Chapter Nineteen
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
There are three rules on a first date:
You’re not wearing overalls, are you?”
The Governess and I are staring at my makeshift rack of clothes.
Unfortunately, the internet does not know what to wear to dinner with a Warlock when all you have in your closet are aprons, athleisure, clogs, and a single scrunchy. Prep a five-course meal solo? That I can do. Get ready for a dinner-maybe-date with a man in his own home? Impossible.
Ms. Zeen took one glance at me through my open door and promptly inserted herself into the situation. I think I’m grateful. For now.
“In my defense, I didn’t expect to need anything other than overalls.”
She sighs, clutching an invisible set of pearls like a rural coastal granny. “I might have something you could work with.”
I hold back a shimmy of triumph. I knew she must be hiding something other than cardigan sets in her closet. “I’ll come, too.”
“Let’s get a few things clear as moonshine, dear.”
“I didn’t have you as a moonshine girl.”
She frowns. Not a joke girl, either, then. “One. I think this dinner is one of the top-ten worst ideas Mr. Knight has ever had.”
“For curiosity’s sake, am I more in the one-to-five or the five-to-ten range—”
“Two. I am only helping because Lazlo is excited, and the boy needs something to keep him entertained.” She points a tastefully nude, manicured finger at me.
“Three. No one goes in my room. Ever. In fact, everyone should make it a general rule to stick to their own individual rooms.” Her eyes narrow.
Please. No one needs to worry. The last time I put a single toe inside the Warlock’s bedroom, I was picked up and removed like a disobedient traffic cone. “Hiding bodies in your lair, Ms. Zeen?”
The older woman pats her French roll even though there’s not a hair out of place and she knows it. “If tonight jeopardizes your arrangement with the Warlock regarding his health, you’ll be the next body.” She turns on a kitten heel. “Stay here.”
She’s gone just long enough for me to get panicky.
What if tonight does end in disaster? The Warlock is my employer.
Maybe he only asked me to dinner to be friendly and this is all a ploy to lodge his gardening fork prongs into my softhearted sympathy.
A ruse to capture na?ve young women. Classic fairy-tale monster. Hide your soul!
Though, if anyone seems like a true beast from a storybook, it’s Oris Webb, watching me yesterday at the hospital. I choose to push that memory far away tonight.
The Governess returns just before I start spiraling. She holds up a dress the exact shade of pink rock salt.
“I wasn’t aware this color was in your vocabulary,” I say, earning another scowl. But with a closer look, I see it’s not a dress at all. It’s a seventies-ish satin nightgown, sleeveless, freed from its housecoat. It looks like it’s never been worn. “This is too nice. I can’t wear it.”
“Take it and let this be the end of it. The color suits your angel food cake complexion.”
Even if I’ve just been insulted… she’s right. There are no jewel tones in my future. I slip the delicate fabric over my skin. Ms. Zeen has an hourglass figure I don’t, so I grab the tie from one of my aprons and fasten it around my waist in a small bow.
Now I look more cocktail hour than sleepover. Better.
We study my appearance in the mirror. Ms. Zeen tilts her head. “Acceptable.”
That is a thousand out of ten coming from the old woman. This could be a rare window of camaraderie. Watching her in the safety of the mirror, I ask, “How did you wind up at Knight Manor, Ms. Zeen?”
“The house needed a caretaker, and I needed a house.”
I pretend to fiddle with the bow so she thinks I’m making innocent small talk. She’ll close up like a clam if she thinks I’m genuinely curious. “You weren’t the Governess when Mr. Knight was growing up?”
“No, I arrived long after Mr. Knight was officially a practicing Warlock. He grew busy consulting on curse magic and needed assistance with his research. But he still had dismal manners. Took him years to learn how not to enrage the senior Warlocks of the Eldercraft.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. Something tells me she’s gotten plenty of pay raises over the years. “And when Lazlo arrived?”
“Mr. Knight, handle the boy alone? Can you imagine. Anarchy.” She gives me the barest grin. Then it vanishes. Must be some warping in the mirror.
“So you’ve stayed, all these years? For the Warlock.”
“I owed Mr. Knight a favor. Even if he does not agree. Besides, why would I live in town with all the noise and gossip when I can live here, in the peace and quiet?” Her lips purse. “Before you moved in, that is.”
I ignore the jab. “Gertha Fudge not your ideal neighbor, then?”
Ms. Zeen breathes the sigh of a weary woman. “Gertha’s just angry. And angry women are usually right about something.”
Can’t argue there. There’s a lot of anger going around. “I’m glad Lazlo makes the Warlock happy. Or, less unhappy.”
