Chapter Seventeen
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Sometimes the recipes you don’t make are more important than the ones you do.
Thursday morning, I’m deep in the library’s stacks, fueled with coffee and a plan.
I left everyone molasses baked oats on the stove so I won’t be bothered for a few hours. Lazlo mostly sticks to me like an adorable, pokey burr, but today he’s slept in, and now that the cookie bake is over and the Manor is calm again, I can finally put Carolina’s spell to good use.
Calm-ish. The house’s silence is never a true, empty quiet.
Ms. Zeen’s clacking heels or Lazlo’s laugh will float around corners, and the Warlock is only ever a glower away, watching to see what trouble I cause next.
Like a heartbeat, the farmhouse thrums at the edge of my attention.
It’s comforting to know someone is expecting to see me every morning.
Usually, I take my time in the stacks, hunting through shelves, grabbing any volume that looks exceptionally old. Which is a lot. The sheer collection of texts, magical and not… folks would be ecstatic if the Warlock opened his library to the public.
But today, I’m hunting for a single specific book.
Soon, the locked enclave of books looms before me. The hum of anxiety in my mind fades into a literal buzzing vibration. It’s coming from the locked stacks. A soft purr, as if the books behind the iron bars are whispering to me, encouraging me to explore.
It’s surprisingly easy to break in. That is, with the spell my favorite Hearthwitch, Carolina Vázquez, gave me for tricky locks.
The gate swings open.
There’s no sign at all the cage was ever out to grill me like a kebab. But I don’t want to test the time limit on the house’s docile mood, so I immediately go for the book that caught my attention days ago. Dessert first.
The Foxe Holler Yonder.
The first thing I learn is, I’m right: The archival volume contains whole issues and clippings, from a single year of our town’s history, twenty-five years ago.
The front page doesn’t disappoint: The library fire is the only article above the fold.
The Foxe Holler Library burned shortly after midnight and was a pile of ash by sunrise. As far as authorities know, the fire has claimed the lives of two victims, who likely gained entry after the librarian locked the facility at the usual closing time…
It’s got facts but not much journalistic investigation.
There’s one mention of the mayor—Ewing Summer, my mom’s predecessor—refusing to comment on accusations and community suspicion that a Witch or Warlock and “rogue” magic were responsible.
Instead, he mentions plans to raise funds to rebuild. Which never happened.
No wonder Ms. Zeen got so worked up on Sunday. Since I was only about three when it burned down, I never got the details firsthand. Lord, I hope the two folks who died weren’t related to the Governess. I’ve never even asked if she has family.
The rest of the thin volume covers news from the year and community announcements.
But for the most part, the saved articles are of dismal affairs.
Deaths and crop problems, almanac predictions that proved accurate, missing animals, storms and vicious floods.
Similar to the town’s rumors about the Warlock.
I flip back to the library fire. There. I spot a tiny line of ink, faded with time, under a black-and-white photo of the smoldering shell of the library. I missed the caption before.
The Foxe Holler Library the morning after the fire. The victims of the fire are believed to have been a couple, survived by a child.
The Yonder doesn’t mention names, which is odd for a small town. This is the only article about the fire. No follow-up pieces with any identities released to the public. A dead end.
My mind thumps along with my erratic heartbeat and my skin succumbs to a chill, even though noon should be approaching.
I begin to feel like I’m not just perusing archives, but holding someone’s personal and very depressing scrapbook.
Someone keeping track of all the terrible things they couldn’t prevent.
Or the terrible things they’ve done.
If Arna Jean were here, she’d be able to sense the emotions hiding within the pages. Whether they were violent or more melancholy, full of guilt. But I don’t want to risk taking the book out of the farmhouse, so I banish the thought of bringing her even further into my messes.
The rest of the restricted books are underwhelming, so I shift my attention to possible recipes and cures.
I expected these locked bookshelves to imprison dangerous spell books, family ledgers of misdeeds, bestiaries.
All number of Warlock-y texts. Warlock Knight’s Big Bad Book of Grudges Old, New, and Permanent. I’d read that one.
Instead, I just find the contents of any family’s basement: photo albums of grainy memories, property deeds, birth certificates with tiny footprints, farmers’ almanacs, tickets to performances gone by, blueprints the house has rebelliously outgrown.
