Chapter Thirteen
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Apple seeds and cherry pits contain cyanide. Cures and poisons are just a matter of dosage.
Sex is fun, but farmers’ markets are better than any I’ve had in my thirty-one years.
Especially on the first morning of May, when the world is blooming and the sun glows with near-summer energy, no sign of clucking church ladies or Widow Witches.
Farmers’ markets in Foxe Holler are an institution, filling the town square in front of our small courthouse every weekend.
A rural holler might not have a Starbucks, but we’re lousy with farms. Jeweled beets, lacy collard greens, strawberries red and glossy, dried lavender, handsewn quilts, jars of preserves with no labels because they came directly from someone’s kitchen.
The market is extra rosy this morning because I’m seeing it through new, wide eyes.
On cue, Lazlo gives my hand an excited—and sticky—squeeze as he absorbs the buzz of activity. “Do you think Beauregard and Ms. Buchanan are here, too?”
“Here or church.” I return his squeeze and forgo asking how his hand is already glutinous.
The kid’s fidgety brain is often distracted or five thoughts ahead. Fresh air helps, just another reason I’ve made it my mission to take him into town.
We stop at the Cumberland family’s stall, where they sell extra goods from their general store.
Today it’s spiced mushroom scones so dense, I can smell the butter.
When I pay, the middle-aged woman—one of the Cumberland triplets, I’m not sure which—who takes my cash gives me the meanest mug, like I’ve sullied her ancestors.
Then I remember—it was her son who disappeared just last year.
Sonny Cumberland. We’re around the anniversary of when the Widow Witch took him. Pitifully poor timing on my part.
My good mood flickers like a weak pilot light, my usual confidence at the market shaken.
Even my friendliest neighbors no longer seem willing to be polite and hide their anger over my decision to help the Warlock.
Or maybe, with Pastor Webb challenging the presence of magic, the folks who never liked magic to begin with finally feel free to be vocal about it.
Thankfully, Lazlo’s too busy stuffing my half of our shared scone into his cheeks to notice the chilly treatment. “Yooh ge todu diss evur wookend?”
“We can do this every weekend.” Momaw Frost took me to my very first market, and I’ll chase that high forever. Being able to share this with Lazlo, the buzzy hellos and handshakes—
“You charged me three dollars a pound two weeks ago, Earl. Not five. Three! Do I look like a tourist who took a wrong turn at Mammoth Cave?”
Ah, right on time. I quickly locate who we came to meet.
Instant relief caffeinates my veins. Even though my favorite Bookwitch looks to be at war with Mr. Earl over Granny Smiths.
Lazlo and I hustle over before things get messy.
Mr. Earl crosses his arms, watching us approach. “It’s five now. For you and your friends.”
The younger Claywell whirls around, her long braids spinning with her. Her eyes flash behind golden octagonal glasses that glimmer against her dark skin. Like her older brother, what she lacks in good eyesight she makes up for in lanky limbs.
“Honeydew! One sec.” She turns back to face her victim. “What the hell kind of underhanded malarky is that?”
Lazlo gives a wicked little chuckle at her vocabulary.
Mr. Earl sneers. “What, can the Witches and magic among us not conjure up enough money to support your local farmers? Look here—that Warlock even has a Farewitch babysitting.”
“No—I’m babysitting her,” Lazlo says, tugging at my hand.
My confidence resurfaces. “Mr. Earl, I’ve bought apples from you for how many years?” And I’m the sole supplier of the honey bourbon bread pudding for his insomnia. The man doesn’t want me baking in some revenge espresso.
He looks away. “That’s when you ran the Apothakery for your neighbors. Now you’re the Warlock’s Farewitch. Not mine.”
Heat wraps my neck. “I’m not his Farewitch. I’m everyone’s. I’m simply trying to help someone who has not asked for help before. Perhaps you can be generous and allow me to use my time as I choose.”
But—is it really mine? Or does a Farewitch’s time belong to her patients and customers and neighbors first?
Arna Jean pushes her frames onto her head like sunglasses, but they drop right back onto her nose. “And we won’t be up-charged for mediocre apples with worm spots—”
“Have a pleasant day,” I tell Mr. Earl, ushering both Arna Jean and Lazlo from the stall before apples become projectiles. I’m not going to let this ruin my morning, but that doesn’t mean a girl can’t hope his fruit rots.
“Apples aren’t even in season!” Arna Jean calls over her shoulder.
When we’re alone between stalls, she adjusts her hoodie. It’s sleeveless, with a Technicolor galaxy framing a massive flipped middle finger. It reads: Cosmic Bitch.
