Chapter Twenty-Nine
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
A family recipe is a creed. The paper becomes an heirloom, the measurements a history, the ingredients a story. If you doubt yourself, trust the recipe, and if you doubt the recipe, throw it out. But always trust the handwriting.
You got lost in your own town?”
The Warlock’s indignant scowl at me feels like coming home to a favorite smell in the kitchen. “Everyone should be grateful I didn’t end up in Tennessee. Ms. Zeen is a wonderful Governess but a terrible navigator.”
I conjure my best incredulous look. His face softens. At least the man knows he’s difficult. “Dare I ask when your license expired?”
“License?”
Bless his heart.
He changes the topic before I press the matter. “You know, I’ve been thinking on it, and Mr. Key and Governess Zeen could run a high-end boutique for sophisticated professionals.”
His comment is so unexpected, I manage a genuine smile. “Governess and Son’s Boutique of Sophisticated Wares. Or how about Tailored and Timeless Tradition—For Two.”
He grunts out what might be a quarter of a laugh.
I won’t have it. That was stellar stuff. “C’mon, you know you’ve got one. Let’s hear it.”
“I practice the Language of Small Wishes, Ms. Frost. Not alliterations.”
Fine. I’ll quiz him later. “You like theories. How is your magic upsetting a hospital’s electrical grid when your reserves are totally empty?”
“To be frank, I have no idea. I must be leaving some kind of echo. Like my magic is still a part of me but inaccessible. I can feel it slowly returning. Or perhaps—do not change the subject, Ms. Frost.”
I taste just the subtlest amount of thyme in the air. Proof he’s still the Warlock I know, that he’s real and here. The solstice hasn’t caught up to him yet.
The thyme plant catches my attention. Its little buds turn toward the sunbaked windows, eager and hungry.
A spot of greenery and life but practical, sentimental at a distance.
His sneaky thoughtful gesture only confirms my plan.
If there’s even a sliver of a chance the Widow Witch has an answer—that she’ll hear us out—I’ll take it.
Then I remember: “You left the Manor.”
He looks to the window, his stare hiding in the shadow of his dark brow. “I did. It was neither easy nor wise.”
“But you can leave. I mean, now that you have, there’s no undoing having left. Right?”
His gaze darts back to me, anchoring me to the bed. “Like I said. Not. Wise.”
I try a new approach. “Our magic is connected to the land, and your health is connected to Lazlo’s. So if the Eldercraft take Lazlo, what happens to you? Or if Webb forces you from the Holler, what happens to Lazlo?” That is, if we’ve cured his illness before the solstice.
“All signs point to nothing good.” The words are scratchy, stiff.
It’s either the Widow Witch and the solstice, or Webb and the Eldercraft. Every straw is short here.
I don’t think I’ll like the answer, but I wrangle my grit and ask it anyway. “There’s always a cost to using magic, so what did leaving cost you?”
No answer. No sharp or wicked retort. He just takes a slow sip of coffee.
“Sir.”
“A price I have come to the alarming revelation I would regretfully pay again.”
The inscrutable admission hangs between us. What am I supposed to do with that?
Then, out of nowhere, he says, “Posh Practicals for the Positively Professional.”
I dissolve into immediate laughter. The weight of a cast-iron skillet falls off my back, and I have to wipe my eyes before I can speak. A smirk tugs at his mouth.
When I’m coherent, I try to look serious again. “Sir, at some point, you’re going to have to stop writing checks you can’t cash.”
“Careful, you might invite questions about your age with words like checks.”
“My age? If you keep expending energy you don’t have, you’ll be flat on your face before the solstice at this rate.”
“I can make my own decisions, Ms. Frost. I’m your elder, remember?
” He drags a hand through his hair. “I don’t leave the Manor because I’ve built up years of warding there, and not just the powerful but temporary defenses typical of Warlocks.
This magic doesn’t wipe clean every time I cast a new protection spell.
