Chapter Thirty-Six
THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
There is always a cost to magic.
We reach Knight Manor just as the sun begins to sink on the solstice.
I launch out of my Dodge at the same time I throw the thing into park.
The Warlock is considerably less graceful with his slide-fall combo from the passenger seat.
I haul ass to his side to help him into the farmhouse, and he doesn’t even protest at my quip about his rheumatic joints.
When I throw his arm over my shoulder for support, I don’t get any whiff of thyme.
This is bad bad.
After the cave pools led us back to the pickup, I floored it home in a trance, my mind fixated on reciting the Widow Witch’s instructions.
Governess Zeen is waiting for us at the front door. “He’s almost gone, sir,” she says by way of greeting, then swallows a sharp breath when she sees the Warlock.
I don’t blame her. Because so is the Warlock.
In the waning summer sunlight, his skin is so translucent, phyllo dough won’t be appetizing for a long time.
His hazel eyes have gone milky, like the broth of some expired can of soup.
With our height difference, he’s leaning sideways into me like the world’s saddest cake.
Appropriate for what might be the world’s saddest birthday.
The formidable and feared Warlock of Foxe Holler, this man is not.
Ms. Zeen hurries us inside. “He’s been asking for you.”
Those few words wrench the Warlock’s face into a devastating frown.
Still sweaty and dirt caked, we stumble behind Ms. Zeen to the kitchen.
Folks are already waiting for us there. Not just people. Friends.
Arna Jean has her head on her brother’s shoulder, and next to Rett is Silas, hands deep in his suit pockets like he isn’t sure what to do with them.
Even old Beulah Buchanan is here, nursing something amber at the kitchen table.
The burnt smell of old coffee hangs on the air, and no one looks like they’ve slept since we left.
When they spot me and the Warlock’s half-faded upper body, they droop like wilting plants. We stumble over to where they’re gathered around a fluffy lump of fur by the island.
Beauregard yips his hello. And snuggled up with him on the floor, his back leaning against the island, is Lazlo.
My eyes prick at the sight of him, and the Warlock flinches against me.
Disappearing skin now crawls up Lazlo’s neck and above his socks, and his little hands are gone. His unfocused eyes brighten as we come closer, but he doesn’t move to get up.
Jesus. I’m not ready for this. But there’s no getting ready for something like this. Lazlo doesn’t belong with us. He needs to go home, now.
Wincing, the Warlock kneels next to the boy. “Comfortable?”
Lazlo nods, his head nestled against the poodle like his neck is too tired.
“Did you bring me anything from your trip?” Lazlo asks.
“Of course,” the Warlock scoffs. “Cave crystals.” With an invisible hand, he brushes a strand of hair from Lazlo’s pale forehead, but it looks like a breeze just whipped by.
“You’re disappearing, like me,” Lazlo says with a shuddery breath.
Everyone in the room goes rigid.
I’ve been operating on sheer muscle memory since we left the Witch’s cottage, my mind too busy counting the hours, the minutes, we have left. So it’s only now I let myself think the worst: What if the Witch’s spell doesn’t work? What if she lied to us?
“I don’t feel good today,” Lazlo says. “Beau can tell, too. He won’t eat his treats.”
The Warlock’s clenched jaw releases. “Ms. Frost and I are going to help with that.”
The boy’s eyelids flutter. “I wanted to bake you a birthday cake but Ms. Zeen wouldn’t let me.”
“I believe I said you should rest,” the Governess says. “I don’t get paid enough to supervise that.”
My palms smart under the pressure of my fingernails. I’m not sure what’s worse, seeing my mom in the hospital or this.
An abrupt banging echoes from the front of the Manor.
Arna Jean shifts to the windows facing the porch. “Oris Webb again,” she groans, and tosses up a middle finger through the glass. The banging escalates.
Rett joins his sister at the window. “And half his congregation this time.”
Some impressive swearing runs through my head.
Webb promised he’d get enough folks to believe the Warlock is a threat to the Holler as long as the Widow Witch’s target is on his back.
A part of me didn’t think he’d actually follow through on his plan to try to pitchfork the Warlock right out of the Holler.
Shouts carry in from outside, like Webb is now giving an impromptu sermon right on the front porch. “No Eldercraft as far as we can tell,” the Bookwitch adds.
“Yet,” the Warlock says.
Ms. Zeen gives me a dry look. “Glad to see you’re back in one piece. Did the Widow Witch agree to help?”