And handwritten recipes. Some are even in elegant Chinese characters. Finally, tucked between other handwritten recipes, I stumble on a particular list of ingredients, the delicate cursive script winking up at me.
Now we’re getting somewhere. A plan takes shape.
Back in the kitchen, an hour slips by, and then I’m putting the finishing touches on my idea. A kiss of cinnamon and a first-snow dusting of powdered sugar—
“Have you slept at all since Sunday, Ms. Frost?”
Turning from the stove, I find Warlock Knight at the kitchen island. Dewy sweat mists his forehead and the prominence of the sun spots on his cheeks tells me he’s been gardening all morning. May seeds will sprout vegetables, fruits, and blooms for months. He’s in his element, and it suits him.
It suits him very well. My face heats even though the oven’s off.
As his bright hazel eyes study me, I yank my traitorous gaze back under control before the need to accost him with sunscreen wins out over any common sense I have left.
“No time. We’re on a schedule. Farewitches rarely rest.”
“So I’ve noticed.” He sets his gloves on the island. We’ve reached an agreement since the cookie bake: I promise to eat some of everything I make, and he removes his gloves in the kitchen.
The tiniest bit pleased with myself, I slide a cooling skillet onto the island.
Ube spoonbread, from what I’m positive is his grandmother’s very recipe.
Like its name suggests, spoonbread bakes as a lump, like a soft scone. No slicing—just spoonfuls from a communal skillet. It’s best served with friends. I wait for some trace of recognition on his face. Or applause—either works.
But he frowns. And frowns. Wrinkles sprout across his features. His fingers twitch toward his gloves. I can’t smell the spoonbread anymore, like my taste buds ran for the hills.
“Where did you get the recipe for this?” His voice is low and terse.
“Your library.”
“You mean you stole it. From the restricted section. After I told you about my mother, my family. After I asked you not to trespass.”
“Ordered me, you mean,” I retort.
“Fine. Ordered. Which you disobeyed. You’re my employee, a guest here, and I’ve implored you to respect the boundaries that I maintain to keep this Manor running—”
“Walls. You have walls. Not boundaries.”
“Do not debate semantics with me, Ms. Frost. We’re having an argument.”
I throw down my oven mitt. The soft, puffy sound is dreadfully unsatisfying. “I’ve had enough lectures from the men of the Holler lately; I don’t need one from you. You insist a crucial resource—part of our agreement, sir—is off-limits, and I want a reason. Now.”
“Because is a good reason. Those archives are restricted because. That is where they stay out of the way, where they have been for decades, where they belong.”
I might have stayed angry if his voice didn’t waver on belong.
My thoughts go lumpy, like bad batter, and my mistake hits me like a lobbed frozen pound cake.
The locked bookshelf in the library isn’t a treasure chest full of cookbooks for my entertainment.
They’re family artifacts. He lived alone in this house before Ms. Zeen came along.
How long, is the question. How long can someone grieve, and grieve alone, before the walls begin to feel like home?
The purple of the yam now looks terribly like knockoff Play-Doh. Food can conjure the best memories. Or the worst.
“What do you need so badly from that bookshelf anyway?” he mutters.
“The recipes in there are old. I doubt a Farewitch has ever looked at them. One of them could save you.”
Does he care?
Cold hazel eyes rise to meet mine. “Could they also save your mother?”
That sends the remaining teaspoon of my good mood down the sink.
He knows. He knows and he’s going to fire me now for sure.
Somehow, that makes my mom’s situation all the more real. I nod weakly. “Maybe. I can’t know if I don’t try.”
“I’m assuming a Farewitch, like a Warlock, can’t cure herself with her own magic?”
“Theoretically, it’s possible. But we have to be focused for a recipe to be strong. If I’m feeling off, the magic won’t work. Think of it like taking a test with a fever. I can do it, but I’m barely gonna pass. C plus material.”
As I explain, he just listens, no advice or false encouragement. He looks like he might want to ask more questions, but decides against it. I’m grateful we’re not lingering on the topic.
A sigh crawls out of him. “I wouldn’t have blamed you for leaving after three weeks. Hell, three days.”
