Chapter Twenty-Two #3
“Maybe it’s not about the Witch,” Rett says. “What if he was planning all this before she changed her behavior, and instead was just trying to take advantage of the mayor being gone?” He turns to me. “Your mom only stepped back from the public eye within the last year, right?”
“Yeah. Her health wasn’t bad enough to move her into the hospital until last August.”
“So after the Widow Witch came last spring. Maybe this year, Webb was still counting on the Witch to make her usual appearance, but when she didn’t show up—”
“He had to fill the role with something to make magic look bad,” Arna Jean says, drumming the table as we all follow her conclusion. “If magic looks out of control, then someone will need to step in to control it.”
The Warlock confirms what we’re all thinking. “Webb needs a villain more than peace.”
“I bet the church ladies are all in cahoots with Webb on this, too,” Rett says.
Silas eyes him. “Is cahoots a paying tenant in your vocabulary?”
The postman fidgets in his chair; his leg won’t stop bouncing under the table. “I listen to historical murder mysteries on audiobook while I drive. The accents keep me awake.”
“That is… delightfully unsurprising,” Silas says. “And Beulah Buchanan might know for sure. She tells me something juicy about the other church ladies whenever I stop by for one of her Strong Island iced teas.”
Reaching over, he moves Rett’s cupped hand from the goblet of his glass to the stem.
“There. This way, you won’t warm the wine with your body heat.”
Rett’s eyes go wide behind his glasses. Arna Jean rolls hers. “Barf.”
“What, the sommelitism or the abysmal flirting?” I say.
The shift of the tension in the air is a much-needed relief, and my spirits lift for a hot second. Then plummet when Rett says, “So your mom and the little guy are sick.”
“Cursed,” I amend, taking a gulp of my own wine. “Lazlo, that is.” I can’t even bring myself to think of his round, innocent face right now. “Fatally so.”
“Forgive my lack of magical knowledge, but is he disappearing or dying?” Silas asks.
“I can’t be entirely sure,” the Warlock says at the same time I say, “Does it matter?”
Fading away physically sure seems like a kind of death to me.
The Bookwitch levels a heavy stare at the Warlock down the length of the kitchen table. “Does Lazlo know he’s sick because of a Witch’s curse?”
I didn’t even think to ask that.
“To a degree,” the Warlock answers. “He understands he has an affliction, and that Ms. Frost is here to help. That the sooner we find a cure, the better.”
We slump into silence once more. As I study the Warlock’s tired face, I can’t keep from noticing how he’s starting to resemble a sickly Victorian child.
Has he slept at all this week? I doubt it.
Lazlo is his greatest joy and his greatest regret, and every time he looks at the boy, the conflicted shame in his eyes drowns the love I know is there.
I must be staring for too long, because Silas claps his hands together. “Right, well. Outsiders, pariahs, and lost causes need to stick together, so what can we do to help?”
“We could use help in the library, going through the archives,” I say.
The Warlock crosses his arms. “I’ve spent months already combing through texts, but perhaps if we work together, we can find something I missed.”
I raise a brow at his reluctant teamwork. “There are more grimoires in this place than bats in the attic, and we need extra hands and eyes. We’re looking for any information about curing physical afflictions caused by curses. Ideally with food or herbs, potions, something a Farewitch would use.”
Arna Jean whips out her phone. “I can reach out to a few covens in larger cities where there might be more than one Farewitch. See if they have a record of anything like that.”
Silas nods. “If we ask around town, some of the older folks might remember if your grandmother ever cured anything like this when she was the Holler’s Farewitch.”
“Oh, Ms. Marrow might have some ideas. Herbalism is her forte.”
As my two favorite extroverts trade ideas, Rett leans in. “And if we don’t find anything helpful before the solstice? What then?”
The conversation comes to a halt.
With a screech of his chair, the Warlock stands. “I’m going to say good night to Lazlo,” he says in a tight breath. “I trust Ms. Frost can handle things from here.”
He heads for the door, and damn my willpower, my eyes track him as he leaves. Just before he turns into the hallway, he grips the frame of the door, and without his gloves on, it’s easy to see the blue veins pop against the pallor of his skin, his fingers stiff with tension.
His bare hands hook into my thoughts, pulling with them a feeling I can’t ignore, that there’s something else I’m not seeing right in front of me.
When the Warlock is gone, Silas tops off my wine. “I feel like we’re missing a crucial previously on. You two stare at each other like you had a terrible one-night stand.”
Arna Jean props her chin on her hand. “Or you didn’t have a one-night stand and that’s the problem.”
Rett sniffs. Loudly.
I rub my tired eyes, grabbing my glass. “Nothing happened. Mr. Knight and I… we’re colleagues. That’s it.” Sip. “Not even friends.” Sip.
The wine might be making me sentimental, but I’m suddenly warm with a flush of gratitude that these three are here tonight. Friends.
The Warlock could use a friend.
“There’s another thing,” I say, thinking back to the farmers’ market. I didn’t want to bring this up in front of the Warlock. “For some reason, our neighbors have a hard time remembering Mr. Knight. The real him, from the cookie bake.”
The neighbors we invited then ate food I made in his kitchen, and with my affinity, that should’ve helped leave an impression of the Warlock on a prefrontal cortex or two. But he’s a blur, wet ink smudged too soon across everyone’s memory.
“I noticed that when I spoke to folks in town,” Silas says. “It’s like new memories of him were written over with the stories of his old reputation.”
The word erased swipes at the back of my mind. “Or not written at all.”
Arna Jean studies me. “But you can always remember him without any problems.”
Can I ever. His scowl is there, under my eyelids whenever I close my— Focus.
“But I live here. Just like Ms. Zeen and Lazlo. It makes sense, especially since the Warlock and his magic are tied to the house.”
“It must be your food,” the Bookwitch declares. “You always feed us, and if I’m not at the shop, I’m here. More than Silas and Rett but they’re here more than other neighbors.”
“Whatever the reason,” I say, “right now, the folks who dislike magic outnumber those who do. If this all comes to a head with Webb and the Widow Witch—or both—we need neighbors on our side so we’re not facing them alone.”
Silas salutes. “Say no more. Canvassing and community outreach are my magical affinity. Webb has flyers, I have a handsome face. If you gave me time, I could even get the Widow Witch to vote.”
Before I can smile, Silas’s words sink in my gut as I remember:
The Warlock never told me why the Widow Witch cursed him in the first place.