Chapter Nineteen #2
Lazlo returns with the beverage program: two frosty glass bottles of Cheerwine. But seeing my mom’s favorite drink doesn’t ruin my good mood tonight. I just think of her and smile. The Warlock gives the boy a nod of appreciation.
As serious as I can, I say, “Mr. Knight, how do the specials sound to you?”
“We came all this way, we have to try them.”
Lazlo dashes away, pleased. With the smells coming from the kitchen, my pulse is quick, giddy.
The Warlock brings out a bottle of Shiraz—it’s dusty, older than I am—and pours two glasses. “Lazlo’s having an illegal amount of fun cooking for you.”
I sip the wine. It’s fantastic, of course. He must have a stash hidden in some pocket of the farmhouse. I need to find that. “I reject the idea fun can be illegal.”
“A twenty-year-old me would have agreed. The Eldercraft… not so much.” He hesitates. “I wanted to apologize in a way that would mean something to you. Anything less would be insincere. You came here to do your job and I haven’t made it easy.”
The basil bouquet, the wine, the tablecloth. Two candles flicker between us. Two! Did he really go to all this trouble to say sorry?
“I hope you didn’t find new clothes just for me. For dinner, I mean.”
“Don’t think me that industrious. Lazlo found these items at the back of my closet. You should be grateful I’m not in a waistcoat or a bow tie. Or both.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop a giggle. Really, what’s gotten into me? Have I been on so few dates recently, I’ve forgotten how to do this? But this isn’t a date. So it doesn’t matter.
“Probably for the best.” I give my best non-date shrug of indifference. “You don’t have the Adam’s apple for a bow tie.”
“I’ll have to burn my collection, then.”
I grin over the lip of my wineglass. “If it makes you feel better, I borrowed this dress from Ms. Zeen. All I had clean was a single apron and a pair of knee socks.”
He coughs roughly, sputtering. You’d think a wizened old Warlock could handle his vintage.
Just as he recovers, Lazlo appears with the appetizer. “Tomato and beet salad, right from the garden.” He levels A Look at the Warlock. “He didn’t want me to mention that part, but Ms. Zeen said he’s too modest.”
Then he scampers back to the other side of the kitchen.
Not just tomatoes. Heirloom tomatoes and glistening beets, hues of rusty red and poppy orange and indigo purple, like a sun is setting across the sky of my plate. The first bite is pure sunshine. Simple. Maldon salt, young basil, balsamic vinegar, olive oil.
Half my dish is already gone when I stop to speak. “You are too humble. Ms. Zeen is right. But don’t tell her I said that.”
The pink tint on his cheeks is gone so quickly, I might’ve imagined it. “Ms. Zeen has an aversion to the disruption of any historically proven routine.”
“Something in the water around here, huh.”
He raises an eyebrow.
Twirling a beet in pooled olive oil, I add, “She told me you were a real helligan when you were younger.”
“Ms. Zeen is…” He stares hard at his tomatoes. “She’s a formidable and welcome force of good in the midst of my mistakes.”
“Her power comes from her cardigan sets.” Swear on my cast iron, I get the smallest smile out of him. It only makes me want another.
“I think she only wears those shoes of hers so I can hear her coming and won’t be startled,” he says. “I was too used to my own silence before she arrived.”
Jesus, and here I thought the place was awfully dead when I got here. Before Ms. Zeen, he would’ve lived completely alone. For years. What must it have been like?
Incredibly lonely. That’s what. I try not to think about it.
The Warlock bites into a tomato as yellow as a Meyer lemon. “Ms. Zeen says you’re writing a book. Tell me about it.”
Oh, that woman. She does listen to me. But only to gather embarrassment fuel.
“Ah, it’s not really a book book.” I shrug so it feels less serious.
“I’m just compiling cooking tips and life lessons courtesy of the Frost family, gems I don’t want to lose.
And I wanted my favorite recipes in one place. ”
He refills my glass. “That sounds like a real book to me.”
“My Momaw inspired the idea,” I say, perking up.
“Her stories about growing up got me curious about food culture here. Like the connection between resources and wealth, culinary heritage. These small towns can’t guarantee passable roads, and even then, fresh goods can be tough to source and keep, refrigeration or not.
Ironic, given the farms, but a lot of the farmland around here back then went to tobacco.
So these hollers end up with cookbooks full of recipes dependent on canned items and what you grow yourself.
Even my mom never saw an actual bulb of garlic growing up. It was only garlic powder…”
I stop. He’s watching me, silent. Not even eating.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble.”
He shakes his head. “You often apologize for knowing things. It’s a poor habit you should break.”
The next sip of wine goes right to my warm cheeks. “It’s less book, more hobby. I’ve been too busy to finish the thing. Although I’ve been able to test way more recipes here than in my tiny apartment. I’d kill to live in this kitchen.”
