Chapter Thirty-One #3
The soft and meaty Spam is the perfect mate to the salty, cheesy crunch, and the Cheetos are so processed, they don’t get soggy smooshed up against the Spam. Happy is a pitiful word for what I feel right now. Because of him. “You’re like a Spam Santa.”
Once we’ve both devoured half our sandwiches, he says, “My mother always made Spam scrambled eggs for breakfast.”
I grin at the thought of a little Warlock, when the Manor was full of life. “My Momaw was orphaned young, like you. She used to make meals for her foster siblings. She could turn a single can of Spam into twelve sandwiches. She said you could hold up a slice and see the sunrise through it.”
The Apothakery’s warm yellow kitchen melts into my thoughts.
My smile slips. I stop mid-chew, my throat dry, struggling to swallow.
When was the last time my mom cooked in that kitchen?
Will I be able to stand in there again, completely alone, if my mom isn’t with me?
The next bite of my Spam-Cheeto-childhood sandwich sticks in my throat. That does it.
I burst right into a mess of tears.
The Warlock is next to me in half a second. “If the sandwiches are bad, just tell me—”
I snort, still crying, my nose producing a hideous noise I didn’t even know it could make. Lord, I did not expect to see the day I willingly set down a Spam and Cheeto sandwich. “They’re perfect.” I wipe my eyes. “They just taste too much like home.”
He sits next to me, but doesn’t try to comfort me or distract me. He just gives me the space and the peace to work through it.
When I’m no longer sniffling like a toddler, I say, “You were right. I’m not holding it together as well as I thought.”
“Your mother is dying. You don’t have to be fine.”
I shake my head. “It’s not just that. I set impossible standards, and when I don’t meet them, I punish myself and withhold the rewards.” I had hoped I would’ve learned this lesson by my thirties. “But they’re not rewards—they’re just things that make me happy.”
“You can’t cure everyone, Ms. Frost. Even in a small town. The magic is a burden of responsibility. You’re the Holler’s Farewitch, not its fail-safe.”
“Great bedside manner.” I hiccup. “But I love my job.”
I think I do.
I loved the idea of the shop. Making a name for myself, not just as a Frost, but as Honey. Maybe I might’ve enjoyed all this if I’d gotten the chance to train, take my time.
With a little time, it’s easy to fall in love with something.
“Then you’ll be excited to return after a break from it,” he says.
My skin itches at a sting buried deep. I’m the Farewitch, I’m supposed to be the deliverer of cures and truths. “My Momaw always said our brains work against us. The magic we’ve got, the power, makes us think we can do anything. So when we fall short of… anything, we’re always disappointed.”
“Sounds like I would have liked your grandmother.”
I grin. “She’d’ve hated you.”
At my smile, a bright sheen of hunger flickers in the look he gives me. The darkness must be playing with my bravery, because I ask him something I’d never ask him if he could fully see me right now. “Who was the last person you loved?”
“Besides Lazlo and Ms. Zeen?” He doesn’t hesitate. “My parents. They were kind people. Complicated. But good folk.”
Deep lines of tension around his mouth emphasize his exhaustion. But there’s a fresh pain there, too. Like he polishes it every day, as much a part of his routine as watering his plants.
“I’m sorry about your parents.”
“Ms. Zeen gave you additional context, I take it.”
“She cares a lot about you. And not out of obligation. Or because she owes you. It’s important you know that.”
“I do. Very much so.”
“And you know you can love people without guilt, right, sir?”
My words hang in the damp air between us. He doesn’t answer this time. My hands tremble with the sudden urge to reach for him and… I don’t know what. The possibilities are infinite. Reckless. New.
He swallows. Hard. “You have to stop calling me sir.”
“Tell me your name, then. Sir.”
“I can’t. Not yet. I told you, it’s like giving away—”
“Power or control, I remember. But you even know my middle name now. How is that fair? Are you worried you’ll regret telling me?”
“No.” The word is sharp, decisive. “I’m worried I won’t.”
His voice is like gravel, hard as the cave floor beneath us. I almost shiver, and I don’t know what to do with the way he’s looking at me. At my mouth. The cave has to be playing tricks on us. We inhale the cool cave air together, faces inches apart, his breath on my lips.
Our lantern goes out.
Everything vanishes into pitch-black nothing. That battery was freshly charged, too. Which means—
“That would be the Witch’s way of telling us she knows we’re here,” he confirms.
Closer to the Witch, closer to the solstice.
Abruptly, he stands and spreads out his bedroll several feet away from me. Away from whatever… that was. I’m sure my cheeks are as pink as Spam.
“We’ll switch to a manual flame lantern soon. We should sleep. This will likely be our only chance to rest.”
Right. Sure.
Head and heart buzzing, I stretch out on my own roll and try to sleep. I really do.
But for hours, I’m wide awake, the Warlock just out of my reach.