Chapter Twelve #2
My cheeks warm, my left hand keeping my towel in place. I probably look like a drowned dog, and feel just as ridiculous. Until I see he’s still wearing his gardening clothes. Even the gloves. What, was he gardening at midnight?
Then I remember I’ve got my bangs rolled around one of Momaw’s old mesh hair curlers, my secret to keeping them bouncy enough to stay out of my eyes while I cook. So I probably look like a drowned grandma-dog. Grandmutt energy for sure.
But he’s not looking at my hair, bless him. His gaze sticks on my bare shoulders, then his mouth tightens and now he’s looking anywhere but at me. Which mostly leaves fussy wallpaper to stare at. He moves to push past me, so I brace my free hand against his chest, pushing back.
“Are you avoiding me?” All my patience evaporated in the bathroom.
“We live under the same roof, Ms. Frost. That would be difficult.” His gloved hand absently rubs his chest where my palm was a second ago, right over my damp fingerprints. “Where did you go on Saturday evening?” he asks, out of nowhere.
Whiplash. “Excuse me?”
“Before Sunday’s meal.”
I rub my temple. And the night started out so peaceful. Before Sunday… Before the flowers. Is that what this is about? Surely not. “I spend Saturday evenings with my mom.”
“Why the same day?”
I keep my answer vague. “She, uh, likes the routine.”
“And she will not visit you here? The rest of the Holler has no problem doing so.”
Touché. “It’s easier for me to visit her. She’s busy… being mayor.” I want to be intimidating and cross my arms, but can’t risk letting my towel fall.
“Why do I feel like you’re not telling me the whole truth, Ms. Frost?”
“Why do you have books locked up in the library, Mr. Knight?”
He finally looks at me, intense hazel irises peeking out from dark lashes. “That is beyond the realm of your concern.”
He steps back, so I take a step forward. He doesn’t just get to flee like some spooked armadillo. A spooked, grumpy armadillo. “All of this concerns me. You, the Manor, the locked doors—for chrissakes, the house just tried to make me into gumbo!”
Not the clearest explanation of what happened, but I don’t miss how his gaze roams over me, searching. For proof of injury? “Don’t worry. The house doesn’t eat stubborn.”
Good Lord. What does it eat? “My point is, the house is upset when you’re upset. The kitchen hides my thermometers, the clocks never keep the same time, and I can’t keep a candle lit to save my life. The more you brood—”
“I don’t brood.”
“—the more negative energy builds. I can’t do my job if I can’t trust where I sleep.”
“Then leave,” he says, a vicious edge to his voice. “You’ve given me enough of your time already.”
We’re still uncomfortably close, but after the illusions, I’m glad he’s here, solid and real and smelling of summer rain.
Yet the house’s illusions are made of heat and burning and death.
Strange. Doubly strange is how the fear of something else mutes whatever fear’s still stirring in my chest for him. It’s not gone, but it’s diluted.
“My timeline of three weeks was based on finding a cure. I haven’t found one yet, so I stay.” For him and my mom. I don’t realize I’ve made the decision until I say it. Already, an idea for reopening the shop while I’m here is forming in my head.
“How long?”
“As long as it takes.” At that, an odd look passes across his face, one I don’t know what to do with. “You asked me to be here, Mr. Knight. A Farewitch. To help you. Remember?”
“Perhaps I’m delaying the inevitable and don’t deserve the help.”
I can’t be any more exposed than I am now, so I take a steadying breath and a leap of faith, and hope I come out unburned. Again. “Why? Are all the rumors about you in town true?”
He clasps his gloved hands behind his back. “That depends. What are they this year?”
“Pretty bad.”
“I would be worried if they weren’t.”
“Murder.”
“Uninspired, but expected.”
“That you’re a harbinger of droughts and famine.”
“An old favorite.”
“You make everyone’s eggs rot and spoil.”
“Interesting, that’s a new one.”
“Pyromania—”
He blows out a puff of air. “Always the library with these people.”
“They say you burned it down.”
The warm hazel shifts to a dark moss in the dim hallway. But even his glare is bizarrely comforting. It’s still familiar, tangible. “Do you believe them, Ms. Frost?”
“Do you?” Should I be worried he isn’t denying the accusations, or that he’s accepting blame for crimes he knows he didn’t commit? “If they’re hung up on the library, why not open yours to the public? Or donate some of the money you definitely have to building a new one.”
“You place entirely too much faith in people, Ms. Frost.” He moves to pass me on the other side but I cut him off again.
“And you place too little faith in them, sir.” I square my shoulders as best I can. This speech would be a lot more effective if I were clothed. “There’s a chance I might not find your cure. Not when half the house is off-limits. The books—”
“For good reason, which is why I’ve warned you not to wander—”
“You promised me resources!”
“So work with the resources I’ve given you, and do not ask about the books again,” he snaps, his harsh tone echoing. “Now move out of my way, Ms. Frost, and return to your room.”
The third time he moves around me, I jump directly into his path.
At his incensed look, a deliciously feral delight curls in my gut. “Do not,” he says through gritted teeth, “make me pick you up again.”
I ignore the threat as a new thought occurs to me. “Were you awake when I knocked on your door earlier?” He doesn’t reply, which is all the reply I need. This ridiculous man. “Why didn’t you answer?”
His dark brows pull together. “Because you came to my bedroom. At midnight. It would not have been appropriate for me to answer.”
I try not to blush but probably fail. “What in the world did you think I came for?”
“I—why did you come to my bedroom?”
“To ask about the books in the library!” Ridiculous, ridiculous man.
I force myself to take a breath, to really taste the anger on my tongue like I’m giving a sharp wine a second chance.
His instinct is to ice me out, not burn down his obstacles.
There’s no way he’s causing these illusions of heat by himself, not intentionally.
This man’s a lot of things, but he’s not emotional.
The Manor, on the other hand… It feels like the house is losing control, more and more each day, as long as its Warlock remains sick. As his illness grows worse, so does the instability of his magic and anything connected to it.
The Warlock’s jaw unclenches. “We’ll finish this discussion at a more civilized hour. You’re naked.”
Good Lord. “Please, you’re too old to be bashful and too young to be this serious.”
A draft whips through the hall and I shiver. He leans forward and his immediate closeness, the ice in his eyes, is kindling for my gooseflesh.
“You should not roam the halls, especially at night, lest you find yourself an irresistible meal for whatever might be hungry.” His raspy voice claws across the distance between us. “Young Witches should be asleep at this hour, so go to bed before I put you to bed.”
My breath hitches and my mouth snaps shut.
He turns, heading back the way he came. With immeasurable dignity, I stick out my tongue in the direction of his retreating back.
Attawitch, Momaw’s voice whispers.
The minute I get back to my room, I text Arna Jean.
What would you say to a more permanent internship?
Arna Jean Claywell
Benefits? Health insurance?
free snacks…
Arna Jean Claywell
listening