Chapter Sixteen #3
“We’ll have to put poor Gertha’s mind at ease, bless her heart,” Carolina says. “Honey, have you been kidnapped, tortured, maimed, drawn and quartered, or encountered any bodily danger while staying here?”
The copper pots rattle above the island, but the ladies don’t notice. “Not yet.”
Ms. Buchanan tsks. “I am curious about that boy, though. You mean to tell me this Warlock was charming enough to catch at least one young lady to have a baby?”
I accidentally drop the stack of empty trays I’m juggling, and the clatter ricochets right over Eva Mae’s halfhearted, chastising “Beulah!”
“What? If he’s a bachelor, I need escorts to Gertha’s ridiculous church luncheons. Woman boils my blood but she makes a damn fine pineapple upside-down cake. And she lets me bring my Long Island iced teas if I don’t cause a fuss.”
Attempting to digest the topic of the Warlock’s procreation habits, I struggle to gather the rebellious trays. And I can’t even blame this ornery house for my clumsiness this time.
Ms. Buchanan smacks her lips at me. “Hang in there, sugar. Learning a new kitchen is like learning a new car or man. The mechanics are the same but all the buttons are in different places, depending on your model.”
Oh Lord. I want to jam my head into the hottest door of the AGA. I compose myself long enough to say, “Lazlo is an orphan.”
“Mr. Knight was his next of kin,” Ms. Zeen explains.
Carolina leans forward, lowering her voice. “I heard the Widow Witch used to leave widowers behind, too. Not just widows.”
Eva Mae fidgets. “Lord, I am not letting my husband raise this baby alone. I love him, but Hatton’s cornbread isn’t always done in the middle, if you know what I mean.”
Ms. Buchanan nods. “You’ll be fine, dear. Your Hatton seems like a good fellow.”
“But she’s never not taken someone before. What is she waiting for?”
I’m with Eva Mae, and I don’t even have a husband to worry about.
The Witch just changes her routine without any sort of ulterior motive?
If she doesn’t end up taking whatever unfortunate marital soul is next on her list, I worry that could give Webb’s claim at the market credence.
How would we prove the Witches of the Holler don’t attract the Widow Witch’s ire?
“The Witch will do what she has always done,” Ms. Zeen says. “As she pleases.”
Ms. Buchanan jabs a bony finger into the table. “If I were a betting woman—”
“You are a betting woman, Beulah,” Carolina says.
“Hush—I’d bet the Witch is busy trying to balance something that’s gone crooked. And if anyone’s capable of causing an imbalance of magic, well.”
She means a Warlock is responsible.
While the others don’t know what I do about the Warlock’s curse, he says the Witch’s attention on him doesn’t have anything to do with her absence this year. I might believe him. He’s not a husband, and if taking him would’ve met her quota, she’d have done it already.
But would she truly have flattened the farmhouse the other day if Carolina’s protection spell weren’t in the way? It seems an extreme reaction, for a Witch all about balance.
“At some point, her bad reputation was bound to catch up to the rest of us Witches.” Carolina snaps the head off an unsuspecting shortbread cat.
“Whether Gertha’s encouraging Webb or vice versa, they’ll use whatever ammunition and red tape they can to challenge our other gatherings.
A Witch won’t be able to light a candle without a siren going off. ”
“Why does Fudge hate magic so much?” I ask. The youngest of us here don’t have the full history the older women of the Holler do.
“Besides the fact that the Widow Witch took the woman’s husband?” Ms. Buchanan shares a glance with Governess Zeen.
Ms. Zeen nods. “Leaving her with young children to raise on her own?”
Well, yes, besides that, but I’m too sheepish to let my sarcasm fight with theirs.
Everyone knows Fudge lost her husband to the Witch, but that was decades ago.
Why does she have a fire under her bony ass this year?
Is it just Webb’s influence? Or is it just that, for a small town, sometimes a deviation from the norm is more terrifying than the predictable devil next door?
“Gertha’s family had powerful Hedgewitch magic, but she never inherited any,” Carolina says. “That magic doesn’t play by lineage rules, like other lower magics. Made her furious, I think. She’s always envied her own ancestors.”
“But Mayor Frost—even Ms. Fudge can’t deny Honey’s mom is a good Witch,” Eva Mae says.
Ms. Zeen frowns in my direction. “You’ll never convince that woman magic isn’t poison. Even if it’s just Farewitch magic.” Her eyes unfocus, like she’s fighting off a memory. If only I could grasp her hand and peek into what haunts her.
As if. She’d probably stab me with her sugar spoon.
Her words nip at me, though. Just Farewitch magic.
Webb and Fudge scoff at the practical magic of local Witches, then demonize a Warlock or any power that threatens their hold over the town.
