Chapter Sixteen #2
The Warlock busies himself untangling cookie cutters, doing his best to ignore the attention.
Far from the safety of his gardens, he’s tried to camouflage his tall presence all morning, to no avail.
So far, this community event has conjured even more questions.
Ms. Buchanan is plenty old enough to have known his face before he withdrew from town.
Even Carolina would’ve seen him; everyone passes through the hospital at some point.
I think. Yet it’s like everyone is meeting him for the very first time.
When he doesn’t take the bait, Ms. Buchanan makes me her next target. “Where is the elusive Mayor Frost, sugar? Skipping a Mother’s Day cookie bake? Your mama can’t hide behind her work forever.”
Eva Mae nods in agreement. “Her neighbors hardly see her.”
My heartbeat jackhammers. The Warlock is watching me intently. He frowns.
“She’s incredibly bossy,” I say, stumbling. “Busy, I mean. She and I celebrated Mother’s Day yesterday.” That’s the truth, at least.
My heart clenches with another truth. Watching all these kids baking cookies with their parents, grandmothers… I’m missing my mom extra hard today. Every chef needs her sous-chef.
“Besides, you’d have to make an appointment to visit her office, but her number two is notoriously hard to reach, so I wouldn’t even bother.”
Sorry, Silas.
“Ladies, I reckon we should pay Marigold a visit soon,” Ms. Buchanan declares.
My neck flames up. “Oh, that’s not necessary—”
“That does beg the question,” Eva Mae ponders.
No, no questions begged!
Eva Mae turns to me. “Why doesn’t Marigold just run the Apothakery again? Especially with Arna Jean’s help. She’d probably enjoy the baking more than the politics.”
Too many eyes land on me, blinking with expectation.
Could be the heat of the ovens, or that I can’t remember what I’ve eaten today, or the Warlock’s stare, or this chatter about my mom, who’s dying a little more every day—I’m suddenly hot. Sweating under my apron.
It’s all too much. I need a minute.
“That’s the oven timer,” I chirp to the backdrop of absolutely no timer. But before they question my hearing, I bolt toward the AGA.
Taking deep breaths, I busy myself making a fresh pitcher of sweet tea. Slowly, my cheeks cool and the surface of my skin stops fizzing.
Calm yourself, girl.
Momaw’s voice soothes the turmoil in my mind, but only for a moment.
She had similar symptoms as my mom, though she was older, already a grandmother.
But like me, my mom started managing the shop years before her mom actually passed, ever since Momaw first began declining.
How would I survive not having my mom around?
Right now, a cure feels very much like a wish in the dark.
Thyme tickles the back of my tongue.
“This is utter bedlam, Ms. Frost.”
“Bedlam is a strong word,” I say, turning to face the Warlock. The kids are so besotted with his magic now, they’re snapping for fun, mimicking him. “And I’ve told you twice now not to use magic just to create rainbow frosting. We can make that, sir.”
The one rule Ms. Zeen and I agree on is, as it happens, the rule the Warlock is dismal at following. No magic. Not while his curse is supposedly squeezing the life from his body like a voracious juicer. If he expends any magic, it’s for the Manor’s wards.
“The children’s wishes are too small to harm me,” he grumbles in protest. “The cost is minimal. A headache tomorrow, at most.”
Lies. Since splitting my time between the Warlock, my mom’s research, baking for my regulars…
I’m fluent in faking energy. Every granted wish leaves him slightly paler, and he needs more and more time between each one.
He doesn’t think anyone notices, but I do.
If he keeps this up, the thyme smell around me will become permanent. Which wouldn’t be so bad. But still.
“You’re going to exhaust yourself and I need to be able to measure your health when you’re eating my recipes. Without competing variables.”
However, I can’t deny seeing him show an interest in something other than being a brooding recluse… It feels good. Even his gloves were clean this morning, like he put on a fresh pair just for today.
I can’t help my satisfied smirk. “And you said a cookie bake couldn’t be done.”
“I said shouldn’t be done. Forgive me for assuming no one would want to visit this tomb of a house.”
“But?”
“But,” he sighs, “against all odds, no one appears distressed by the presence of a Warlock at a children’s confectionary social.”
My triumph doesn’t last long. It’s good news, but it conjures that same feeling I had seeing Arna Jean’s confused look at the market.
This unease that the memories folks have of the Warlock are all based in rumor, the lore hovering only on the surface like the frothy broth on top of simmering soup.
I wonder, when our guests leave the Manor, will they still think of him as the beastly old monster with treacherous magic?
Will they even remember the man currently wiping tiny flour handprints off his elephant ear plants?
