Chapter Twenty-Seven
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Food is not a reward. Starving yourself just makes you hungrier.
You’re suspiciously quiet in those clogs.”
Warlock Knight stands in his gardens, staring up at nothing in the evening June sky. I pause mid-creep behind him, trying to see if I can spot what he’s hunting for. “Scouting for your next archnemeses, sir?”
At least he’s on his feet, a rare sight this past week. So far, I’ve resisted ambushing him in his bedroom to force him to eat, and kept my worrying to the kitchen.
The house is more unruly than ever, which makes it tough for Arna Jean and Rett to focus on their research in the library.
We haven’t had a proper working lamp in days.
And whenever I leave the house, usually on an errand to borrow grimoires from the other Witch families, the wards seem to blip and disappear for a breath.
There’s always a pop in my ears, like we’re all hurtling down the Appalachian mountainside.
Not a good sign for warding, if I had to guess.
As Mr. Knight loses a grip on his power, his energy and magic draining, Lazlo’s little hands fade in and out at random to varying degrees. I feel like it’s getting harder to keep track of all the edges of our catastrophe map. Sooner or later, we’re bound to fall off.
“That tornado was not regular Hedgewitch magic,” the Warlock says as I join him. “Something isn’t right.”
We’ve had no more trouble from the Widow Witch, but this period of peace just leaves behind a bitter flavor of anticipation. What is she planning? Her latest attack wasn’t sitting right in my gut, so I went back to check the area where the old barn once stood: no scorched message.
“I agree, but we should be more afraid of Oris Webb right now.”
Ever since his threats at the Manor’s gate, Webb’s anti-magic sermons in the town square have increased, and Silas tells me he’s gotten more of the town council to listen to his ideas about finding a way to limit magic from the Holler, starting with his church.
According to the group chat, more than just the church ladies follow him around now, passing out flyers.
Gertha Fudge used her latest luncheon to rant against sinful sorcery.
The Widow Witch’s tornado was the very devastation Webb and Fudge needed to further sour Mr. Knight’s reputation and turn folks against magic in Foxe Holler.
And if Webb succeeds and casts out the Warlock, he’ll come for Witches next.
“I suspect he’ll think twice about showing up here again, with such a rotten Farewitch in residence,” the Warlock says. “He’s more afraid of your magic than mine.”
“We still don’t know if that was me. I already have my affinity.
” I’m a Farewitch, not a… whatever that was.
A Greenwitch type of thing? But rot is death.
So, Tombwitch? I could ask Carolina or my mom, but with everything else going on, I don’t have the headspace to think too hard about how Webb’s apple met its maker.
“Where is it written a Farewitch can’t have more than one affinity? You’ll be ripening all your own produce in no time.”
His words shiver in my chest, like I’ve swallowed a handful of frozen blueberries. I’ve been thinking of this power as decay, but he thought only of growth. Life. A powerful thing and powerfully good.
He turns to me, holding up a plump, bright red cherry tomato. “Try this.”
I’m not going to be the embarrassed mess I was the last time he offered me food, so instead of accepting the tomato like a normal person, I open my mouth and look up at him with wide eyes.
It takes him the most adorable moment to understand the challenge.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he stares at my mouth.
I’m half bluffing. He won’t do it, I know it.
But after some internal argument, he places the tomato right on my tongue.
This time, no gloves. My teeth graze his bare fingers. Sweet acidity bursts between my molars as a shadow crosses his face. “Careful, Witch.” His voice rumbles low in his chest.
I give him my best satisfied grin. He called my bluff, but somehow, I still won.
He thrusts a basket in my direction, and the spun-sugar-thin thread of tension between us snaps. “I thought you might like to use these tonight.”
As I pick through his offering of earth-toned carrots, I suppress an undignified squeal. But summer harvests are my love language.
“Thank you,” I say, and head back inside before I do something silly. Reckless.
I get to work scrubbing our vegetables. The Warlock hauls in more baskets: peppers, tomatoes, green beans, rhubarb, and sweet onions.
He unloads the spoils into the sink next to me, rolls up his sleeves, and starts cleaning.
I try not to stare at his forearms, but the sight of his muscles flexing so very close to my own skin…
I’m lightheaded and I just need a snack.
Is there anything wrong with being roommates? Do I even want to know if this man can be something more than a friend to a person? A voice in my head shouts Yes but I’m pretty sure that’s just the overachiever in me who likes a challenge, and she needs to be quiet right now.
