Chapter Twenty-Five
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
A Warlock’s curse at three,
and the Devil’s fire at four,
but when the witchkind sing,
their hymns spell death at the door.
—“A Cautionary Rhyme for Young Warlocks”
I’m not sure where it all goes wrong.
One minute, the tornado is on the horizon, kissing the edge of the Holler.
The next, it’s shot through the town square and heading right for Knight Manor.
Not far from the gas station, I intercept Arna Jean. Winds threaten to upturn the more anemic carports we pass as I floor it out of town and up into the hills. The sound of a train in the clouds grows louder, chasing us, the skies a dark bruise everywhere we look.
We abandon the truck just inside the Manor’s gates, and I follow Arna Jean into the overgrown maze of greenery bordering the property’s long drive. The farmhouse itself is a ghostly monument in the distance as torrential winds and overcast light smudge any familiar shapes into blurs.
The old tobacco barn I never paid much attention to until now looms just beyond the unkempt tree line, in a clearing that was likely once wide-open farmland. As we hike toward the barn’s open-mouthed entrance, all I can think about is how small Lazlo is; he’s likely to just float away in the storm.
This feels like all my fault.
Finally, Arna Jean and I stumble into the barn, its skeletal structure just barely keeping the wind from tearing my friend’s glasses right off her face.
A dog barks.
Luckily I missed lunch, because I almost vomit with relief.
There, nestled together in a mound of damp hay, are Lazlo and Beauregard. Next to them, Ms. Buchanan perches on the top flat beam of a rusted disc harrow. Everyone’s hair looks like it’s been through a blender, but otherwise they seem unharmed.
“Honey!”
Before I even see him move, Lazlo is by my side, his little hands making fists in my shirtfront.
My arms go around him and I squeeze. And squeeze. Arna Jean was right. “How—” I start, but just then, the barn shakes, groaning under the stress of the gale.
Ms. Buchanan wraps her arms around Beauregard to keep him still, no leash in sight. “I don’t mean to alarm anyone, but I gather we don’t have time to get up to the farmhouse.”
I lock eyes with Arna Jean and see the same thought in my mind shivering across her face. Now would be a great time to be any Witch other than a Bookwitch or Farewitch.
The old woman reads us as well as any tarot deck and wags a finger at me. “I’m no Witch, but even I know magic can’t protect a foolish girl from a tornado.”
But before anyone can panic, Arna Jean shouts something about shelter, pointing back to the entrance.
There. Canted, in-ground doors just outside the barn. A root cellar.
Somehow, in a handful of seconds, Arna Jean and I corral Ms. Buchanan, her poodle, and Lazlo into the cellar at the front of the building. I seal the doors behind us as best I can.
By the meager light of a tiny camping lantern Lazlo brought with him, I count heads in the musk of the underground cellar. Judging by the short aisles of old wooden shelving, this place was once used for storing perishable food goods and canned stock.
Another endless minute later—it could be an hour, it could be just seconds—the tornado hits. The Widow Witch has arrived, and she’s angry.
The barn groans, along with the sound of glass shattering somewhere. I taste electricity on the air. I don’t recall that lovely side effect during the Widow Witch’s previous attacks.
A horrendous cracking noise rips through the air outside the cellar. There’s the sound of what has to be wood shrieking as it splits, and then a crash as something large falls against the cellar doors, like heaven felled a giant beast right onto our little plot of earth.
The doors bulge inward but don’t give way.
Our heads turn skyward, and the last thing I see is the gold flash of Arna Jean’s octagonal glasses before Lazlo’s lantern coughs out and the cellar sinks into darkness.
As Ms. Buchanan begins panic-humming church hymns, I wade through the dark emptiness toward where I last saw my little runaway.
I’d take the most stressful day at the shop over this.
The root cellar is small, so I find him quickly and hold him to me again, tighter, like he’ll just evaporate through any gaps in the cellar if I can’t see him. Soon, the chaotic thrall outside is right on top of us. One hand in Arna Jean’s and the other in Lazlo’s, I hold my breath.
Please don’t cave in. Please don’t cave in.
Ms. Buchanan stops humming long enough to grumble. “As God is my witness, I’m not going to die in a root cellar. I should be nursing a Long Island iced tea on my own porch. That’s the way to go.”
Not helping, Beulah.
“It’s okay, Ms. Buchanan,” Lazlo says. I feel him move around me, closer to the old woman. “We’ll keep you safe.”
The poodle yips.
Then, all at once, my ears ring with a sudden, unholy silence. The noise stops.
The cellar doesn’t crumble inward.
When the world outside seems stable, all my terror about losing Lazlo comes tumbling back. I aim my full attention at him. “How in the world…?” I gasp, not even able to finish. If this is what being a parent is like, no wonder the Frost women are big fans of one and done.
When Arna Jean said the kid’s favorite place to take Beauregard for a walk whenever Ms. Buchanan visits is down by the old barn, I almost didn’t believe her. I was willing to bet the old woman’s precious poodle had not once set paw in a barn. Shows what I know.
“I ran after Beauregard,” Lazlo says, zero regret in his voice.
“We pulled up to the Manor just as the boy was running out,” Ms. Buchanan chimes in.
“I was going to go visit them, I wasn’t running away, promise, I just didn’t tell anyone—”
“Then the thunder hit us and my poor old Beauregard lost his marbles. In the frenzy, he ran right off without his leash down the drive. I caught up with them just a few minutes before you two stumbled in looking like feverish hill people.”
Of course. The dog ran off to the safe place he remembered, and Lazlo followed, without question. Jesus, I’m not sure how Ms. Buchanan trekked her way down here, with her bad ankles and dislike of sweating.