“I admit, it’s nice to see Lazlo laughing so much,” the Warlock says, saving me from my garbage disposal of thoughts.
I don’t say a word, lest I break the spell. Let it be known I, Farewitch Honey Frost, got the Warlock of Foxe Holler to use the word nice.
Sweet tea made, I fan myself with a dishcloth. With so many bodies in the hot kitchen, I’m lightheaded, my temples warm with sweat.
He eyes me. “You should rest a moment. You haven’t eaten all day.”
“I’m fine, I’ll eat when everything quiets down. Speaking of, Eva Mae’s insomnia is flaring up and I need to whip up—”
“Ms. Frost, not three minutes ago you poured Lazlo a mug of Moscato and Ms. Buchanan a glass of chocolate milk. I insist.”
Oh dear.
To be honest, I’ve been enjoying this too much to stop. The buzzy kitchen reminds me of the Apothakery, which keeps my brain from lingering on the laundry list of problems to solve.
“Tell you what,” I say. “I’ll eat something if you take off your gloves.”
He looks at me like he’s been stung by an annoying bee. I smirk. I’m going to win this. He’ll never—
Finger by finger, he peels off his gloves.
What. Is. Happening.
Even Ms. Zeen looks over, as if she senses something terribly wrong. The universe is collapsing, that’s what.
Forearm muscles tense, the Warlock looks almost…
relieved? I’ve never once seen his hands and they’re…
normal. Dirt hides under his short nails.
So he does take them off when he’s gardening alone.
And no wedding ring. For those (me) at home wondering.
Not that it matters. Purely for fact-gathering purposes.
“I expected claws,” I blurt before I can bite my silly tongue. And if he did have them? Claws are probably good for digging up dirt for new flowers.
“Warlocks don’t scratch, Ms. Frost. We bite.”
My face warms, and then I’m thinking about the drink we shared last week. I eyeballed my ceiling well into the witching hour that night because I couldn’t stop picturing that silly dollop of whipped cream on his lip.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he drawls, “I’m going to locate one of those godawful marshmallow sandwiches for you.”
As I watch him go, I feel ready to tip sideways. Maybe I do need a snack.
For the next hour, I wash sticky hands, rescue cookies from the floor before Beauregard pounces, and lead supervised treks to the bathroom so we don’t lose a kid Willy Wonka–style, just in case the house decides to try something.
Occasionally, I make eye contact with the Warlock across the room.
Okay, a lot more than occasionally. Our chat left me feeling very…
very. I take an aggressive bite of the Fluffernutter sandwich he brought me whenever he looks over.
He just smirks, looking entirely too pleased with himself. I can’t take my eyes off his hands.
Slowly, the sharp pang of missing my mom goes from needle to dull fork tine.
Soon, a sugar high hits all parties under four feet tall, and it takes me and Arna Jean twenty minutes to corral the kids outside to work off their fidgets.
A few parents make the great sacrifice of offering to chaperone, and the Warlock joins them, though I suspect he just wants to escape for fresh air.
Can’t blame him. One can take only so many shrieks measuring decibels close to the pain threshold.
The rest of us tidy the kitchen. While I sweep up sprinkles Ms. Zeen will find until Christmas, I snatch pieces of the ongoing conversation at the table.
“How old do you think I am?” Carolina is saying. “Hedgewitches have longer than normal lifespans, not Hearthwitches. Trust me, I wasn’t born when this farmhouse went up.”
Eva Mae accepts a cup of tea from Ms. Zeen. “Blanche says we’re the first folks inside in decades.”
Ms. Buchanan snorts. “Blanche also says she remembers the Civil War.”
“And you don’t, Beulah?” Arna Jean asks.
“Hush your mouth.”
Governess Zeen turns to Carolina. “Speaking of Hearthwitches, the Widow Witch might have broken through our warding the other day if not for the protection spell you placed on Ms. Frost. Remarkable spellwork.”
Mention of the town’s least favorite seasonal tradition sends the jovial mood into the deep end of unease.
Carolina huffs. “Can you believe I actually offered to make one for Gertha Fudge, since she seemed even more anxious than usual this spring? She slammed the door in my face!”
Eva Mae sips tea with one hand and runs the other over her tummy. “She tried to convince me to stay inside until the baby comes. Lectured me about how all the soulless magic in the air was no good for a lady in the family way.”
Ms. Buchanan scoffs. “Pastor Webb’s got her stirred into a frenzy this year. He’s up to something.”
As I clean, I mull over what Ms. Buchanan said earlier. Noxie is someone who could use the Widow Witch’s unique curriculum vitae. So it doesn’t seem a stretch to assume that in her long life, the Widow Witch has taken some terrible husbands—and created a few grateful widows.