Chapter Twenty-One
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
If their love language is food, seek forgiveness in flour, not flowers.
My universe has careened right off its tilted lazy Susan.
I’ve discovered being furious at the Warlock follows the exact emotions a Frost woman battles when a recipe goes wrong:
First, na?ve determination. The food will right itself with some salt.
Surely, Lazlo’s curse-illness-problem is fixable.
Next, hopeful substitution. I can trade one ingredient for another without ruining the flavor.
With my Farewitch magic and the right spell…
Then, sour despair. If the recipe’s already cooking, it’s too late to fix.
The chemical reaction has started, hot as the fury now in my core.
Lastly, avoidance. Stuff the dastardly results into the freezer “for later” but never look at them again.
I don’t become angry very often. And when I do, I get sugary, syrupy polite.
Whenever the Warlock and I cross paths over the next week—unfortunately, it is possible to run out of places to hide in this funhouse farmhouse—I give him my best dead-eyed, saccharine Yes, sir and monosyllabic answers. Only when a nod won’t suffice.
I half expect him to corner me, to renew his efforts to explain. He never does. He gives me my space, the menace.
You are worse than your rumors.
Those words shadow me, tumbling around my head.
I don’t feel guilty, do I? Surely not. He probably thinks I would’ve crumbled under the pressure of healing a child if I knew.
A really cute, funny, warm firework spark of a kid.
Hence the secret. So I might slightly, kind of understand why he hid the truth.
But I’ve finally memorized where everything lives in the kitchen, the house has stopped sending me up staircases to nowhere, and my cast-iron skillets even have their own section of the pantry. I’ve actually gotten snug in this house. Comfortable.
Just in time for me to realize I might be doomed.
That’s what makes me most furious of all.
While I’m an anger-soaked tiramisu, the energy has to go somewhere, so I get right back to work.
My mom and the Warlock and Lazlo are depending on me.
Especially Lazlo. Luckily, we haven’t wasted time.
Now I understand why the Warlock made sure Lazlo always ate whatever I made.
Always. (How did I miss the signs? Foolish, foolish.)
At least that frustrating enigma of a Warlock kept his word and unlocked the restricted bookshelf.
So when I’m not in the kitchen tossing new dishes at Lazlo, my butt print in my favorite wingback in the library gets deeper every day.
A week after my worst date on record, Governess Zeen finds me in the library, still tired and determined as ever.
She’s wearing a robin’s-egg-blue cardigan set this morning that reminds me of Ostara and blooming flowers and bunnies. My bad mood resurfaces at the cheery color.
“Tell me your secret, Ms. Zeen. How do you manage to always look put together?” I gesture at my own stained apron, hiding pajamas from Thursday.
Wednesday? “I guess you’ve had more time to adjust to information everyone was aware of but me.
” My fake politeness doesn’t extend to her.
She probably dislikes me enough it wouldn’t matter.
“Don’t be petty. It’s unbecoming.” She halts next to where I’m folded like clumsy croissant layers in my usual armchair.
“I’m owed some petty. You let me run around na?ve and oblivious.”
“You would do that anyway.”
“Ouch. I thought you and I were making progress, Ms. Zeen. Bonding.”
“I don’t bond, dear. And it was not my secret to divulge.”
My cheeks go pink. She knows exactly how to manipulate a Farewitch. But isn’t her world crumbling around her, like mine is? “Right, because you owe the Warlock a debt or loyalty or whatever, but that’s a secret, too. Am I keeping up now?”
“I warned you about growing attached.”
“Everyone is always warning everyone else with vague, moody threats. It’s the brand and it’s getting old. I’d appreciate a little more specificity next time, if we can manage that.”
You’ve made this house into a home.
The Warlock’s voice comes back to me. Traitorous brain.
The fire in me cools a smidge. That’s all Ms. Zeen was trying to do, too.
Carve out a home, a life, for someone who might not get to enjoy it much longer.
It’s not her fault the Warlock got cursed and now Lazlo is suffering for it.
She’s always been here for the kid. And for the Warlock.
Watching out for them. They do both need constant supervision.
The Governess clasps her hands and I get the urge to correct my posture. “Mr. Knight has left an apology muffin in the kitchen.”
“Another? Jesus.” His brown butter sage ones smelled divine. I almost gave in and ate one of the devils.
“You shouldn’t have taught him to bake. Lemon poppy seed this time, I believe. With thyme? He was mumbling. Could’ve said add time on the oven.”
“He thinks he can make everything all right just because he knows my favorite flavor of baked goods—”
She snatches the cookbook in my lap and shuts it with a loud SMACK. “So you found out what he was trying to spare you from. What now? Would anything be different if you’d known about Lazlo sooner? Would the knowledge have changed your approach?”
Lord, she moves fast. I don’t even have an answer. She’s not wrong. I’m still trying to cure an illness because of a curse. The only difference is my patient’s ability to ride tall roller coasters. What’s changed here is me. How I choose to move forward.
“So that’s it, then. You’ve come to knock me out of my sulking.”
She stares down her nose at me. “I’m here to remind you that the more time you spend sulking, the less you spend with Lazlo. Cook for the boy all you please, but that doesn’t do him as much good as authentic attention.”
“Low blow.” I sit up from my slouch. My pajamas are frumpier than I remembered.
“It’s hard to look at him,” I admit in a soft voice.
“When my mom got sick, I was there for her, physically. But mentally… If I didn’t look too closely, her illness wasn’t as real.
Or at least, that’s what Arna Jean told me her therapist would tell me. ”
“Does every young person have a therapist now?”
“You should try it, Ms. Zeen.”
