Chapter Eleven #2
Cue my intervention. A shared meal will be good for the Warlock, for this cranky house, for everyone.
If I can get everyone spending enough quality time together, I might be able to tease out more information about the Warlock, some helpful nugget of history that could point me toward a cure for him.
Tonight’s menu, a.k.a. my battle plan: okra, sliced and sizzling in a shallow skillet (Ms. Zeen); pan-fried catfish (the Warlock, begrudgingly); cornbread (mine, of course); and banana pudding courtesy of Lazlo.
“What about you, Ms. Zeen?” I ask. “What did your family like to cook together?”
The Governess tosses me a grimace. With her cardigan sleeves rolled up and wrinkled, she looks like a disgruntled wet cat. I can see where the Warlock gets his favorite expression. “Whatever was canned.”
“Don’t expend your energy, Ms. Frost,” the Warlock says. “Ms. Zeen doesn’t discuss her life before the Manor. Even I’m not privy to her rubric of friends and foes.” His words verge on teasing, but I’m realizing it’s unlikely even moonshine would get the woman to spill her past.
“Shall we speak of foes now, sir?” Ms. Zeen retorts. There’s an undercurrent of a bite, evidence of a long-standing conversation between the two of them. Or argument.
He turns back to his catfish, silent.
A smidge of the kitchen’s warmth dissipates. Warlock Knight is a man with history. Real enemies. What if the Widow Witch gets to him before I can cure him, before he can build his full strength back up? The bananas I’m slicing take on a sickly sweet overripe smell as I fret.
Jesus, I’m being silly. He’s survived this long, right? This is probably how Ms. Zeen got caught working here. Somehow, the Warlock encourages strange fits of sympathy.
Brain buzzing with questions and nervous energy, I focus on beheading a row of peeled bananas. One thing at a time. Banana pudding, I can handle.
With the sunset turning the kitchen gold, the chorus of ovens, the smell of real vanilla—this is my orchestra, my science lab, my artist’s studio.
My good mood is impervious. Sundays are for warm cornbread and warmer conversation to fend off the Monday blues.
I’m determined to give Lazlo, and the Warlock and Governess, this tradition of time together.
Maybe they’ll even keep it up when I’m gone.
As our supper at last cooks in the oven, I unveil my newest treasure from the pantry for those of us who are still single digits.
“Animal crackers!” Lazlo cries with delight.
“My secret ingredient,” I mock-whisper. “Vanilla wafers get too soggy. Animal crackers hold their shape and crunch. They work much better with the soft pudding.”
The Warlock sneaks a glance at us as I pour the cookies onto a cutting board and hand Lazlo a rolling pin.
“No dogs, right?”
“Nope. Just”—glance—“circus animals. Think you can smash these for me?”
“I’m no amateur at smashing, Ms. Honey.” CRUNCH.
“Only some, we need half in pieces to mix in, and half kept whole—”
CRUSH. “Like this?”
I step back for safety.
He doubles down with the rolling pin and proceeds to beat the living crap out of the poor animal crackers. But only half. He is listening. I make a note to take this kid into town soon for some regular, normal human interaction.
I’ve overheard him talking to himself as he wanders outside, and he navigates the halls without looking up, having already explored the farmhouse down to its tiniest nook.
He seems young for nine but at the same time like an impossibly old soul.
Despite the care from Ms. Zeen and the Warlock, the truth appears in the quiet moments: Lazlo is lonely.
Now I understand why the Warlock always looks distressed around the kid. A melancholy Lazlo is like a hot brown on a day warmer than sixty. I can’t stomach it.
Pleased with his pulverizing efforts, Lazlo gives a cookie to Ms. Zeen. She eats it with as much poise as one can eat a miniature mammal. He drops another in the bowl he’s taken to leaving out for Beauregard.
Much to the Warlock’s displeasure, Ms. Buchanan now visits the Manor whenever she wants to pick up jam cake, her pooch always riding shotgun. I should probably check if dogs can eat these clumps of corn syrup and soy lecithin.
Lazlo hands two cookies to the Warlock. For once, the Warlock isn’t looking at his ward with guilt, and it feels…
nicer than I thought to see that regret missing, even if it’s temporary.
The man swallows the cookie in one bite, like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.
Lazlo beams. Then the Warlock offers me the extra cookie.
Distracted by the pure joy on Lazlo’s face, I lean right over and inhale the cookie, no hands. My lips brush the Warlock’s gloved fingers.
I chew exactly once before I realize my catastrophic mistake.
The Warlock’s outstretched hand hovers, frozen, his eyes stuck on where my lips would have met his skin. For the first time, I’m grateful he insists on wearing those gloves.
The oven timer ticks in the background.
