Chapter Twenty #2
Oh. Lord. In. Heaven. And below, for good measure. Where’s a Kentucky Coffee for courage when a girl needs one?
Forget that. I’ve got plenty of grit without magic.
“You know,” I say through a sly grin, “I would think you were about to kiss me, but given how rarely you’ve left your house, I’m not sure you know how.”
Calloused fingers squeeze mine, skin rough as his voice, but the pressure is gentle. “We’ll revisit that brazen insult later.” He finally lets go of my wrist to flick away a chunk of my bangs that lost their curl in the warm air and fell into my eyes. “You need a haircut.”
“And you need a friend.”
His gaze drops to my mouth and he bends down. The tip of his nose brushes mine and I’m really hoping he tastes like thyme, too—
“It’s past bedtime for those of us under ten. Lazlo would like to say good night.”
Ms. Zeen’s disembodied voice cuts the stillness of the night from the back porch.
A low sound rumbles in the Warlock’s chest. His jaw clenches. We can’t see the Governess, so she can’t see us, but the moment is gone. He leans away.
I want to yank him back by his shirtfront, but the molten hazel color has been diluted with cold self-reproach. I know that look on him well now. Guilt.
For one very brief second, he wasn’t thinking about Lazlo. And he knows it.
His warmth vanishes as he steps back, putting distance between us. The heady haze of the blooming gardens is gone, only a misty chill left behind.
“I apologize. That was unprofessional,” he grinds out. “Lazlo is relying on me to get better. I shouldn’t jeopardize your focus and work in the little time we have left.”
My heart fumbles. He doesn’t think he can have a single evening of happiness. Not while the consequences of this curse affect Lazlo’s future, too.
No way. No way am I going to let him beat himself up, not when I’ve seen him happier in one night than he’s been collectively over six weeks.
“Sir, you couldn’t have known what the Widow Witch’s curse would do to you. That’s why they’re curses: They’re unpredictable. You can’t load guilt like that onto yourself.”
His shoulders drop, like they’re too heavy to carry. “Lazlo doesn’t belong here and I—we tried to send him back, but it wasn’t possible…”
Confused, I stay where I am, toes digging into the grass.
It feels like I only made things worse. I’m afraid if I touch him now, I’ll lose him.
Maybe other relatives were vying for guardianship.
Or maybe he just wasn’t prepared to take care of a little boy who stumbled onto his doorstep. But who would be?
“The town is right.” His expression hardens, painfully unreadable. “I thought the least I could do was keep him happy and healthy and I couldn’t even do that.”
He means the threat of the Widow Witch, I think, and her assaults on the Manor. “She wouldn’t really hurt a child, would she?”
I feel like I skipped a step in someone else’s recipe, totally lost. The Widow Witch cursed him to die slowly over the course of a year. But that doesn’t have anything to do with Lazlo, other than the question of who’s going to take care of him.
“He loves you, you know,” I say. “Unconditionally. So you aren’t allowed to give up. Lazlo will be happier if you’re happier.”
“You don’t understand.”
“So help me to. You’ve given him a good home.”
He huffs, shaking his head. “Ms. Frost, you’ve made this house into a home more in weeks than I have in years.”
“Well, I did it for Lazlo.” And maybe for you.
Fervent indecision twists the Warlock’s face, a bright heat slipping through his restraint.
He gets a grip on whatever inner battle he’s fighting, and that intense gaze finally lets up on me. “I think the chef wants to put on his dog pajamas.”
“I—right. Yes. If he’s up another hour, he’ll inhale an entire bag of Goldfish.”
We don’t speak as we walk back to the Manor, the buttery kitchen lighting a beacon.
It’s an undeniable fact of the universe: A man who can cook is sexy. Spices become pheromones. Was I so hungry, a good meal was all it took to make my knees go wobbly? I’m feeling a helluva number of confusing things. Mostly, surprise.
I wanted that kiss. Badly.
Back inside, the warmth of the kitchen infuses my bones, chasing away some of the chill from our conversation outside.
The Warlock and Ms. Zeen urge a yawning Lazlo to bed, and my eyes are greedy for the cozy scene before me. I can’t help but think this looks like home. Feels like home. Perhaps this smitten sensation isn’t just about really good shakshuka.
“That was the best meal I’ve had all year,” I tell Lazlo before he heads to bed.
“I can be tipped in candy,” he replies.
“Promise to show me how you made everything?” We clasp pinkies.
He nods. “I could be as good as you one day.” His face twists like he’s thinking extra hard about his future. “When I’m not walking dogs. I’ll be very busy when I’m a grown-up.”
Next to me, the Warlock tenses.
“Lazlo, it’s after midnight,” Governess Zeen chastens. “You can be sure Beauregard Buchanan is fast asleep already.”
This gets him moving. He follows her but then halts at the door, heaving a ragged sigh that doesn’t match his small body. Then he stumbles, like he’s dizzy. The Governess lunges for him, but he turns back, looking for us instead.
“It’s happening again,” Lazlo says, voice weak, his small hands grabbing for the Warlock.
Or what should be two hands.
Instead, poking out of the boy’s sleeves are hazy outlines of his palms and digits. The color and texture of his skin have evaporated, as if he’s fading away right before our eyes.
My stomach plummets.
The Warlock’s sturdy grip finds the boy’s shoulders in an instant. “How do you feel?”
“Tired.” Lazlo stares at his palms, face pale as bleached flour. The vanishing has stopped at his wrists—and I have no idea if that’s a good or bad thing.
“It’s going to be all right,” the Warlock says. “Just like last time, remember? You’ll be fine in the morning. Ms. Zeen will put you to bed. You know I won’t let any harm come to you, yes?”
The boy’s expression scrunches. His posture slumps like a wilting stem. “But I forgot to serve dessert.”
“Even chefs need sleep,” Ms. Zeen says. I’ve never heard her voice so uneven.
The Warlock nods at the Governess. “Stay with him. I’ll come relieve you shortly.”
I can only stare, motionless with a terrible, hollow yet expanding black hole of a feeling. I think I’m going to vomit up several helpings of shakshuka. I barely notice the Governess and Lazlo leave. All I can see are those small little hands, here then gone.
When the kitchen is empty, the Warlock whirls to face me, eyes wide and pleading.
My heart skips. Stops. Restarts. Skips again.
This has to be a mistake. A trick. A ruse.
But the layers pile into place, a sickly sweet cake of deception.
“Ms. Frost, let me explain…” His jaw works back and forth so hard, I think I hear it pop.
Air withers in my throat, and I try to control my breathing, but my limbs feel like they detach for a split second and then refit back into place, a Barbie put together by a toddler. It feels exactly like the moment I learned my mom was dying.
How did I not see it—how did I miss the largest locked door of secrets in Knight Manor? I force out a shuddering breath. My lungs feel like they’ve stopped working, just to give my heart plenty of room to crack.
My fists clench, nails cutting my palms. I brace myself against the kitchen island, eyes burning into the man who almost just kissed me. “All this time?”
Shame carves lines in his face, that guilt I couldn’t place. Until now. He jerks a tense hand through his hair, hair I’ve daydreamed about running my fingers through, and gives a single grim nod of his head. “Stay for him. As long as you can. Please.”
“You,” I manage to choke out, “are worse than your rumors.”
The Warlock of Foxe Holler might be cursed, but he isn’t dying.
Lazlo is.