Chapter Nineteen #3
Any coherency dies in my throat. Was he… flirting? Was that an honest-to-God flirtation?
But instead of being appropriately horrified, I can only focus on the single mental image of his sun-spotted cheeks. Those peppered temples.
Oh no.
Before I can process whatever’s fluttering in my chest, he asks, “I’m curious. What does a Farewitch’s magic cost? To you, I mean.”
Grateful for the quick change in topic, I purse my lips around a bite of mac and cheese. “Why? Are you planning to do something nefarious with that information?”
“Just making sure I’m paying you enough.”
“Energy,” I admit. “I get tired, weak. When I’m making food with magic, it’s like I’m jogging, not walking. Sleep is the best renewal. It would be nice if I could forfeit some hours of rest for extra research time, but that’s not how it works.”
We Frost women move through life and to-do lists at autobahn speeds, and I’ve always resented how the need to recover slows me down. Who doesn’t want more hours in the day? But magic always has a system of checks and balances. Every spell has a price tag.
See entry Widow Witch.
“Your magic,” I begin, thoughts buzzing. “Can I—”
“No, you cannot wish for more energy.”
“Not even in the Language of Small Wishes? Something like I wish I could stay up late without getting sleepy.”
“Theoretically. But you would still have to sleep at some point, and I won’t have you become a walking waif. I can’t get better if my Farewitch falls ill. You’re already your mother’s caregiver as well.”
He runs a thumb over the lip of his wineglass, and I find myself wondering what the fine muscles of his hand would look like kneading bread dough. I wrench back my attention.
“Actually, I was in town longer this time to spend more time with her. She’s not…
I thought it was a good idea,” I explain.
“It’s funny, usually she’s so her, a force.
I always feel like a child whenever I’m with her.
But lately, it’s like I’m skipping ahead now, too fast. Like I’m standing in some generational line of Frosts and soon I’m going to move up a spot.
One more spot closer to the front of the line. ”
I don’t know why I’m telling him all this now. Maybe if I open up, he will?
But he just stares at the candles between us, right through the flames and table, the tiled floor, all the way to the house’s foundation. A haunted look if I’ve ever seen one. I suppose in another way, I’m incredibly lucky to have had my mom this long at all.
Finally, he says, “Mothers make tough patients.”
A cryptic answer, frustratingly on brand. He isn’t making this easy. Before the wine wears off and I lose my nerve, I’ll just have to get right to my best guess.
“Did your parents die in the library fire twenty-five years ago?”
The lines of his face, which have been softening all evening, harden back in place.
He hasn’t admitted it directly, but I’d bet my best vanilla beans I’m right.
No one looks like their own ghost is chasing them for nothing less than a tragedy like that.
I’m beyond prying at this point, but I think the gaps in Lazlo’s past must be related to the absolute craters in the Warlock’s.
He takes a long sip before he answers, and I watch the wine pulse down his long throat. Fine, his Adam’s apple is actually quite nice.
“That’s a gamble of a question.”
“Maybe I feel like taking some risks tonight.”
His gaze whips to my exposed collarbone, then my lips, then my eyes. I feel way more naked right now than I did in the towel the night of my Bath from Hell. “You’re much too clever for your own good,” he murmurs.
My neck warms. Not what I was expecting him to say.
“The restricted books…” he begins, letting out a breath. “Those shelves are full of my mother’s recipes, my father’s notes. Their letters to each other. There are endless rooms of family history in this house, and I haven’t been able to make myself go through any of it.”
Oh. Those family photos—the vines that trapped me must have been protecting some of that history. Sans makeup, my own na?veté is the only blush I need. “That’s why you have those books locked away. The family memories… I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
He waves a forgiving hand in my direction, finally freeing himself from his own dark cauldron of thoughts. A long, delicate strand of silence slips between us.
There’s a single biscuit left in the skillet. Just as I’m debating whether I’m the kind of person who fights for a biscuit—answer: yes—the Warlock deftly saws it in half so we can share. A gentleman, for sure.
Lazlo has run off somewhere, and I don’t want him to have to stay up past his bedtime to clean, especially since he cooked. Our plates empty, I stand to take them to the sink but the Warlock stops me. “I owe you a tour of the gardens.”
He shared his gardens with the kids at the cookie bake, but I’ve only seen them from a distance. He insists on bringing me all the herbs I need.
Glancing down, I’m relieved to see I haven’t splattered sauce on my dress. “I’m not dressed for nature.” In the South, a girl is used to being barefoot in summer. But what if it’s chilly and my nipples make a surprise guest appearance?
“Your dress is… It’s…”
“Adequate?”
“Adequate.”
I’ll take it. After all this time, the Warlock is finally inviting me into his sacred space. For a stroll. Alone. At night.
Am I going to be murdered?
Eh. Probably not. Ms. Zeen wouldn’t ignore my screams. Surely.
I follow him out into the moonlight.