My voice fails, making the odd silence worse and my blush worse and just the entire situation much, much worse. The sharp cookie is lodged in my cheek, but chomping down will confirm the actions of my double-crossing mouth. They really do stay crunchy, stupid things.
Lazlo, bless him, doesn’t notice the sudden awkwardness. Ms. Zeen sure does, though. No wonder Silas hates public dinner dates in this town.
Just then, my phone rings.
Thank. God.
“Back in a minute—!” I shout around a mouthful of cookie.
Refusing to dwell on this newest mortification, I dash from the kitchen. Only when I’m safely in the foyer and free of the Warlock’s heavy stare do I swallow the godforsaken cookie and check my phone.
Erg. Speak of the Hugo Boss devil. After Oris Webb’s visit, I don’t have the patience for another man wasting my time right now, especially my mom’s (not gonna happen) replacement. But I can’t look the Warlock in the eye just yet. Or ever again.
“Hey,” I answer, hoping it sounds like Thanks, goodbye.
“Hi—wait. Do you actually have my number saved as a real contact now?” Silas’s voice comes through, recognizable but staticky.
“… Maybe.” I already regret answering. F minus in avoidant millennial, Frost.
“Does this mean we’re friends?”
“Are you even allowed to make new friends in your thirties? It’s probably breaking a rule of some kind.”
“You are in your thirties, remember?” he drawls.
“And that kind of language is why we aren’t friends.”
“Listen, I’m outside Knight Manor but can’t get close enough to the doorbell to ring it. The house seems to have warding, like Carolina has around your mom’s room—”
“We have a doorbell?”
“Honey.”
“Right, sorry, one sec.”
Once again, I find myself the unintentional sentry of the farmhouse’s increasingly busy entryway. Silas Key stands at the base of the front porch steps, a few paces from his parked hybrid. He’s in yet another three-piece number, even on a Sunday evening. Pinstripes.
I cross my arms. “Estate planning couldn’t wait until Monday?”
“Please, I don’t spend my waking hours nudging your mother toward death’s door. You do a fine enough job at that yourself.” His eyes stick to the gloomy exterior of the farmhouse. It does look pretty menacing at dusk.
“I’m perfectly safe here.”
“Right. Listen, if this Warlock has answers that might help Marigold recover, you’ve got my full support. But do not ask me to lie to your mother. She even knows when I haven’t paid for parking. She can smell deceit.”
His vote of confidence is unexpected. Appreciated? But it also means there’s no denying how desperate we are, how last chance this last chance really is.
“I’m fine. And she knows this is just a temporary position. That pays.”
“Ah. I’m guessing you’re thinking of the latest hospital bills.”
“Did you know health insurance is a scam?” Then it occurs to me Silas is here, in person, on a Sunday. Panic slaps a shiver right across my neck. “Silas, my mom—”
“She’s fine. Relatively. You know, I don’t only show up for bad news.”
The nervous adrenaline thins in my veins. She’s okay, she’s okay. The relief tastes better than any animal cracker.
“I came to give you a heads-up, off the record. Pastor Webb is using the Widow Witch’s absence to get folks riled up, and everyone’s more nervous than ever. I’ve heard his sermons are leaning hard against magic. All magic. He’s taken to preaching out in the town square.”
“That is exactly bad news, Silas. Why didn’t you just tell me this over the phone? Afraid my mom is tapping our cells?”
“Do you think your mom knows how to tap a phone line?”
Good point. “Next time, text me.”
“Would you have answered?”
Another good point.
“Like I said, I’m here unofficially. No paper trail.
Believe it or not, you and I are on the same side.
But the mayor’s team can’t be seen playing favorites when it comes to the church and the Witches in the Holler.
” He sighs and, for a moment, even looks stressed.
“Oh, I’ve also been instructed to tell you to call your mother more often. ”
Ha, there it is. His ulterior motive for visiting. “Sneaky. At least she feels well enough to pester.”
“When she calls, just expect your typical fear of Warlocks and higher magic. But stand firm, don’t internalize that nonsense. We both know you can’t afford therapy.”
I’m about to stumble over a very unwitty comeback when I notice what’s stuffed into his tote bag. “Flowers?” He’s brought bright yellow marigolds. To visit me. At my mom’s request. “Are you sure my mother knows you’re gay?”
He rolls his eyes. “She told me to convince you it’s an early gift to mark Beltane.”
I snort. Sending flowers is her way of showing me she’s watching, snooping from afar.
My mom’s scheming reminds me I promised our postman I’d introduce him to Silas. I could invite Silas in for dinner. Feed him well before I drop the need-a-favor bomb. Any respectable Southerner would.
Before I decide, Silas takes a gruff call on his phone, which ends too quickly to be anything good.