“The minute I mentioned I was going to help run the Apothakery while you’re away—well. Forget apples, that man should grow some manners.”
“The Apothakery missed you,” I say by way of a greeting.
My friend rolls her eyes, making a psssh sound. “You missed me.”
“Nonsense. Millennials don’t miss Gen Z. Those are the rules.”
My idea to have Arna Jean reopen the shop while I’m still at the Manor won’t fix everything, but it might assuage my regulars. It’s a start.
She’s only six years younger than me, but with her innate magical finesse, social media fluency, and genius—double major in economics and math, minor in marketing and two or three languages—not to mention her scary-accurate vision boards, it all makes me look like a jaded old crone.
Not unlike how I see the Warlock, I suppose.
If he’d had an Arna Jean all these years, someone younger to keep him on his toes, he might be an entirely different person.
Or still just a cranky grump.
“Also, how did I never hear your brother got the postman job?” I’m not that obsessed with my day-to-day grind. Am I?
She waves a manicured hand. “No one knows. That’s how quiet he is. Foxe Holler will have a library before you find Rett out on the town, or out of his uniform. He has not a single dating app. A square so square his only hope is to multiply by himself.”
“Was that a math joke?”
“Are those clogs?”
I look down. “They’re practical for standing on—”
“And farmeralls? I was gone way too long. When’s the last time you did a fit check?”
“A what?”
She lets out a displeased hum. “Never mind. I knew it. You’re lost without me.”
“How kind of you to grace me with your presence in my hour of need.”
“My people will invoice you my appearance fee.”
“Do all Witches talk as fast as you two?” Lazlo says.
We both jump, startled. Arna Jean looks down. “Your interns are getting awfully young.”
“I’m Lazlo,” he replies, giving her a toothy grin.
“Nice to meet you, Lazlo. I’m Arna Jean. You can call me RJ.”
I shift on my feet, restless, and can’t resist asking any longer. “How was your postgraduation world tour? How was the food?” For a couple years, I got a taste of what the world was like outside the Holler. Just enough to whet my appetite.
She shrugs. “Danced in Berlin. Hiked in Corcovado. Made strudel in Salzburg. Ate my weight in roti in Bhubaneswar. Kissed some people in… a number of places. It’s easy to be lots of different people the farther away you go.
” She inhales, a big two-nostril effort, like she’s picking up the smells of sunshine and good dirt, the soul of the Holler. “But home is home.”
“Glad to hear Webb and Fudge didn’t greet you with angry signs.”
“Oh, I ran into Fudge’s crotchety ass the minute I got home.
That lady believes too much in Jesus and not enough in moisturizing.
I like to watch her face add a new wrinkle for every piercing I get.
” Her eyes narrow. “Is it true you’ve been pissing off Webb and his church ladies?
I hope you’re not doing all that labor for free. ”
I catch her up as best I can. By the time I finish, I’m not so sure my plan is a great idea anymore. By helping the Farewitch who’s helping the Warlock, she’s stepping into the middle of trouble. I just don’t know what kind yet.
Two nights ago, I ran bangs-first into the chilling reminder that the Warlock is a magical being who could pluck me off the vine of existence.
Go to bed before I put you to bed. I shiver.
Though, it might only be at the memory of his deep voice.
Despite the cold edge of his attitude, something about being half naked in front of him really changes the taste of any fear I might have.
“And the Warlock does pay me. Well.” Hence why I was able to even hire Arna Jean temporarily.
Her brown eyes churn with mischief. “I bet he does.”
I choke on water I’m not even drinking. “It’s not like that—he’s not—” My hands go over Lazlo’s ears. “Are you accusing me of sleeping with a man to get something I want? Shame on you.”
She snorts. “Please, you’re too tired to ever bring someone home, or you’re too busy to fight insurance over birth control. Either way, we both know you’re not getting any.”
There’s a fragile little bubble of quiet and then it pops and we’re both cackling like we’re storybook Witches plotting over a bubbling cauldron. Maybe that’s where the stereotypes come from. People are just afraid of women laughing.
Ears free now, Lazlo looks more confused than ever.
I wipe the joy from my eyes. “Are you sure about this? If the Widow Witch decides this year’s victim is in line for my cornbread, I don’t know if the shop’s wards are strong enough to keep her out.” Now that I’ve seen her power in person.
“I can handle the shop. Lucky for you, Bookwitches make terrific entrepreneurs. This Holler could use less blind faith and fear and more concrete hustle, more belief in numbers and evidence. Right now, all you need to worry about is healing your patients.”
Plural. “Not sure I’m healing much these days.”