Chapter Twenty
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
There are three rules on a first date.
The Warlock of Foxe Holler is a geek for plants.
He spends the next hour showing me all the fruit and vegetables he’s growing, the produce and herbs I can grab as long as I don’t use rusty dull sewing scissors from 1979.
He tells me the full genus and species Latin name of each plant, their prime growing seasons, the amount of sunlight they crave.
I thought I knew a fair amount being a Farewitch, but this man is a walking almanac.
Silas was right. Horticulture professor, for sure.
Giddiness slips into my step as we wander the garden’s organized paths of gravel and grass, eager branches and leaves reaching out to shake my hand.
Thick hedges and groves burst with pops of colorful blooms. But not a single plant suffocates; even the smallest bud has room to grow.
Ferns and flower beds are tastefully wild, trimmed but never too neatly.
The spring air carries flavors right from my nose to my tongue: honeysuckle, lavender, ripe strawberries, hearty soil and mint and collecting dew.
We stroll close but not so close I’d accidentally touch his ungloved hand.
The crisp night air sharpens the edges around us, moonlight tickling every leaf and flower yet to bloom.
It has to be almost midnight by now. Even in a small holler where green hills and lively creeks and lush, cave-spotted woods thrive in the isolation, beauty like this is rare.
Delicate. No wonder the Warlock spends all his time here.
The only other place I’ve seen him direct this level of care is Lazlo.
Not himself, certainly. Again, I wonder, what happens if the Warlock succumbs to his curse?
So far, I can tell his body grows weaker along with his magic, but what does dying actually mean?
Will he just keel over on the solstice from a heart attack? Something feels… off.
Eventually, we stop next to a wall of cornflowers, their blue petals almost purple in the semidarkness. “My plants won’t bite,” he says, watching my face scrunch up with worry.
I notice he doesn’t say don’t bite. “I’ve heard Warlocks do, sir.”
“You don’t need to call me sir all the time.”
“Only some of the time?”
He looks away, his strong jaw flexing, like he’s fighting some internal voice or demon. My cheeks heat when I realize I’m staring, and the cool air across my flushed bare skin is a needed comfort. I can’t help it—I shiver.
Even lost in thought, he notices. “You’re cold.”
“I’m always cold.” When I’m not around him, that is. “Frost, remember?”
“Make a wish.”
“What? No. Absolutely not. What did we talk about? No magic. Not until you’re well again.” It’s like he doesn’t even care anymore if he exhausts himself.
He restrains any protests, but looks me right in the eye when he gives me a grumbled “Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” I say. “And for sharing your gardens with me.”
“They’ve helped make the years in the Manor go by quickly.” His voice sounds like it’s in the dark, low and distant.
“Why plants?”
“Plants are better listeners than people.”
“Even though they don’t talk back?”
His mouth quirks to the side. “What makes you think they don’t talk back?”
The half smile flushes my digits all over again, and I wonder if he can see my skin buzzing. “Do you know when you do magic around me, I can taste it?”
His eyes spark. “What do you taste?”
“Thyme.”
He studies me for a long moment. “Everyone tastes something different. Or so I’ve been told. Ms. Zeen says it’s pistachio for her.”
“What do you taste?”
“Pardon?”
“You. Personally. Surely you taste something. It’s your magic.”
A heavy pause. “No one has ever asked me that.”
I don’t hide my eye roll. “You don’t offer many opportunities to ask you questions.”
“Do you have others?”
If he thinks I won’t call his bluff, he’s going to be disappointed. “When—” I stop. The when of it doesn’t matter so much as the who he was at that moment in time. Everything is relative with time, especially when there’s not enough of it. “How old were you when your parents died?”
“Sixteen.” He pauses at my look. “A true sixteen. I didn’t even have my driver’s permit.”
My lips part, mostly just stunned he told me. Then my heart catches up, and clenches. The story and pain are familiar. When I was sixteen, we’d just lost Momaw Frost. But still, even with her illness, she was older, and I still had my mom by my side.
For a Farewitch tasked with healing, I sure conjure up plenty of sore memories and deep wounds. He looked content when we were just admiring his gardens, so I tap my chin, thinking. “Favorite plant you grow?”
“Watercress. My mother sowed the plants here. It grows well because of the spring-fed creeks nearby. And it reminds me of where her side of our family comes from.”
“What does your magic cost you, when you use it?”
“Too much. Next question.”
“How old are you, exactly?”
“Next question.”
“Is this a date?”
Silence.
