Chapter Twenty-Two
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
For the best bread, remember: Bake Really Early At Dawn. It’s nearly impossible for a bad day to take root if you start with freshly baked bread.
Have you redecorated?” Arna Jean says before the doorbell even exhausts itself.
I wince as a yard of wallpaper peels off from the wall behind her with all the grace of a lazy banana. “Just some spring-cleaning.”
A light bulb in a sconce bursts by our heads.
I wipe a hand over my face. “Don’t ask.”
With the recent remodeling courtesy of the Widow Witch, the Warlock hasn’t yet replaced any of his demolished plants. At least the front door is upright again.
Silas arrives right after the Bookwitch.
Initially, the Warlock refused my demand to get outside help, so he and Ms. Zeen spent the last week in the library with me.
We dug through the archives of records and grimoires with six hands instead of just my two, looking for anything resembling a recipe or potion—anything a Farewitch could work with.
I haven’t forgiven the Warlock for lying, but I rally and compartmentalize, for Lazlo’s sake.
Even before the Warlock confessed to me about his curse over our midnight drink, something felt off to me. I’m tasting that same doubt now. We know Lazlo will succumb to this illness by the solstice—he’ll physically just fade away—unless we find a cure.
So why does this illness still feel bigger than what a Farewitch can fix with food?
Whatever magic fueled the Widow Witch’s curse is way out of my league, so after a week in the library with no success, I gave the Warlock an ultimatum today: We tell a couple friends the truth and get some real help and expertise or… I didn’t give him a second option.
He finally agreed, but probably only because he thought I’d just scry up a brainstorm with a coven, not invite actual guests over to the Manor. He might be livid. Which is partly why I did it. Even when I’m mad at him, I can’t get enough of annoying someone whose reputation rivals the Grinch.
Arna Jean and Silas answered my call for help tonight, and I’ve never been more grateful to see their faces, flummoxed as they are.
As Silas scrutinizes the ambitious modern art installation that is the foyer, his lips pucker. “Will there be wine?”
“Do I look like a girl who deglazes her pans with water?”
Arna Jean peers too closely at my tousled bangs and roots. “You’re clearly a girl who skips wash day.”
“Y’all should be grateful I’m in overalls and not pajamas.”
“No blends,” Silas says. His sigh sounds like exhausted agreement. “Lead the way.”
The three of us return to the kitchen just as Lazlo says, “We have a doorbell?”
No one answers.
The Warlock and Ms. Zeen are too busy eyeing Silas, whom they haven’t met since he wasn’t at the cookie bake. Well, eyeing for Ms. Zeen. Wishing death with his corneas, for the Warlock.
I breeze over their chilly non-welcome. “This is Silas Key, the mayor’s assistant—”
“Associate,” Silas corrects.
“—assistant associate.”
“Hope you don’t mind the late RSVP,” Silas says with his usual confidence. “Honey invited us for Sunday supper.”
Warlock Knight’s stare hovers on him before landing heavily on me. “Did she.”
I’ve promised him no more surprise guests and voilà, here I am. Not as scary as you think, I mouth, hoping he can read lips.
Silas turns to me, unbothered, and holds up a signature white box with gold lettering. “We brought you a host gift. Alas, no flowers this time.”
“Modjeskas!” I cry.
The Warlock is less impressed. His hazel eyes narrow even more, if that’s possible. “You brought those flowers for Beltane.”
“From the mayor,” Silas explains. “A gift for her daughter.”
I don’t think the Warlock believes him. “Kingcup? Really?”
“It’s also called the—”
“The marsh marigold, I know. Bit of an uninspired choice.”
Silas smiles without his teeth. “Prickly. You and Honey must get along so well.”
I glare at the Warlock. Arna Jean bumps my elbow, whispering, “Does the entertainment have a two-drink minimum?”
Silas casually steps around the Warlock. “We’ll give these to the lovely lady here. Beauty before age.” He hands my gift box of marshmallowy caramel sin to Governess Zeen, who doesn’t seem to know what to do with her hands, or flattery in general.
“We only made enough food for four,” the Warlock declares.
“We have plenty,” I counter. “A Southern four is a metropolitan eight.”
“We’ll have to set additional places at the table—”
“I don’t mind!” Ms. Zeen dashes into action, grabbing utensils and napkins.
“How kind of you, Ms. Zeen,” the Warlock mutters.
Lazlo sandwiches himself next to Silas. He holds up two sticky palms like trophies. “You can judge the food and pick a winner. I made the dessert.” Wink.
Bless that kid and his de-escalating smiles. I’m relieved his little hands haven’t faded again, more, since the other night. “Silas, this is Lazlo, and Ms. Zeen. And this—”
“Mr. Knight.” The Warlock gives Silas one of those weird, curt man-nods. He doesn’t extend a hand. “The Warlock of Foxe Holler,” he adds, like a threatening doctorate degree.
