Chapter Twenty-Three
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Dear Ms. Honey,
I’ve kidnapped your notebook.
Please order more sweets and Goldfish.
Love, Lazlo
sorry
I’m in a staring contest with the refrigerator.
Waiting. Any time now.
Maybe it’s just leftover confidence since Sunday supper last night was more wine than supper, but after working through my thoughts with friends, a renewed energy greases the cogs in my head. I trusted my magic enough to take on a Warlock’s request for help, and that hasn’t changed.
I sense him before he says a word. My blood thrums at my temples when I think about how sensitive my body is to his presence. Turning, I lean against the closed fridge.
“Mr. Knight.” Glare.
The Warlock stands at the island. Sunken eyes, black hair like overgrown weeds, stains of either soil or ink or magical spellsoot on his fingers.
A cough of thunder shakes the windows. A storm’s been gathering, the sky shifting from lemon to artichoke to eggplant and back again, all against a hovering chartreuse glow. No rain yet, though, and no sign this is unnatural weather courtesy of the Widow Witch.
“You left me a note,” he says in greeting.
“Yes.”
Silence. “… It was a grocery list.”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
“I figured anything less vague would seem too friendly,” I explain.
He doesn’t need to know I just couldn’t think of what to write.
“Arna Jean is coming by soon, to help with research in the library. She’s bringing me the Frost grimoires from the shop’s attic.
Did you find anything useful in that almanac Ms. Marrow sent over?
She says she sourced it from a Warlock.”
His bare hands tense at his sides. I long for the days when his hands were his biggest mystery, when I was blissfully unaware of the stakes. “Nothing of use, yet. Warlocks are very good at spellwork, but ask one to record anything in legible handwriting, and you’re out of luck.”
“Don’t you have some extensive network of Warlocks you could reach out to, from all the clients you’ve helped over the years? Call in some favors? The Eldercraft must be able to connect you to folks who could help, if you’re willing to give them the details.”
“Of course, let me just consult the Master Magical Folk Rolodex.”
Sarcasm, really? “Rolodex? You aged yourself more in four seconds than in…?”
“Valiant effort, Ms. Frost.” A half smirk creases his cheek. “Only Ms. Zeen knows my exact age, and that’s because she’s in my will.”
If that’s an effort to lighten whatever’s hanging between us, I ignore it.
“I found a few promising journals in other languages in the library this morning, but they’ll need translating.
Which could take a while.” Luckily, we have Wi-Fi.
Because of me. “We should talk about what we’re going to do if we run out of time to exhaust your archives. ”
Or if the answer isn’t there at all.
“How’s Lazlo?” I ask.
“He wasn’t feeling well. Ms. Zeen forced him into a nap.” The truth hides in the line between his brows. Lazlo gets a little bit weaker every day we edge toward the solstice. “And your mother?”
I bite my lip. “She’s the same. This storm coming has her feeling off. Bad weather messes with our magic. Wonky air pressure. No good for baking.”
I hate it, but I do feel a smidge lighter. It’s nice to let the worries filter out so I don’t have to hold them so tightly myself.
Before I lose my nerve, I say, “You never told me why the Widow Witch cursed you.”
There’s an edge to the set of his mouth, but it’s not his usual virulent scowl. I wish it were. Show me some fight. I’m still in the mood for fighting. The least he can do is keep up.
“We’re not discussing this today, Ms. Frost.”
“Another secret, then?”
Frowning in a way that tells me I already know the answer, he braces his hands on the island, elbows locked, arms rigid. His voice falters. “You will hate me.”
Gooseflesh rises on my skin. Do I really want to hear this? Do we ever really want to know everything about a person, or only the good parts? I could stop, save myself what might be a flavor of heartbreak I don’t have the palate to swallow right now.
But even if I don’t always know my heart, I’m a Farewitch, and I know my gut. I’d rather understand the real him than simply like the surface layer.
“Then you’re in luck, because we already don’t like each other,” I say.
He takes a ragged breath. “My last birthday was a noteworthy one, but I was not aging gracefully, not after wasting years rotting away in this place. So I sought out the Widow Witch. I thought she’d delight in watching me ask for help.”
“With what?”
“What everyone wants on their birthday. To make a wish. A powerful one I could not do on my own.”
The Widow Witch can do wish magic? I suppose of all the types of Witches, a Hedgewitch’s power is the most similar to a Warlock’s higher magic. “What did you wish for?”