“He does. But the boy is only here because of unfortunate circumstances. Mr. Knight would rather he not have needed to come at all.”
Right. Lazlo’s parents.
“Word of advice, Ms. Frost. The more you avoid growing attached to him, the easier things will be.”
My gut churns. Does she mean Lazlo, or the Warlock? “You make it sound like he’s going somewhere.” I don’t specify who I mean, either.
Before she turns away, she tucks in the dress’s tag against my spine. A lance of sadness runs right through my ribs. The gesture reminds me of Momaw. “You’re going to be late.”
Conversation over. I deflate, and don’t point out it’s hard to be late for a dinner in my own kitchen.
When she’s gone and I’m alone again, I wrestle my bangs and fuss over my stress chin acne in the mirror, not sure why I even care. I can’t fathom how Arna Jean has the stamina for eyeliner every day. Why did I even agree to this dinner in the first place?
Easy. The more I know about a patient, the more I can connect lifestyle dots and personalize treatment. I wonder if the Warlock will ever let me see another memory, or if I’ll have to decipher him like a faded recipe for the dwindling days he has left.
Much too soon, there’s a knock, precisely at nine.
With a tissue, I dab the nervous sweat pooling under my arms. Why am I so anxious?
Just. Dinner. Relax.
When I open the door, Warlock Knight is at the threshold, loom-brooding as usual. That’s about all that’s usual, though.
No dirt, no sweaty bandana. He’s in a white button-down with a band collar, loafers instead of boots, and his forest-green slacks have a freaking pleat.
His black hair rests snugly in a tie at the back of his neck, wild strands tamed away from his face.
No gardening gloves in sight, but his hands are hiding, clenched in his pockets. Like he’s making an effort to focus.
I stare. And stare. He’s looking very much like not just dinner. Oh boy.
Oh boy, Momaw Frost echoes in my head.
“Evening.” His mouth is a familiar severe line, but I’m glad. I don’t know what I’d do with a scowl-free Warlock.
I swallow, throat dry. “I didn’t realize I was allowed out in the Manor this late. We sure this is a good idea?”
He raises an unamused eyebrow. “It most definitely isn’t. But I’ll make sure the house doesn’t bother us.”
“Right. The only things dangerous here are the books.”
“Did you remember to eat lunch, Ms. Frost? Your sarcasm has teeth tonight.”
“Are we going to have one of those fun little arguments again?” I run self-conscious hands over my dress, waist to my hips.
His eyes flick down for the briefest second. “Only if you ask nicely.”
The tiniest bit of tension dissipates. This feels more like familiar territory. I fall into step beside him and we head for the kitchen.
“So, a cell phone. Miss me that much?”
“Lazlo did.” His eyes stay firmly forward as we walk, elbow to elbow but never touching. The farmhouse is suspiciously calm, no mazelike hallways or missing doorways. “How is your mother?”
“Next topic, please.”
He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “I procured a phone because I regretted how we left things before you went to visit her.”
“Well, forgiveness depends on what you made for dinner. Redemption depends on the quality of someone’s seasoning.”
“Actually, I have a small surprise.”
“Did you… order takeout?”
The surprise is waiting for us in the kitchen, dressed as a tiny ma?tre d’. White bow tie and arm napkin included.
I stifle a pleased chortle when Lazlo bows for us.
“Lazlo made dinner tonight,” says the Warlock. “He insisted on serving us in his new restaurant, formerly known as the kitchen.”
The boy clucks, chin in the air. “Sorry, we’re full. Do you have a reservation?”
“Nine o’clock,” the Warlock says. “Two people.” He adds it like an afterthought, like it’s been a minute since he’s requested dinner for an even number.
The boy consults his seating booklet (palm).
That Sharpie isn’t coming off anytime soon.
“Hmm. We’re very busy. Wait! I see you. Right this way.
” He leads us to the kitchen table, which someone has dressed with a white linen tablecloth.
A pot of fresh basil rests between two place settings, a centerpiece of herbs instead of flowers. Fitting.
But, coming from the Warlock, a bouquet of herbs seems way more intimate than flowers.
My gut squeezes. Definitely not Just Dinner.
I take my seat across from the Warlock as Lazlo says, “The specials are a tomato and beet salad, mac and cheese, and Southern shakshuka. And that’s all we have so you better order it.”
He speeds off to the fridge.
“Ten out of ten surprise,” I say, and mean it.
The Warlock meets my gaze across the table. Our table. “Don’t fret, I’m in charge of anything sharp or fire related. Also, Ms. Zeen is nearby with a fire extinguisher.” His voice lowers. “But I’m supposed to deny everything if anyone asks.”