“You do live in this kitchen, Ms. Frost.”
“That’s… beside the point.”
He sighs, but it’s halfhearted. One might even say affectionately irritated.
“You sent marigolds to my mom.” This is my interrogation, after all. “Despite calling them—what was it?—an uninspired choice.”
“Is that a question?”
“More an observation of a disruption to a historically proven routine.”
He buys time with a long sip of his wine. Then, “Why did you hide her illness from me?”
My fork clatters on my plate. How did he turn this third-degree interview into one of his own so fast? “I didn’t want you to think I took this job because you might cure my mom. You asked for a Farewitch’s help, I answered as a Farewitch.”
Thirtyeightdaysuntilthesummersolstice.
“So why spend your time here with me when you could be with her?”
Another question, but one I’ve battled all my life, really. Here or there. School or Apothakery. Big wide world or home. I opt for the truth.
“Farewitches can’t keep trying the same old recipes if they’re not working. Some variable has to change. So I need new material. A lot of it. The texts in your library are one of a kind. Some Witches use spells, Farewitches need recipes.”
His head tilts, curious. “That’s why you need access to the restricted section. Why we were arguing over spoonbread.”
“Which you can admit was excellent, by the way.”
“It was adequate.”
I resist the urge to wad up my napkin and toss it at his skull. Before I can formulate a better retort, he stands and takes our wiped-clean plates to the sink. He returns with a massive cast-iron skillet of bubbling shakshuka.
Eggs swim in the tomato sauce like little suns in roiling lava, and golden-brown biscuits flecked with herbs rest between them.
The Southern part of Southern shakshuka.
The biscuits are soaking up gobs of spicy sauce, and my stomach growls even though we’ve just eaten a few pounds of tomatoes between the two of us.
Lazlo follows behind the Warlock, wiggling his eyebrows in anticipation. A bowl of mac and cheese jiggles in his arms. “I made mac, too. It’s my favorite.”
“You’ve had dinner, right?” I ask him.
“Oh yeah. I had four bowls of popcorn.” His smile blips. “Don’t tell Ms. Zeen.”
The Warlock adds the side dish to the table and winks at his ward. Or me. I can’t tell. “Don’t worry. Warlocks are very good at keeping secrets.”
When Lazlo scurries away, we dive in.
The new order of fun goes: farmers’ markets, this shakshuka, then sex.
“Biscuits are super versatile, you know,” I say, still battling to get another smile out of him. “Buttermilk cheddar biscuits will fix a sprained ankle. Biscuits and gravy? Broken bones. Biscuits with honey butter?”
“Let me guess, broken ego?”
“Broken heart.”
Lovely laugh lines come alive around his mouth just before he stifles the grin. I bite my lip to avoid the temptation to gloat. Doesn’t matter. He knows I won, anyway.
Tomato and egg in one cheek, biscuit in the other, I swallow and rip off the next Band-Aid while I’m ahead and have him at ease. “You know what’s strange?”
“That you elected to go barefoot instead of wearing your usual chef’s shoes?”
“Hey, I wanted to be comfortable but I didn’t have anything ni—not the point. Lazlo asked me to read his memories the other day. Do you know what I found?”
A shadow falls across his face, his expression darkening.
“Nothing. Couldn’t pull out a single memory.”
His relief is instant, chest swelling as he breathes again. “How odd.”
C’mon, tell me the truth. He’s hiding something else about Lazlo’s history. I’m not on a date with Geppetto—even a Warlock can’t conjure up a kid out of thin air. Magic can’t create life.
“Like I said, I took him in because he’s blood. I won’t refuse family. He might be a distant relation, but plenty of folks are related to each other across the hollers down here.”
Fine. I’ll back off—but only because I can just argue with him tomorrow. It’s quickly becoming my favorite hobby.
“Believe me, I know. Makes dating hard, doesn’t it?”
He gives me a grave look. “Not a fan of that question. Sounds like a trap.”
I can’t believe this man. Using my own words against me.
“Is this about my three-hundred-years-old comment from before? Because your gray hair is only at the temples, and honestly, it’s sophisticated.”
He coughs again, except this time he’s not even drinking wine. Maybe I should check on that cough. “Don’t flatter me for the sake of pity.”
“I’m serious. You could snag someone with those temples.”
“I’m dying. I’m not snagging anyone.”
Oh, right. Lord, sometimes I don’t know when to shut up. And he’s my employer! “Sorry, I—you’re right. I think I’m running on more wine than tomatoes and my mouth sometimes…”
“Don’t stop on my account. Dying doesn’t mean I can’t accept a compliment.”
Then he’s smirking at me.