I’m overthinking this. The stress of our impending deadlines is gobbling up all the oxygen meant for my brain.
We’ve been scouring, translating, nearly ripping apart every grimoire we can find, hoping to find recipes and spellwork a Farewitch can use.
The Warlock said he came across evidence Farewitches might be able to lift some curses, and even a rumor contains traces of fact. The Holler taught me that.
Somewhere, a Warlock or Witch has written down a spell or potion or recipe or something that a Farewitch can turn into a cure for someone dying from a Hedgewitch’s curse.
While the Claywell siblings are researching so I can keep baking, Silas has his eyes on Webb in town and during council meetings. With Carolina watching my mom at the hospital, I can focus on curing Lazlo, and Ms. Marrow sends me herbs and other flora that might help.
When he’s not helping me in the kitchen or the library, the Warlock is putting his new phone to good use and has conversations well into the night with other Warlocks. Not friends, of course, but a few he trusts to not immediately run and report him to the Eldercraft.
Now we’ve got two weeks. Two weeks until the solstice. Two weeks until Webb comes knocking, which won’t even matter if one of my recipes doesn’t work on Lazlo before then.
Events have ballooned way beyond May Honey’s expectations.
When I sneak another glance at the Warlock at the sink, deep purple smudges collect under his heavy-lidded eyes, and the fatigue in his posture tells me we’ve gone from blanket of exhaustion to full-body poncho.
“Any sign of your magic returning?”
Ever since he freed us from the cellar, his well of magic has been empty. I don’t quite have the gumption to ask if that’s a stomach kind of empty that will eventually be full again—or a permanent empty.
He huffs. “I’m about as magical as your KitchenAid mixer. I couldn’t grant you a lit candle right now.”
Comforting. Maybe it’s time to get Carolina over here for a thorough audit of the wards. If there are any left.
“What I’d like to know,” the Warlock says, “is how Oris Webb can acquire an audience with the Eldercraft. They’re not a customer service hotline. Even Warlocks have trouble getting their attention, unless something is very wrong.”
“Would they really remove a child without magic from a home with magic?”
Would they take Lazlo from the Warlock?
His brows pull tight, and his hands pause mid-scrub. “If a guardian is dangerous or uses magic for harmful purposes that put the child’s safety at risk, yes.” His jaw locks, unlocks. “Oddly enough, Oris Webb knows what he’s doing.”
Great. Now I wish I’d never asked the question.
I refocus on snapping the ends off green beans, head hammering with a familiar near dizziness. My hand dripping cool sink water, I run my palm across the back of my neck and try to ignore the emptiness in my belly. Hungry, but no appetite. Not after this conversation.
“Are you having lunch?” the Warlock asks, reading my thoughts. He’s getting way too good at that lately.
“I’ll grab something later while I work.”
“A bowl of cereal is not a meal, Ms. Frost.”
“Do you run the FDA behind my back, too, sir?”
“You hardly ate anything last night.”
“I’ve been distracted and—and I’m an adult, thank you. I can eat what I want.”
“We don’t need three of us in this house wasting away. We’ll outnumber Ms. Zeen.”
“Not if you take care of yourself,” I fire back.
“And you? How have you spent your twenties? Trying to appease your mother by running the family Apothakery?”
Where is this sudden interrogation coming from? “I chose to come back.”
“Because of your mother’s illness.”
“That’s—that’s irrelevant. I love being a Farewitch. It’s not a chore.”
“You’ll hate it before you’re forty if that’s the only way you spend your days.”
The nerve. “Don’t lecture me.”
His voice lowers. “I lecture you because I’m older.”
I whirl to face him, hip propped against the sink. A slap of my palm shuts off the faucet. “Are you really telling me to listen to my elders?” I’ve had enough of this.
So has he. Before I can move, his hands are braced against the lip of the sink on either side of my waist. My entire world is suddenly the space between his arms and chest. I stuff my hands into my apron pockets, not sure what they would do if I let them free.
“I spent my youth like you, hunting obsessively for solutions I thought I could will into existence,” he rasps. “I ran ragged. Don’t make my mistake.”
“Unlike you, I don’t have the luxury of watching out just for myself. I have my mom to think about, her health and the Apothakery.”
“Having a job doesn’t replace having a life.”
“What does that mean?”