It layers, like… croissant dough or baklava. Lasagna.”
Just like with my shop. Like a Witch’s warding. “Are you speaking to me in cooking metaphors?”
“Unfortunately, I’m trying to get on your good side.”
“It’s working, but I’m not going to tell you that because we’re still fighting. I’d like to be mad at least until tomorrow morning.”
His gloveless hands dent the coffee cup between them. “Prying into your health was out of line. I apologize.”
He’s staring up at me through his eyelashes, looking way too forgivable.
Damn him. I am in a hospital room, after all.
It dawns on me that I might not have gotten so upset and cooked an unhinged five-star meal if anyone else had spoken to me like that.
Because I’d have to first trust their opinion enough to believe it.
And I care what the Warlock thinks about me as a friend, not just as a Farewitch.
If he can’t ask me uncomfortable and honest questions, how can I expect uncomfortable and honest answers from him?
“You’re right, though. If I’m not going to end up like my Momaw or my mom, I’ll have to take better care of myself.
Especially if the Widow Witch might not help us.
” We can’t craft extra time out of nothing, but maybe I can take back some of mine I’ve been too quick to give away.
“Thank you, for being there last night. Shellfish allergy, apparently.”
“No gumbo in our future, then?”
Our future. I try to ignore how those words make my gut float. Probably lingering shrimp.
“Think about it, sir. When a Farewitch can’t figure out a cure, we look to the source of the illness.
The Widow Witch cursed you—we should’ve confronted her from the beginning.
If we convince her to remove her curse, we won’t have to keeping hunting for a cure.
And now my family’s problem gives us one more reason to do just that. ”
He doesn’t look convinced, but I’m ready with my next argument.
“Curse or not, Webb is using your feud with her to drive his campaign against all of us with magic now, not just Warlocks. Do this for the Witches in the Holler. Hell, if you manage to help save the town’s mayor—and the only Farewitch family—you might make friends.
” Against all odds. “If they see you take the fight to her, your neighbors won’t feel like they’re standing up to a powerful Hedgewitch all alone. ”
“I’d never leave this town to defend itself alone.” His attention shifts to the window and back again, the same way he’s always watching the sky from the kitchen, constantly monitoring the farmhouse’s wards and—
Oh.
“You have other wards!” I blurt. “Not just for the Manor. But in town—” My brain’s firing on all burners. “Why didn’t you tell me—were you just going to let me prattle on?”
“Sometimes, Ms. Frost, I just like to watch you run your mouth for a while.”
Ass. “How many? Where are they? The Apotha—?”
“No, your family’s magic protects your shop. It’s mostly public spaces. The school. The town square. But they’re not as permanent as the Manor’s wards, and I can’t cover the entire town, or individual homes. All of that would require too much of my magic.”
“So the church… no wards?”
He nods. “I have to pick and choose. The Widow Witch knew exactly where to strike.”
My new bite-sized hope dissolves. He’s as much a prisoner of the Witch’s fearmongering as the rest of the town. But why let the town accuse him of being such a force of bad magic when the exact opposite is true?
“How long?” I ask.
“After the library burned, and once I learned proper warding. Then, ever since.” New regret I haven’t seen before spills into his tired eyes. Not as raw as when he talks about Lazlo, but older. Worn down, from years of chafing against it. “I felt I owed the Holler something after—after.”
That sounds… demanding. Exhausting. “What did the town do before that? The Widow Witch started stealing husbands well before the library fire.”
“To be quite honest, I don’t know. My wards clearly don’t keep her at bay completely, but they slow her down. Perhaps, when she began this tithe of hers, it was easier for her. Perhaps without wards, taking partners required less of her own magic.”
As a Hedgewitch obsessed with balance, she’d want to ensure even her kidnapping was energy efficient. And here I’ve been living with the Warlock, completely unaware of his efforts. What does that say about me? We’ve all been taking him for granted.