I wait, perfectly content to look up into his hazel eyes for the rest of the night.
Finally, he clears his throat. “I don’t believe I know how to date.”
Crossing my arms, I enter chef mode. As frustrating, as confounding, as this man is, he’s no scarier than any new recipe.
“A place to start is liking the person you’re spending time with. Do you think we can be friends?”
His scowl works its way back onto his face like stubborn sun spots. “As you’ve helpfully pointed out, I have forgotten how to have friends as well.”
“You’re better at it than you think. But friends have to be honest with each other.”
“I agree. So how bad is your mother’s health? Truly.”
The air flies out of me. Point taken. You can’t tell someone how to make perfect scrambled eggs if you can’t crack an egg yourself. “I don’t know.” My voice wavers. “Because I don’t know what’s wrong with her. We think she has a couple months left.”
Understanding peeks through his scowl. “Near the solstice as well.”
I nod. “I’ve tried everything, for nearly a year. My grandmother died of something similar. Witches, Warlocks, no one could cure her. And now, my mom—you two—are the only people in the Holler I’ve never been able to help.” A hairline fracture cracks my voice.
His eyes roam over me, and I wonder if this is how his plants feel under his careful stare. Noticed. Protected. “Two minds will be more efficient than one. In the library, with my archives, I mean. We’ll start with the restricted section.”
“Really?” Fragile hope seeps into the word. With his help instead of defiant roadblocks… I might be able to do this. We could do this.
His lips part, as if he can’t decide whether to say what he’s thinking. He extends a pale hand, palm upward. “May I see your hand?”
Please! Touch me! Praise be! My sensical side wins out and hesitates, only because I’m still not used to seeing his bare hands. Then my palm meets his, face down, like we’re starting some Regency-era dance I definitely didn’t practice. Or learn.
Though none of this, here between us, feels like anything I’ve ever learned.
Gently, he flips my hand so all the little kitchen battle wounds I’ve accumulated over the years on my palm are visible.
He runs one calloused thumb over the inside of my wrist, right over my veins.
Static tickles the veil of my skin at his touch.
Then wildfire rushes through my blood as I sense his magic reach out to mine, hot but not scalding.
He’s reading my magical signature. I think? Some Witches and Warlocks can determine the strength of magic in others, like studying ley lines and energy thrumming beneath the earth. Hidden, but potent. Ancestral, but alive.
“You’re absolutely wasted at that Apothakery,” he murmurs, eyes on our hands, even though whatever he’s seeing has to be more of a sense of energy. “Your magic is strong. But—restless. Unwieldly. Has anyone ever told you that?”
Whatever magic you have, Ms. Frost, it isn’t little.
He has. All along. He must feel my pulse pick up. I can practically see my heartbeat thumping right under his fingers. “My mom was supposed to be my mentor. So I’ve just learned on the job.” I fake a smile. “I like to think of it as a work-study program where the work and study are both full-time.”
He’s not amused. “You need a real mentor, someone who will tutor you properly. Higher or lower, magic should never be left untrained. The consequences—it needs direction. Trust me.”
“So… I should do more than just be a Farewitch?”
His frustrated sigh hangs between us. “No, Honey. You should do less. Less for people who take your labor for granted, who would ignore your best interests as a Witch.” He almost sounds offended, like how I’ve been treating my time and magic is a terrible injustice.
Surprised, I look up to find him closer than I remember. I’m suddenly shy. Frosts don’t get shy. And way too warm. Jesus, I’m already feeling swoony enough as it is. And he’s still holding my hand.
“I don’t even know your name,” I realize.
“No one told you? It’s Knight.”
Ass. “Your first name.”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Is it terrible? Something like Karen? Or, God forbid—are you a Junior?”
“God, no. Warlocks… we don’t give our names away. It’s akin to giving up some of our power, and I’m weak enough as it is. I won’t survive you.”
“You won’t survive telling me your name?”
A sharp breath leaves his chest. “Sure. That.”
“Does anyone know it?”
“Lazlo and Ms. Zeen.”
On its own, my free hand rises to his shoulder to remove a stray leaf. Then my rebellious fingers roam gently over his shoulder, grazing the lean muscles through his shirt. Damn a good white shirt on a man. This close, he smells like a bottled botanical garden. Earth. Growth. Life.
His unoccupied hand drops over mine. “That’s distracting,” he rasps, eyes hooded. He leans down close enough for me to see those pesky, endearing lines by his eyes. “You said you felt like taking risks tonight. What did you mean?”