
Don’t get me started.
Has webb ever been this fussy
about witches?
Ms. Marrow
Marigold! I haven’t seen you in ages.
And not that I can remember, Honey.
Carolina Vázquez
But the WW hasn’t been this quiet before either
Arna Jean Claywell
oooh shall we revive the betting pool?
put me down for 10 on noxie’s husband
Carolina Vázquez
You’ll never win that bet, he’s immortal
Not literally, but you know
Mom
Shame on y’all
mom
Mom
Fine, I’ll put 20 on him