Chapter Eleven #3
“Connection dropped,” he says, wincing. “Apparently, Webb is trying to call a town council meeting about canceling the Witches’ Beltane celebration.
Something about pagan Hearthwitch rituals attracting the Widow Witch.
If the council meets, I’ll have to be there as your mom’s stand-in, but I won’t be able to interfere or anything.
Only the elected members can—Jesus, listen, I’ve got to go.
I’ll update you later. Take the flowers. ”
He shoves them at me. “Remember, call your mother, or I’ll have to hear about it. Her rants, I swear. She needs a therapist.”
“I know.” Just add it to my growing to-do list.
“I mean it: Do not avoid her. Neither of us wants her jailbreaking from the hospital to—”
“I’m hanging up now, Silas.”
“We’re not even on the phone—”
I close the door but stall in the foyer, thinking.
Worrying. If this conversation between the church and the town council escalates, folks are going to start asking more questions about their missing mayor.
Even if the position is more ceremonial than democratically elected, Silas can’t help Mom dodge her constituents forever. He might be on my side, but time isn’t.
Cradling the marigolds, I return to the kitchen just as Lazlo says, “What does that mean, Ms. Zeen?”
“What does what mean?” I ask Lazlo, moving to the large farmhouse sink to put the flowers in water.
“In-fa-chew-aysh—”
“No schoolwork during dinner, Lazlo,” Warlock Knight says before the kid can finish. Then his gaze moves from me to the flowers. And stays. The air shifts, like the Widow Witch has blown in a brand-new kind of storm. “Flowers?” he says, exactly the way I said it on the porch.
Ms. Zeen coughs.
“Early Beltane gift, from a friend.” I don’t mention my mom. Tonight, the thought of lying to the Warlock makes me feel like rancid oil for some reason I won’t be examining, so I go with good ole omission.
The Warlock pulls at his gloves. Like they aren’t already tight enough. “My garden has plenty of flowers already.”
“That no one gets to see.” I drop the marigolds into a vase with more force than necessary.
Okay, maybe my mood is pervious when it comes to hearing about Oris Webb and Gertha Fudge and their disdain for magic.
The oven timer dings.
We plate the food and set the table.
As we sit, Lazlo picks the spot next to me. On the other side of the table, Ms. Zeen is across from Lazlo and the Warlock is across from me. I notice the Warlock distinctly avoids sitting at the head of the table.
We eat.
The Warlock surprises me again by being the first to interrupt the clanging of utensils. “I’ll regret asking, but why do we need Wi-Fi?”
Lazlo shouts “Dog facts!” at the same time I say “Recipes!”
Ms. Zeen’s eye roll is nearly audible.
The Warlock looks between Lazlo and me. “One, you don’t have a dog. And two, you have recipes. Surely you’ve found the collection of kitchen grimoires in the library by now.”
Have I. My mood lifts at the mere mention of the sacred place. “Yes, but sometimes the church choir class of 1964 doesn’t have the most current baking tips.”
“You didn’t find the recipe book exclusively devoted to scuppernong pies helpful?”
“You know what a scuppernong is? I’m impressed.”
“And I didn’t even have to Google it.”
I hear it even though I don’t believe it. “Did you just make a joke?”
His lips twitch. “Perhaps.”
Ms. Zeen blows on her dinnertime cup of tea. “It was quite alarming, sir.”
“I’ll avoid it in the future, Ms. Zeen.”
“Internet,” I try again, “brings you into the modern age. That’s reason enough.”
“You and I didn’t have Wi-Fi as children, so why does Lazlo need it?”
I pause, my fingers gripping my sharp, throwable fork. “How old do you think I am?”
“Don’t answer that, sir,” comes Ms. Zeen’s sigh.
“Wi-Fi will make you more a part of the community,” I press. Then pause. “All right, fine. The church ladies don’t use the internet. But the online world can keep a person young even better than my food can.” I also want Lazlo to have something to keep him busy after I leave.
“Ms. Frost, I gave up trying to be a young man for good reasons,” he says.
“That’s a shame. You’d be good at it.”
Silence. The Warlock opens his mouth to respond, then changes his mind. Even Ms. Zeen actually looks up from her tea.
“Why is it so quiet?” Lazlo whispers.
The Warlock clears his throat. “I’ll consider the Wi-Fi.”
“Thanks, I already bought it,” I blurt, gathering myself.
“You what—”
“And you have a microwave coming.”
“And—are we now the Ritz-Carlton?”
“You know what a Ritz is?”
“The cracker?” Lazlo asks.
“I’m not Jurassic, Ms. Frost. I just don’t have the internet.”
“Y’all need to stop saying the internet like the moon.” I aggressively stab an innocent piece of okra. “Microwave. Coming. Eventually. It’s tricky enough getting things delivered in town, much less here.”
The Warlock scoffs. “You’re talking to the postman now?”
“And don’t you dare ruin my hard work and frighten him off. Come say hello next time.”
“I’ll consider it. Any other requests?”
Lazlo looks up. “Can we—”
“Procure a pet of the canine variety? I told you, no.”
“But Ms. Zeen likes the idea. She says being good with dogs will make me an el-luh-jib-ble catch for someone one of these days. Did you know that Elvis Presley liked to give poodles to his girlfriends?”
Eh, she’s not wrong. “Dating standards have truly fallen,” I say.
“Do you have a boyfriend or girlfriend, Ms. Honey?”
Lazlo stares at me with two uncomfortably bright orbs. Why is the kitchen so hot? The ovens aren’t even going any longer.
“Yes,” I say.
“Ew,” Lazlo mutters.
Another, more discreet pair of hazel eyes tiptoe in my direction. Or am I hallucinating?
“The AGA stove and I are in a committed relationship,” I add, earning a giggle out of the kid.
I’m wrong—the Warlock isn’t looking at me at all, just Lazlo laughing.
He’s disinterested as ever. But I do catch the Governess giving the man some kind of warning stare.
If folks would just say what’s on their mind in this house, I swear.