Silas looks him up and down. “Oh, I thought you were the gardener.”
A throaty peal of laughter escapes Arna Jean before she can smother it. To be fair, Silas does look like the kind of guy who owns a manor, and the Warlock… does not.
“I can be both,” the Warlock says. It’s almost a growl.
Before imminent disaster, I usher everyone to the table. Fingers crossed the house doesn’t catch on to the Warlock’s attitude and start emptying the knife block.
As I carry over a massive skillet of cornbread, Silas pulls out Ms. Zeen’s chair for her.
She looks even more flabbergasted. With the table full, Lazlo pats the seat next to him, and I oblige, Arna Jean on his other side.
Across from us, Silas sits next to his new best friend the Governess, and to my right—
Ms. Zeen does a double take. “Sir, not once, in the decades I’ve known you, have you sat at the head of a table in this house.”
“Tonight I do,” the Warlock replies.
At the exact moment I drop a thimble of yellow butter on top of the steaming cornbread, a commotion clatters in the front hall.
A minute later, a tall and lanky man drags what is possibly a body into the kitchen.
“The door unlocked for me,” Rett Claywell grunts in greeting.
The Warlock glowers up at the ceiling, as if he can scold his own house. “The wards are intended for everyone—”
“Our microwave!” I bolt up to help with the heavy package. It took so long, I forgot about it.
“And the Spam—who orders a whole case of Spam?”
“A Witch whose favorite postman is now Reginald Claywell.”
“He’s the only postman,” Arna Jean drawls at the same time Lazlo goes, “Reginald?”
I pat the box. “So extra favorite.”
Rett levels a dry look at his sister. “Thanks for your support.”
She rolls her eyes. “You know, most folks lie about working so they can go out and not work. You told me you couldn’t hang out because you were napping, not pulling a late shift.”
Her brother rights his uniform, fingers nervous.
His shy soul probably didn’t expect a whole kitchen full of stares.
He doesn’t get to escape, because Silas rises and saunters over with an unfair amount of elegance and offers a hand.
“Claywell, right? I’ve been meaning to introduce myself. Silas Key.”
Rett gapes at Silas, expression icing over in utter panic, as if all the vocal cords have eloped from his body.
Silas drops his hand. “Are you all right, Mr. Claywell? Not a hands man?”
Arna Jean and the Governess watch with such investment, this might as well be a hot-air balloon crash. I elbow Rett. He can handle every mail route in the Holler but not a handshake?
The postman collects himself. “You’re fine. I mean, just Rett. Rett is fine.”
“Nice to meet you. You’re doing the Holler an invaluable service, keeping people in touch with the world. It’s a goal of mine to make sure there’s not a resident I don’t know.”
“Townsfolk who vote being of particular interest,” I quip.
“You can’t shame him, Honey,” Arna Jean says. “He’s had literal biscuits pelted at his head in the middle of the dinner rush at Kitty’s Kitchen.”
Silas scoffs. “Correct, but not the point. It depends on the constituent. Mr. Claywell delivers my New Yorkers. Even during that four-day ice storm last winter.”
What in the scuppernong pie— “The Apothakery didn’t get mail for two weeks!”
Like an oven timer, my brain dings with the obvious.
Rett’s shyness under Silas’s attention, asking me to set up a meeting. Oh yes. Things click very well. This is perfect. I still owe the postman for his help making deliveries to my regulars.
“Stay for dinner, won’t you?” I ask Rett. “We’re strategizing.”
“Excellent idea,” Silas proclaims. “We just set the table.”
“We set it twenty minutes ago,” the Warlock grumbles.
Rett steps back. “Oh, no, that would be unprofessional.” His glasses fog with heat from his cheeks. “Also, as a rule I don’t eat in my uniform in case I were to spill—”
“Fabulous, we’ll put on some music,” Silas says, and pulls out the chair right next to him.
Rett sits. I think his knees tremble. Poor fellow seems more shaken by Silas than the fact that this is the first time he’s met the Warlock face-to-face, too.
I do introductions, and finally, we eat. Bobby Hebb’s jazzy vocals fill any awkward hushes. There aren’t many, because Lazlo’s blessed our two newcomers with a question spree.
“Oh, no, my brother’s routes keep him too busy to ever be at home long enough,” Arna Jean chimes in.
Rett swallows a hunk of cornbread. “But I get to see all the dogs in the Holler when I’m delivering mail.”
Lazlo turns to Silas. “What about you?”
Silas takes a leisurely sip of some chardonnay I found. “No pets, I’m afraid. I’m running across the Holler most hours of the day, when I’m not behind a desk.”
The boy nods. “You look like a lint-roller kind of guy anyway.”