“My emotions are quiet, just the way I like them.”
“Healthy.”
She places her hands on her wide hips. “Lazlo is even worried about you, and you know that boy has the attention span of a toddler.”
My heart clenches. “Lower blow.”
“Those are my specialty.” She returns my cookbook. “From one stubborn soul to another: The sooner you begin to live outside the rules of your recipes, the better—”
CRASH.
A shattering sound ricochets from down the hall. A boy screams.
Ms. Zeen and I exchange a look. Then we’re running.
I was wrong, I think as I sprint through the farmhouse. This feeling is worse. If my stomach turns just thinking about Lazlo’s illness, it downright Ferris-wheels at the sound of the boy’s terror, dragging my heart with it.
I’m faster than Ms. Zeen in her kitten heels, and burst into the foyer.
Right into a tornado.
At least, it feels like a tornado.
The front doors are wide open, slamming in gale-force winds that whip sideways and tear through even the largest potted plants. Any furniture toppled over a while ago. A jade vase falls from the air and smashes right at my feet in the time I take to blink.
Warlock Knight stands in the eye of it all, black hair whirlpooling around the sharp edges of his face, arms thrown up, holding something at bay with his magic.
Or someone.
Ms. Zeen runs into my back and says what I’m already thinking: “The Widow Witch.”
Except this time, the windstorm isn’t outside the Manor.
The Warlock spots us, his entire body tense, muscles straining with the effort of whatever power he’s using to keep the winds corralled.
Shivering, I struggle to catch my breath. The winds aren’t just strong, they’re frigid. My hair tangles into knots of blonde, bangs flying off my forehead. Whatever wards he’s so proud of must be crumbling. This time, his magic isn’t going to be enough.
The winds grow faster, whirring harder. A window cracks and shatters. Something sharp slices my cheek, and the pain narrows to a bright sting.
Then, as quickly as the deafening storm appeared, it stops.
The air stills. I can finally take a full breath.
Outside, the sky breaks open, and rain patters against what windows are still in place.
Scattered detritus litters the floor, and the foyer shimmers as the changing light dances off glass under our feet.
The wallpaper’s peeling, but that was already a problem. Did the wards hold their own after all?
The Warlock looms where he was, looking between his hands and the door. Perplexed. Concerned. Then his face drains of color. “Where’s Lazlo?”
Panic clutches my lungs. We were so occupied with the Widow Witch’s attack—
“Here!”
Lazlo appears from where he was sheltering under a staircase, also still in pajamas. His windswept hair could easily just be bed head. He spots the state of the foyer and his eyes go big. “Wasn’t me.”
My chest seizes with the same relief that passes over the Warlock’s face. “Don’t come any farther without your shoes, Lazlo,” he calls.
The boy halts.
“Mr. Knight.” The Governess points across the foyer, where carved into the hardwood under a window are still-burning and very familiar scorch marks.
YOUR TIME IS MINE.
Just like her first attack, in the kitchen. I’m getting real tired of this Witch’s inability to leave a voicemail.
In my house slippers, I tiptoe over broken ceramic and splintered wood and uprooted plants toward the Warlock.
“You look like death,” I say when I reach him, my voice loud in the stillness after the storm. It’s the first real thing I’ve said to him in a week. Sweat mists his temples and his skin could double for a translucent onion, but I force down my distracting concern for him.
“Nice to see you, too, Ms. Frost. I’m glad you’ve done away with the counterfeit civility.”
“It’s a Southern skill.”
“I prefer our arguments.” His stare travels over me, like of all things, he’s concerned for me. His attention lands on my cut cheek. “You’re hurt.”
“Very hurt,” I murmur, the Widow Witch and her storm far from my thoughts.
“So is my front door.” His voice is low, the words just for the two of us. He reaches up and wipes the blood from my cheekbone, his thumb gentle where it lingers on my skin.
I cross my arms. She already bestowed her curse. Lazlo’s dying. “What the hell does she want now?”
“Not a husband, clearly,” Ms. Zeen says. “She still hasn’t taken a single soul in town yet, according to Beulah.”
And it’s nearly June. So why is she up here in the hills, trying to topple the farmhouse? Why not go tithe the husband she’s overdue to collect?
“A more pertinent question is, how have the wards held for so long? They should have… gaps by now,” the Warlock replies.
“Why wouldn’t they?” I say. “You’re fine. Your magic should be, too.”
“It should, shouldn’t it?” Another one of his ominous answers. Then, “I think we should resume our discussion from the garden, Ms. Frost.”
Right now? I’m still puzzling out how we almost kissed a week ago. And Ms. Zeen and Lazlo are in full view! Maybe this is the real reason Frosts don’t partner up. The true scourge is our inability to make romance anything but awkward. Besides, an almost-kiss can hardly be called romance—
“About your power, your Farewitch magic,” he clarifies.
Oh. Right. “You think—no. I can’t be the reason the farmhouse is still standing.”
My thoughts jump to the string of pearl plants determined to swallow me. Even if my magic infuses the house with protection like at the Apothakery, we’re talking simple stuff. Farewitch magic can’t hold off the Widow Witch.
Whatever magic you have, Ms. Frost, it isn’t little.
His focus is unrelenting, like I’m a vexing map to someplace without an X, promise and power hidden in the core of me. It makes me feel… I don’t know. Unsure. Cautious.
Powerful.
I brush off his hand before the villain can make me feel any better. His shoulders slump, in what must be disappointment.
But as I take in his gaunt expression, I can’t help but think he looks awfully sallow and mortal for a man who isn’t the one dying from a curse.
“I think we need some help,” I say.