Chapter Twenty-Three #2
Shouldn’t I be livid? If there were ever a moment to take a rusty pair of sewing scissors to his gardens, we have arrived.
Instead, I’m just relieved I’ve finally got some answers.
He’s right. The recipe might be different, but our oven temperatures are still set at the same relentless heat.
There’s no time to be upset when Lazlo needs help.
“Why did the Widow Witch even agree to grant you a wish in the first place?”
“I promised her a future favor, as payment. Which I refused to honor when I discovered she’d cursed me instead.”
Further upsetting the balance of magic and power. “Bet she loved that.”
A brooding look takes over as he retreats behind that gruff facade. “As far as I’m concerned, she began this feud.”
“Can you blame her? You thought you could just wish your way out of a midlife crisis. All this mess, because you wanted to be younger?” Men. Good. Lord. Unbelievable.
“Younger is not what I wanted—you can’t think me that vain.”
I scoff. “I’d love to go backward, before my mom got sick. To spend more time with her, learn how to be a great Farewitch. Hell, just a good one. But life doesn’t work like that.” He warned me I would be mad, but I want him to be mad, too. Not withdraw into himself.
My attitude works. He straightens to his full height and faces me, and my favorite glower returns. That’s more like it.
“This mess was not intentional. I never would have made the wish if I knew a child—whatever his origins—would be affected. Or anyone besides me, for that matter. Wish magic is my craft, and that is why I turned to it to solve a problem. You would have done the same, Ms. Frost. You told me so when you arrived.”
My mouth closes on a retort.
What are you looking for in all those books?
A happy ending. A second chance. They all have one thing in common. Time.
What would I give to carve out more time for my mom? A lot. Too much. Everything.
Fine, so maybe it isn’t about being younger. We spend away all our time and then somehow want it to still add up to something. Suddenly, I feel small, a silly little Farewitch. How the hell did I, Honey Frost, end up at the top of the Warlock’s emergency contact list?
I tear my gaze from his. If I keep staring into those hazel cauldrons of self-contempt, I’ll never concentrate. “What moment in your life were you trying to redo? Your parents’ deaths?”
“No. Deaths are fixed events in time. I simply wanted to go back to when someone kind offered me help I should not have refused.”
Even if I don’t want to, I understand. Accepting help is almost harder than asking for it.
I cross the gap between us so I’m right up in his face. With our height difference, it’s not as intimidating as I hoped. “For future reference, lies by omission are still lies. Sir.” To drive home my point, I poke a single finger into his hard chest.
Before I can blink, he snatches my hand in an unyielding grip.
I swallow. Probably should not have literally poked the beast. But then he threads his long fingers through my stiff ones, loosening my hand, like roots threading up through soil to find the sun.
We’re much closer than I realized and I can see his worry lines, which are way too endearing for their own good.
He holds my fist against his chest, gaze burning into mine, like he wants to set something on fire. Maybe me. In the best way.
Out of nowhere, a small voice tiptoes into our argument. “Are you fighting about me?”
Lazlo watches us from the kitchen doorway.
My face probably matches the Warlock’s exactly, a cocktail of surprise and distress. He composes himself first.
“Ms. Frost cares a great deal for you, Lazlo. She’s teaching me how to be better. But sometimes, I’m not very good at listening.”
Disbelief swallows the rest of my anger. Something in my chest shivers and I refuse to believe it’s my heart.
Lazlo glances to the windows. “Ms. Zeen says a big storm is coming. Do you think Beauregard is okay? Dogs don’t like thunder.”
The kid would know, given how often Ms. Buchanan stops by so Lazlo can play with Beau. She and Arna Jean are always stopping by for chatter. Neither likes to text.
“I’m positive,” the Warlock says, looking grateful for the change in topic.
“But it’s gonna be nasty, Ms. Zeen says, and Beau doesn’t like loud noises or even lightning. Can we go check on him? Please.”