The only downside to finding Lazlo is that now my brain has plenty of energy to focus on our other big problem: the Widow Witch.
If she wants her curse to inflict as much suffering on the Warlock as possible, she’d let him watch Lazlo perish on the solstice.
Why would she hurt the kid now? Has she decided to trade marital disasters for natural disasters?
Arna Jean pulls out her phone, turning on the flashlight. “No signal. Phone lines are down, or we’re too far underground.”
In the white-blue halo of her phone, Arna Jean and I try pushing against the cellar doors.
Even Ms. Buchanan joins in, arthritis be damned.
The doors don’t budge. Now would really be a stellar time to have someone like a Tombwitch in our friend group.
They’re good at unearthing things, intentionally or unintentionally buried.
“One of those big oak trees probably fell right across the doors,” Ms. Buchanan determines. “We’re going to have to wait for the fire department to get over here. If they weren’t swept away, that is.”
Lazlo gulps, and Beauregard whimpers.
I send a useless glare through the dark. The old woman has terrible bedside manner. “Save your battery,” I whisper to Arna Jean.
After surviving a literal tornado, are we really going to rot away with dwindling air, forgotten in a cellar?
Someone has to know we’re here. See Ms. Buchanan’s car.
Ms. Zeen! She knew I was coming from town.
But will she tell the Warlock? She doesn’t even know I found Lazlo yet.
The chances she’d leave me missing are low, but not zero.
There’s nothing to do but wait until someone realizes we’re down here.
The air gets muggy real quick. We only know how much time passes because of Arna Jean’s phone. I left mine in the pickup. Right now, I’d give anything for one of the Warlock’s silly formal texts.
Despite everything, Ms. Buchanan won’t stop muttering about the church ladies, and how Blanche wasn’t going to cancel the Memorial Day potluck, even with the forecast. She’s spoiling for a fight. Or a distraction. At least she’s keeping Lazlo entertained.
After a full hour goes by, even Ms. Buchanan is too tired to complain or argue with imaginary neighbors.
Beauregard pants next to Lazlo, whose hand is glued in mine. “I’m sorry I ran off,” he whispers to me.
My heart cracks at his small voice.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry about. I’m sorry Mr. Knight and I didn’t listen.”
I hear the softest sniffle. “Sometimes I get mad and… I don’t know.”
“Lonely? Mr. Knight does, too. Then he says things he doesn’t mean.”
“I don’t think he does. Get lonely, I mean. Not really.”
“Trust me, he does. And he doesn’t want you to grow up like him.”
A hobbling clutter comes from our left, along with a strong whiff of perfume. “Mr. Lazlo,” Ms. Buchanan says in the darkness, “I wanted to thank you for keeping my Beauregard safe. I don’t have the strength to chase him myself.”
“You’re welcome,” Lazlo mumbles from where he’s slumped against me. He needs cheering up, and Ms. Buchanan can sense it.
“You know, my boy, I have a few simple pleasures in life as ninety comes along…”
“Like her evening bourbon,” Arna Jean whispers from somewhere on my other side.
“… and Beauregard is the most important. I adopted him when my memory went spotty. He even follows me into rooms when I forget where I’m going. I hoped a big dog would keep folks from bothering me, but he isn’t too good at being scary yet. We’re working on it.”
I feel Lazlo’s huff of a tiny laugh. “His tail wags too much to be mean.”
“Remember, my boy, there are lots of things more dangerous than storms out there. Like vet bills. Or memory loss. Or the Widow Witch.”
“Or Gertha Fudge,” Arna Jean mutters.
Ms. Buchanan shuffles away, presumably to bother Arna Jean. If she can find her.
When we’re again alone as we can be in a root cellar, Lazlo tugs on my elbow. “What happens when you cure me?”
When. Not if. Bless him. “What do you mean?”
“Will you still live with us? Or will you leave?”
I don’t answer. His question makes me feel like spoiled milk. Sour, useless, clogged with clumpy unpleasantness. A pang of hunger hits me so suddenly I can feel my heartbeat in my stomach.
I wish the Warlock were here with us. I miss him. But that thought feels very Big Wish tier, not Small, and the man’s magic doesn’t work like that anyway.
Or it shouldn’t.
A sudden commotion beyond the cellar doors shatters the silence.
I hustle to the doors, Arna Jean’s chunky heels behind me, the two of us tripping over what I think are old canning jars.
We get as close as we dare, in case the old doors might still collapse inward.
Slowly, I begin to make out a pair of voices, right outside.
Three voices? Three male voices. Arguing.
“There’s no way the three of us can lift that tree—” The exchange is muffled but heated.
“Speak for yourself, I do my calisthenics four times a week.”
“—have you seen us? At least I lift heavy boxes.”
Arna Jean’s voice travels from the left. “Is that my brother?”
An indignant shout from the surface: “You are not hitching to my truck. Her name is Stamp of Approval and she’s a United States Postal Service vehicle, not a trailer. That would ruin my bumper—”
“That’s him,” she mutters. “Jesus, I’ve always hated that name. Like some kind of racehorse in the Derby.”
“If you gentlemen won’t take your argument elsewhere, kindly back up or shut up. I need someone to make a clear wish.”
My heart flutters. It can’t be…
“I wish you’d be useful and move the tree.”
“I am not a genie, Mr. Key. What did I say? The Language of Small Wishes.”
“I’ve got it,” says someone who sounds like Rett. “I wish I could tell my sister her perfume is too loud.”
Arna Jean huffs. “It is not.”
All at once, there’s the sound of something heavy lifting off the doors, and the clatter echoes through the cellar. With much heaving, the doors at last fly open. The dim sunset makes me squint as I blink away the darkness.
Then I’m staring up into a familiar set of hazel eyes.