“What would you wish for? What would anyone?”
Oh.
“Time,” I breathe.
“I asked her for a second chance at making my last twenty-five years worth something. Correct mistakes, make new choices.” His expression hardens.
“I should’ve known better, but I had age and no wisdom.
The Witch is a herald for magical equilibrium, but she balances the scales with her own sick creativity.
She granted me the wish, but on her terms.”
More low thunder rattles the windows. I know where this is going, but I don’t want to believe it.
“I got a second chance at childhood, but not because she sent me back in time to rewrite my past—instead, she handed me a new childhood. Like I’d asked for some party favor. A boy with no memory appeared on my doorstep.”
Lazlo.
He won’t meet my eyes. “Every time I look at him…”
Memories of our night in the garden rush into what little headspace I’ve got left.
We tried to send him back, but it wasn’t possible…
“Lazlo doesn’t belong here because he literally doesn’t belong here.” The realization feels like remaking a beloved childhood recipe, only to discover it isn’t as good as remembered. “And her terms?”
“Take care of the boy. Make him happy. Simple. But it was only after Lazlo arrived that she told me the full truth. This wasn’t a wish, it was a curse.
Lazlo would succumb to an illness by my next birthday.
I had a year to try to cure him. If I even could.
So now this boy was—is dying and I haven’t been able to do anything about it.
I have no idea where he came from, if he came from anywhere at all, or how she managed it.
All I know is, he’s of my bloodline and—”
He cuts off. Swallows.
This time, he doesn’t hide his face, as if challenging me to give up on him and run, far from this house and its ghosts.
Lazlo is pure light after decades of dark isolation…
yet a constant reminder of the Warlock’s choice, his desperation.
His true loneliness. And he’s been living with this vicious onus, his own personal beast, for nearly an entire year.
He always told me I was his last chance. My stare falls to his hands, pale and clenched.
My bloodline.
His struggling wards, the house’s erratic moods, his grim-reaper complexion lately… “It’s not just him, is it?”
It’s brief, but he hesitates before he answers. “Our shared bloodline tangles things somehow. As Lazlo’s health worsens, so does mine. And as I weaken, the Manor feels the consequences as well.”
An oven timer goes off in my head. “That’s why you wore gloves. You thought there was a chance you’d start disappearing, too.”
Reluctantly, he nods. “I figured if he was fading, I would eventually.”
“So if we don’t cure Lazlo by the solstice…” I almost can’t say the words. Every part of the sentence is terrible. “Hold on—after all of that—you are dying! Or you will.”
He manages a half smile. “Aren’t we all dying, all the time?”
“Jesus.” Of all moments to be sardonic. My brain chugs along as it lays a track of a timeline. “But that means you stopped leaving the Manor before your deal with the Widow Witch. I thought you stayed here to avoid her.”
“Like with Witches, Warlocks and their magic are strongest on their own land, their home. I’ve always kept to the Manor for that reason. Though when Lazlo came along, I did theorize that anchoring myself here could somehow help his strength.”
Was I really this oblivious to what was going on in my own kitchen—his kitchen? I feel like I need to run the last two months through a colander and scrub them of dirt. If only I’d paid more attention to what my patient wasn’t telling me, I might’ve caught on earlier.
The Warlock takes a deep breath. “Lazlo and I might be connected by blood, but right now, your focus is his health. If you find a cure for him, we shall hope it works for me, too. So does any of what you’ve learned now really matter?”
A moldy taste runs down my throat. The Holler knows the wrath of the Widow Witch, but this is a special kind of cruel.
Part of me wants to slap this man with a sheet of puff pastry for attempting such an arrogant bargain.
Another part wants to just put aside my anger, grab Lazlo, and squeeze him tight. Maybe the Warlock, too.
“No. I suppose it doesn’t,” I say lamely.
The unyielding stress of our timeline hasn’t changed. If we don’t cure Lazlo of this illness by the solstice, the Warlock’s birthday is going to be a very bad day all around.
If Oris Webb manages to ask enough questions to get the Eldercraft involved, they might remove Lazlo from Mr. Knight’s care before we ever get the chance to cure him.
I doubt they’d take kindly to a Warlock who struck a bargain with a dangerous Hedgewitch, much less let him keep custody of a kid with no magic.
Especially if that kid… isn’t supposed to be here.
If if if.
If I had kissed the Warlock, would all this be easier to handle? Or that much harder?
I cinch my apron tighter. Hell.