“Not right now. We need to stay inside, but we can call Ms. Buchanan from here.”
“We tried, but Ms. Buchanan doesn’t answer numbers she doesn’t know, and what if the storm knocked out her power? Please. Honey and I can go—”
The Warlock rubs his temple. “I said no. We need to remain within the Manor’s wards.”
“Why?” The kid crosses his arms. Definitely a habit he picked up from me. Whoops. He does his best to stare down his guardian from a height of four feet. “They don’t even work.”
“Lazlo, we are not free from the Widow Witch. I know you think the world of that dog, but there are decisions adults have to make to keep you safe—”
“But it’s boring that way, and you never let me go anywhere—”
“Because you’re important, Lazlo, the dog is not!”
I cringe. Lazlo’s face goes white as eggshell, scrunched with hurt.
The Warlock understands, a moment too late. “Lazlo, I didn’t mean—”
But the damage is done. The first tears fall down the boy’s cheeks. His tiny hands fade in and out, translucent, his emotions unmoored and his focus floating away.
“Honey’s right,” he mumbles between tears. “This is why you don’t have friends.”
He bolts out of the kitchen, leaving it feeling twice as empty.
The Warlock hangs his head, black hair curtaining his face. He’s still holding our tangled fingers. Like a lifeline. “Have you ever seen someone cause two different arguments in as many minutes? I’m a disaster.”
My chest seizes. Stupid heart. “One summer, Arna Jean tried to introduce vegan butter to the Apothakery. You don’t know the meaning of disaster.”
Some tension in his jaw unlocks. “You’re right about Lazlo. About everything, frustratingly. In case I have not made it clear, I’m terribly… glad you’re here.”
His thumb runs a delicate circle over the soft triangle between my own thumb and forefinger, and I have to suppress a shiver. My mood lifts despite our crap situation.
“For the record, I still think you’re keeping secrets.”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
“I will figure it all out.”
He smirks. “I’ll be disappointed if you don’t.” Then he brings our clasped hands to his mouth and brushes his lips over the oven scars on my knuckles.
I can’t stop the second shiver that hits me.
It’s not a kiss. But in a way, it’s a helluva lot more.
Warmth pools in my cheeks. My mouth is definitely open.
We’re still fighting. Right? But if this is mad, what’s not-mad like between us?
Sudden sneaky daydreams send the warmth in my face right down my neck, to my chest, then belly and down, down, down…
A throat clears. “Mr. Knight, the postman is here with mail.”
The Warlock’s eyes squeeze shut, his nostrils flaring. “On Memorial Day, Ms. Zeen?”
“He’s precocious.”
“That’s probably for me,” I whisper. “I ordered more Modjeskas. Forgot. Sorry.” My words coast against his lips, a breath away.
With an inscrutable look, he steps aside. I take my chance and flee the kitchen before I get too caught up in his… everything.
By the time I reach my room, I’m fanning myself with the mail Rett left, even more confused and flustered.
Glancing at the mail, I see there’s a notice about the Memorial Day potluck in the town square later today, weather permitting, and—blegh.
One of Webb’s stupid flyers leers up at me. This one’s doubling as a notice for Gertha Fudge’s next church luncheon.
Magic Spells Trouble: Senior Safety in Foxe Holler.
An idea hits me like a shiny brand-new 4x4.
Before I can change my mind, I grab my truck keys and a cake I made earlier from the fridge, and hightail it to my Dodge. Above me, it’s not even noon yet and the clouds have the sun cornered. The impending storm weaves a charge through the air.
Silas suggested some of the oldest Holler residents might remember if my grandmother ever cured something like a curse when she was a young and new Farewitch herself.
If they do, they might also remember a time before the Widow Witch started taking husbands.
When she was just a Witch, with her own wants and desires and ambitions. And weaknesses.
If anyone knows anything about the Widow Witch that could possibly help me fight her curse magic—it’s the person who hates her the most.