Maybe if my magic were meaner, stronger—like the Widow Witch herself—and I was willing to pay any price, I could do more.
Like heal my mom. But then how long until someone thought I was too powerful?
My nervous energy climbs. Could also be the blood sugar–spiking marshmallow sandwich. Some fresh air would do me good.
On the back porch, gray clouds hang heavy above me and a breeze winds through my overalls. Leaves turn over, pale bellies up to a darkening sky. A storm is rolling in. The rain will be good for the garden, for the health and blooming of even the most stubborn plants.
Behind the Manor, kids squeal and chase one another as parents look on.
Soon, the kids cajole a very stiff Warlock into dancing in a lumpy circle, which might be alarming if any of them besides him had the magic needed to form a summoning circle.
Then, in a truly shocking turn of events, the Warlock lets the kids explore his gardens. His gardens. His private sanctuary.
Either he’s sipping tea with bourbon like Ms. Buchanan, or he’s actually trying to support my plan, to rewrite years of rumors and suspicion. I’m sure it helps that Lazlo looks the happiest I’ve ever seen him.
I suck in the crisp air, pushing away my worries, and the scent of blooming flowers coaxes my muscles to relax. The gardens are an entirely different kitchen, the Warlock his own kind of chef, but the smells are just as sweet.
For once, I’m not thinking about the next recipe. I don’t want to be anywhere else beyond this view in this very moment.
“You look like you’re high on something, girl.” Beulah Buchanan plops onto the iron bench by the door.
Governess Zeen sits beside her. “She always looks like that.”
I rehinge my jaw. These two must brainstorm different ways to tell me to fix my face.
“Congratulations, Ms. Frost,” the Governess adds. “Not once in the time I’ve known him has the Warlock ever let anyone tromp through his gardens.”
I’d smile, but that somehow sounds like an insult coming from her. It’s a talent, really. No wonder she and Ms. Buchanan are friends.
“Today was still wholly unnecessary,” she continues. “He didn’t hire you to alleviate his tensions with the Holler.”
Ouch. I know I’m not here for cookie bakes, but after so many weeks of failure, I’m going to ignore her. A win is a win. Ms. Buchanan elbows the Governess. “C’mon, Letha. Your boy Lazlo needed this. Too many folks in this Holler are afraid of fun.”
“I suppose Mr. Knight will appreciate being part of the community, at least for one day.”
I try not to look too satisfied. “Even grumpy folks are worth the hard work.”
“I hope you still believe that come the solstice. That you believe in him,” she says, her attention on the Warlock in the distance. “He certainly believes in you.”
This shouldn’t be news. The Warlock obviously thinks I can cure him. But somehow, her words make me feel like my heart has the hiccups.
Ms. Buchanan sniffs, lowering her voice. “He believes in you as well. Gertha would listen to you, you know.”
“Listen but not forgive. Me or Mr. Knight,” Ms. Zeen answers. “The folks of Foxe Holler are quick to forget their neighbors when they need someone to blame, and blame is easier to cast for those of us without magic.”
“You don’t owe the town—or anyone—anything, Letha.”
I pretend not to listen, but I haven’t been able to get Ms. Zeen to tell me anything about herself, so maybe a friend can work a different kind of magic.
“He doesn’t think so, either. But I do.” The Governess sighs. “He never wanted this. One mistake, and it’s cost him everything, or it will. I’d hoped he learned from his parents, after—” She cuts off, eyeing me.
I’m caught.
What was that all about?
Ms. Buchanan looks back up at me. “And you—you push yourself too much.”
Her words have a knack for cueing the beginnings of my fatigue. I shrug them off. “I’m a Farewitch. I like to try hard.” Otherwise, I’m failing.
“Sugar, you have to care for yourself so you can care for others.”
“With respect, ma’am, that doesn’t work in every scenario.”
The old woman gives me the meanest side-eye. “You’ve gone above and beyond for the Warlock and that boy, two people you barely know. Even for a Farewitch. Why?”
Ms. Zeen is watching me, my shifting gaze, my complete inability to not follow the Warlock and Lazlo with my eyes at all times. “Hmph. I know that look.”
That’s when I realize something truly, inescapably terrible.
“Because I care about them,” I whisper. A helluva lot more than I bargained for.
Ms. Zeen tsks. “Poor dear.”
Before I can respond, Carolina appears at my elbow. “I have the spell you asked for, Honey.”
Right. The next part of my plotting. Which doesn’t include getting attached.
Tearing my eyes from the gardens, I give the Hearthwitch a grateful smile.
And I try, oh so hard, to remember it’s a good thing when someone can say goodbye to their Farewitch.