Just say Thank you for staying, infuriating man. “Well, you are paying me, sir.”
“Is it enough?”
“I can manage my finances fine, thanks.”
“That’s not what I—” He cuts off, some decision crossing his face. “During your interview, I was cross with you. I was… unnerved by your memory affinity. But I would never make light of you. Your magic.”
I think he just complimented me.
Nah. From him, even a neutral statement would sound like praise. “Do Warlocks ever inherit magic like Witches?”
“It’s possible. But it’s sporadic. Higher magic often skips generations. We don’t have direct lineages like Witches. Our parents can be ordinarily human.” His jaw clenches, then releases. “To a fault.”
Strong power, but inconsistent. Whereas a Witch’s lower magic is more practically bound, but guaranteed in a family. Balance.
“Hence why some might perceive Warlocks as immortal. We’ve had more opportunities, thus more collective time, for our magic and population to expand.”
“And consume.” The words jump out like popovers before I can stop them. But something about the Warlock makes me feel like I can speak plainly.
Throughout history, men learned they could take midwifery skills, herbal knowledge, and folk remedies and monetize everything. All while they imprisoned or killed Witches for following the same practices, just outside formal institutions that didn’t allow women in the first place.
He nods. “Warlocks have often played a shameful role in the history of Witches.”
“Some have,” I clarify. “The ordinary men are always the most dangerous, though.”
“Don’t let Oris Webb intimidate you. You’re a talented Farewitch, Ms. Frost.”
Maybe he is trying to compliment me. “And you’re better with people than you think. You certainly don’t seem like a man who’s lived in a creepy farmhouse forever.”
“Some days, I feel like I have. More often than not, lately.”
That’s my opening. Before his walls close ranks, I say, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call this place home. Only house. Manor. Estate. Your parents’ home, maybe, if you slip up.”
“When I slip up?”
“Mmm. When you tell me something you clearly haven’t told anyone in a long time. Or ever. Right after you do, you talk a little too fast, like you’ve been running.”
“I do not run to anything. It’s terribly demeaning.”
“You’d rather run away, right?”
His gaze narrows. “I don’t think we know each other well enough for you to say something like that.”
Crap. The verbal sparring was so tempting, so natural. Maybe I do need a nap.
“Does anyone know you well enough to say something like that?”
“As in, from my childhood? Ages ago, I believe you said during your interview.”
Did I say that…? Surely not. “I wasn’t trying to imply you were old…”
“You did already assume I was more than three hundred.”
Recover, recover. “I didn’t mean—”
“Is it the gray hair?”
I’m too nervous to stop rambling. “No! It’s more pepper than salt—”
“How old do you think I am, really?”
Oh boy, back up. Retreat. “No thank you.”
“No thank you?”
“Not a fan of that question. Sounds like a trap.”
The Warlock of Foxe Holler snorts at me. His stern exterior fractures, lips twisting to the side. He’s… teasing me. And I fell for it.
“Relax, Ms. Frost. I started getting gray hair at eighteen.”
The eggshell tension between us cracks just long enough for me to see him fighting a smirk that, hell, might even be a smile.
The silence that follows is a half-and-half mix of comfortable and heavy, an Arnold Palmer of possibility. Neither of us moves to leave. Minutes ago, we were arguing over spoonbread, and now we’re… this. Something has shifted.
I muster some of Momaw’s umph and stumble right out on a skinny little limb. “My mom keeps her illness hidden, so she doesn’t get many visitors.” Deep breath. I’m at my quota for keeping secrets. “Would you like to visit the hospital with me?”
His wish magic can’t cure disease, but maybe the decades of research he’s got on me have unearthed other valuable information. Just maybe, there’s something he’ll see that I can’t.
His eyes darken with indecision.
Then his face disappears into a shadow as he looks away from me. “I don’t leave the Manor, Ms. Frost. You know that.”
The small spark of something delicate and hopeful behind my rib cage pops like an overtaxed light bulb. A silly little wish. “Right.” It was way too brazen a request anyway.
Turning back to the stove, I barely catch the frown on his face. It’s different this time, not angry, but… regretful.
Like it’s the first time he hasn’t enjoyed telling someone no.