Chapter Fourteen #2
Oh. Right. Embarrassment tingles up my spine.
Caught. Half naked. Again. And not just in an old oversized shirt, no, that would be too easy on me.
It happens to be the one with an illustration of fried chicken pieces forming the shape of Kentucky on the front, with the proclamation Gettin’ Lucky in Kentucky!
He smirks. “You’re lucky they weren’t very hungry.”
I guess this is a lesson about not purchasing clothing at a random gas station in a small town like Hell for Certain, Kentucky. The ferocious scolding I had for him dies in my throat.
“Not that I don’t trust you, Ms. Frost”—heavy, heavy chance of sarcasm—“but I think it’s best I escort you to bed.”
I’m flustered, but my brush with death makes me feel bold. “Is it, now?”
“Back to bed. Back to your room.” He blows out an agitated breath. “You know what I mean. Follow me.”
I fall into step next to him, only because I don’t want to be left alone in the dark, even if my pride takes a hit. “Thank you.”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. But he was here when I needed someone. “You have nothing to thank me for. My magic didn’t save you. I just closed a door.”
Something he’s great at. “It wasn’t my magic.” Right?
But then, what was all that? The Warlock has influence over the house and his plants, but both are sentient on their own—and antagonistic.
The house opened that door for me, but the vines attacked the minute I pried too far into the past. A headache pulses behind my eyes. Note to self: Always stay in bed.
One thing is clear. Something, or someone, is most definitely cursed in this place. Hell, it might be me.
“Am I going to regret asking why you went into that room tonight?”
I almost laugh. My reasoning feels silly now. “The house unlocked the door for me. There was a trunk of photos, and I thought if I found—never mind. One of the portraits was the woman from the photo in the library.”
There. I leave my answer between us, a palm up. Take it. Open up, give me something.
With his eyes straight ahead, his next breath is a rough inhale. “That’s my mother, Margaret Cho. She was a Chinese exchange student traveling through the States when she met my father, a farmer here. She already loved working outdoors with plants and the earth, so she stayed.”
The honesty throws me and I forget to feel victorious at cracking his decades-thick wall. Parents make him much more… human. That’s the black hair, then. I see his mom in his face, his cheekbones, but his dad in his taller frame.
“Deadly succulent rooms aside, why am I really not allowed to explore the house?”
“Because it prefers to keep to itself.”
“You mean keep secrets. Like what happened to your family.” A chill whips up my bare thighs and I inch closer to him. “Like how Lazlo ended up here—”
“That’s enough.”
His tone is thorn-sharp. I want to pry. Each day I’m here, I want more of a glimpse into the Warlock’s past, secrets and all. I know I’m getting closer to breaking through the hard, crystallized exterior of this particular crème br?lée.
“Why were you up this late?” Whatever the reason, I’m glad he was. “Don’t know if anyone’s told you, but the house is a real prick at night. Do you ever sleep?”
“Less and less,” he says, studying me like I’m to blame.
Of course. The entire reason I’m even here.
“Did the elderberry turnovers improve how you’re feeling at all?
” Elderberries are full of antioxidants and good for inflammation, but a Farewitch can amplify their ability to strengthen a weak heart.
I resist the urge to ask to see his tongue color. He’d probably fire me for that one.
“Nothing yet.” His eyes dart to me, gloved hands clasped tight behind his back. I must look a frightful mess, because his tone softens. Barely. “But the purple hue reminded me of my mother’s ube spoonbread. My grandmother’s recipe. Po Po was from Hong Kong.”
Another detail! Tonight’s adventure might’ve been worth it just for this conversation.
“I tried to sell ube cornbread at the shop once. Honey and cinnamon on top. You’d think folks had never seen the color purple before.”
“A shame that some prefer their food the color of Scrabble tiles.”
I hum in agreement. “It’s too easy to like what’s familiar.”
Just when I think we’re getting close to the stairs, we turn another corner into an identical dark hall. I swear, this house’s favorite game is maze. That, or it’s delaying the end of our conversation.
“I noticed you were in town all day,” he says after a beat.
I think that’s a question. “I was meeting my friend Arna Jean. She’s a Bookwitch. She’s going to help run the Apothakery since I’m staying here longer.”
“Good. For your Apothakery, I mean.” Then: “Is that why you took Lazlo to town without my permission?”
So much for skirting that indiscretion. Why did I believe I could fool him?
“Lazlo likes the unfamiliar, you know. Learning, and exploring. Not that I want to threaten Ms. Zeen’s job and incur her wrath, but have you thought about sending him to school? He doesn’t have magic, so why not let him be any other rowdy kid in a classroom?”
A wisp of indecision tugs at his mouth, right before his face hardens. “No. Magic or not, the town would treat him as my ward and he’d be fighting the hatred attached to my reputation. It’s simply safer for folks to not know him at all. I can’t… explain it any other way.”
I won’t argue with him, not after seeing that behavior firsthand at the market.
Baby steps. “I don’t know what his life was like before he came here, but he lost his parents, and he’ll need interaction with other kids, somehow.”
“Believe me, I wish the situation were different. But the fewer opportunities the town has to scrutinize him, the better. Certain people could… They would use him against me.”
“The Widow Witch.”
“Among others.”
We finally reach the stairs to the second floor, and stand near the first step at an impasse. Almost like he doesn’t want to go up to our rooms yet. Probably the insomnia.
As I move for the stairs, he says, “You were quiet at dinner. And you didn’t eat.”
“Oh—ah.” I didn’t expect anyone to notice. That he did does a weird thing to my chest. Hopefully the foyer is dark enough to hide my cheeks. “Just puzzling some things out. My brain gets a bit loud sometimes.”
Between handing the Apothakery to Arna Jean, then Webb and Fudge, that sometimes is turning into all the time.
And my recipe earlier this week—blueberry buckwheat pancake bread with whipped ricotta lemon frosting—did nothing for my mom’s condition.
Every day I spend with her in that fluorescent box of a hospital room, the shrill sounds of beeping instead of the soft hum of an oven, guilt clings to me like wet dough.
Going to bed right now means I’ll have to be alone with all those worries.
Abruptly, I turn my back on the stairs.
“Would you like to have a drink?” I ask the Warlock.