Chapter Eleven #4
“What about you, Mr. Knight?” I ask. “Never wanted to marry?”
Ms. Zeen lets out a cough that might’ve been a brave chortle.
Aha. A clue. I arranged this dinner to get information, and I’ve found that the right recipe for a person’s best health often comes from a meal they shared with their partner.
The Warlock raises an eyebrow but refuses to look in my direction. “Have you?”
Lord, I’m supposed to be interrogating them. “I’m the town’s only Farewitch—I’m busy. I have other priorities.” Though, I’ve been busy for six years now. Longer. And counting.
Then a darker thought feasts on my attention: What if powerful magic always leads to loneliness?
Folks might blame bad luck on forces out of their control, and then their judgment twists spellwork into the enemy. Magic isn’t bad by nature, but there are always people looking to exploit fear of the unknown and the different.
“Ms. Frost, are you with us?” The soft clatter of the Warlock’s knife startles me.
“Sorry. Present.” Present? Woof. Who is he, my professor?
“As I was saying,” the Governess drawls, “Gertha and her biddies are just old gossips—”
“Except Beauregard,” says Lazlo.
“—yes, dear, except Beauregard—and for all their complaining, they’d trade their souls for an ounce of magic to lord over the rest of us.”
The Warlock’s shoulders tense. “That could be why the pastor was concerned enough to visit my Manor. Someone who wants magic badly enough will try to control it. Fear and envy make people blind to consequence and cost. For all her violence, at least the Widow Witch understands balance.”
His eyes flick to me.
“But you, Ms. Frost—you nearly invited these very same neighbors into my house,” he says, dry as a second-day baguette.
“In my defense, the Church Cavalcade never made it past the porch.” Rett, on the other hand… The house did let him in.
If the Warlock doesn’t want strangers snooping around, he should be less enigmatic and—well, I can’t control the will of an entire holler.
I’m only one woman. Or I used to be. Just a daughter, when the recipe of my life was simple.
But now I’m a Farewitch, a caretaker, a personal chef and quasi nutritionist, a Warlock whisperer, and a part-time fraction teacher.
I’m the chance at survival standing between my mom, the Warlock, and a great big nothing.
“Besides, it’s not a bad thing if the Holler becomes a little less terrified of you and your magic. Sir.” He can’t fester in this farmhouse forever. “Folks would like you, if you let them.”
“You don’t even like me, and you’re five and a half feet of bottled epinephrine.”
“It’s just caffeine. And vitamin D.” I shrug. “Who knows, one day, you might even be able to go into town and buy apple butter yourself.”
He gives me a look so furious I almost don’t catch the slight shade of pink under the sun spots on his cheeks.
After supper, I stay at the sink to wash dishes.
A shadow drapes across the sink right beside me.
The Warlock grabs a dishcloth and starts drying the clean dishes. Low bar for men, but something behind my rib cage squeals at the sight of a man doing a household chore. Witches expect Warlocks to make messes, not tidy them.
We wash and dry, dare I say it, in comfortable silence.
Eventually, he speaks first. “Ms. Zeen also believes having more… visitors to the house would be good for me.” His voice stays low, too low to reach the Governess and Lazlo at the table. “Perhaps you’re right. I could be more amicable with those who make the trek.”
Understatement of his ambiguously not-immortal life. Seems Silas and the Governess might be on my side. “You can unclench your jaw when you say that. Our postman didn’t even flee in terror the last time.”
When he doesn’t reply, something else he said resurfaces, and I can’t contain the troublesome Frost curiosity any longer. “Why does it matter?” I blurt.
“Why does what matter?”
“That I got flowers. That they could be from someone.”
One eyebrow goes up. “Are they?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then there’s no point in discussing it,” he says. “Ask me the question again when it becomes relevant.”
The nerve. “But why would it matter?”
“Why would what matter, Ms. Frost? You are frustratingly vague.”
“If I were seeing someone. Can I not date in my free time, while I stay here?”
To his credit, he doesn’t immediately laugh at the idea I could have this thing called free time. He wrings the dish towel into a twist. A tight twist. “That’s not my decision to make. As long as you don’t allow distractions to pull you away from your work.”
“I don’t think we’re at risk of that.” At this point, I should probably check the expiration date on my sex life.
He accepts a dripping mixing bowl from me. “Good.”
“Right. Good.” I look back to the dishes, trying to ignore the Warlock’s elbow, which has somehow gotten really close to mine.
Then, without warning, he deposits the last clean dish on the counter next to me and evacuates the room like management’s sprung a fire drill.
Every Warlock for himself, apparently.