He reads my face easily. “This makes me no less a coward, hiding away all these years. Wards are not the same as rebuilding. My own mistakes have been plenty destructive.”
“The library.”
He nods. “My magic was new to me, but if my spellwork had been good enough that night, I might’ve been able to do something. Anything would have been better than nothing.”
He doesn’t need to finish. To stop tragedy, save the people inside. His parents.
Taking a breath, I tread over the glass bridge of tension between us. “Anything is better than nothing. If we confront the Widow Witch one more time, we could make it the last time.”
“You smell like lemons,” he blurts.
Hot sunshine jolts my veins. “Excuse me?”
“Your candy,” he murmurs, nodding to my hands.
“Oh, right.” I give the Lemonheads box a little shake. “You know what I wish I had right now?”
His breath hitches, just barely. “I’m not sure I’ll survive this answer.”
An odd response. But he’s odd. And I think I’ve come to like that. “Crappy hospital Jell-O. Neon. Something guaranteed not to upset my stomach.”
When a smug grin crawls onto his face, I realize my mistake.
“No way,” I snap. “Do not try and use magic for a wish.”
“Respectfully, Ms. Frost, I can tell it’s slowly returning, so what better time to test my rate of recovery—”
“I forbid you—you’ll just exhaust yourself! Don’t you dare—”
He snaps anyway.
Nothing happens.
He scowls, snaps again. Absolutely nothing. Not even the barest smudge of thyme. Then a look of flustered shock slaps across his face. His eyes sweep over me, intensity crackling under raw distress and what might even be mortification.
No one has ever looked at me like this. Humbling, for sure.
But as quick as the look appeared, it’s gone. Not gone—smothered.
“You okay?” I ask, cautious. I warned him.
“Yes,” he croaks, clearing his throat. “I just… You’re right. I’ve expended too much energy lately. And with Lazlo not well… It’ll take a moment to fire up. When it’s ready.”
“Must be an age thing,” I quip.
“Hush. It’s a Warlock thing,” he mutters. He runs a hand through his hair again, thumb lingering on the gray at his temples. “Need I remind you, with age comes experience, Ms. Frost.”
There he is. “To be fair, sir, not if you’ve been a hermit. Let’s be rational. Unless you’re seeing Governess Zeen…”
“She would be a fine match. Not for me, but someone…”
“… and you don’t date or invite strangers or any guests over—”
“You’re a wicked little Witch. I’m taking my thyme plant back.”
“—logically, when’s the last time you’ve actually had—”
“Careful, Honey.”
I bite my lip, keeping a laugh to myself. I’ll pester him later. My name on his tongue is an awful distraction. “Any chance you’ll tell me your name now?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s actually thinking about it. Stressfully. As if I’ve asked him for his firstborn child.
Then, “No,” he answers, voice rough. “Not… today.”
“Someday? When?”
“When it’s important.”
“What does that mean?”
His jaw clenches. “You’ll know.”
Worth a shot. I’ll figure it out somehow. There are plenty of rooms in the Manor I haven’t broken into yet.
“Listen, I’m sure you were just as charmingly exasperating twenty-five years ago, but I’m glad I get to know this you,” I say. “You aren’t only made up of the mistakes you made. A Farewitch helps people, and you’re worth helping. We’re doing this.”
He sighs. Deeply. Like he just lost a debate with himself. Takes another ragged breath. “You truly want to hunt the Witch hunting us?”
“I thought you knew me by now, Mr. Knight.” My smile thins. “This might be our only chance to save your life.”
“Lazlo is my life. I just want him safe.”
“Then do this for him, too.”
Reluctantly, he nods. “Fine. For Lazlo. For the Frosts.” He rummages in his pocket and pulls out a plastic yellow tube the length of a pencil. “For you. Bottled epinephrine.”
But there’s no time to gloat over my win.
The impending summer solstice is too much of a merciless calendar on the wall.