“She gave us a spell to right things for Lazlo. We have to perform it now, before the solstice ends.” I share a glance with the Warlock. We can explain the rest later. There’s no time.
Arna Jean and Rett join us at the island again as the banging knocks turn into outright pounding. I begin to doubt the strength of the old farmhouse door. Beauregard unleashes a deluge of barking.
“The Manor has wards, right?” Silas asks over the noise.
It should. Even if the house was going haywire the last few weeks as the Warlock was losing his power and control over his magic.
That’s when it strikes me—why the house feels off. It’s not throwing a fit for once. No jumpy floorboards, no humming faucets, no sounds of tinkering from otherwise empty rooms.
The house isn’t calm. It’s just… empty.
My chest tightens. An empty Manor is scarier than anything I’ve seen here yet.
“Sir,” I breathe, pointing outside. “The sun.”
Soft light now slants through the back windows, the kitchen turning a dusky lavender. Magic can do a lot, but it can’t stop the sun from setting. It’s almost gone.
We have to make this spell work. Now or never.
The Warlock’s eyes squeeze shut, just before fresh determination sweeps across his features. “Lazlo, can you be brave, for an adventure?”
At first, the boy looks confused, but then a bright curiosity peeks through the uncertainty. He squeezes Beauregard, kisses his muzzle.
Arna Jean swipes a finger under her glasses.
I pull the Widow Witch’s spell from my pack and kneel down next to the Warlock. Like it’s the thinnest, most delicate pizza dough, I fold the spell into a tiny square and hand it to Lazlo. “I want you to keep this pressed to your chest, right against your heart. Hold it with both hands.”
He follows my instructions.
The spell the Witch gave us isn’t a verbal incantation, praise be. I was always crap at learning the old Witches’ tongues, even with Momaw Frost’s lessons. I wish I’d treasured that time with her a little more. The small moments, the small hopes, grant the biggest magic.
But for this spell, I just need to call on the power I already have.
“May I?” I ask Lazlo, holding up my hands. When he nods, I cup his small cheeks. Skin to skin. “Lazlo, I want you to try to picture where you came from. I know it’s hard; just try and find the last memory you have of home, of your parents. Who you were before us.”
Show us where the Widow Witch found you.
That’s all it takes. The spell, my memory magic, and a dash of Lazlo’s homesickness.
The memories, blank before now, awaken and begin to stumble toward me as if learning to walk. His eyelids flutter as the images come faster, sprinting. I only catch brief glimpses of those with food. Slowly, understanding and awe replace the confusion and curiosity on his face.
“I can remember things,” the boy murmurs. “But not everything—I can’t…” His chin dimples, unshed tears pooling in his hazel eyes. “I want my mom and dad. I want to go home.”
The words are like a wish.
The paper in his faded hands sparks and burns up in a gentle, quick flame. There and gone, the lifespan of a match.
Moving back, I avoid looking at the Warlock. I’ll see his heart breaking, and then mine will shatter right along with it. But still, I catch a glimpse of the skin at his collarbone disappearing, over his heart, and I can hear his shaky breaths growing further and further apart.
This spell needs to work. Fast. I can’t lose him twice.
Suddenly, a furious wind blows open the kitchen windows. A wave of June air hits us, the smell of a hundred shades of the color green. In seconds, Lazlo’s entire body is no more than a wispy outline of himself. Physical, but barely. Beauregard licks at the boy’s clothes where his scent lingers.
Then, in the corner of the kitchen, two other translucent figures appear.
The taller of the two is a broad-shouldered man. The physique of a farmer. His arm encircles the waist of the other, a short woman with the Warlock’s cheekbones.
Mr. and Ms. Knight.
The Warlock and I get to our feet with Lazlo. The couple remain patiently still, faces drawn taut with anticipation. Like they’re eager for the return of something long missed.
“Don’t forget to play with Beau,” Lazlo says to us. “I mean it.”
The Warlock leans down and presses his forehead to where the boy’s should be. “I won’t. Be good. Especially to your parents.”
My turn. For all my fear the Warlock wouldn’t be able to make the right choices to save himself, here I am, holding us up. I came here to cure him at all costs…
I just didn’t expect the price to be so high.
How in the world will this house ever feel the same?
It won’t. That’s the answer. The Apothakery never felt the same after Momaw died, and it won’t if my mom is gone.
But that doesn’t mean a place can’t still feel alive.
It doesn’t mean the farmhouse can’t still feel like home.
Finally, I understand why the Warlock wished to go back, to make a second chance worthwhile.
He was looking for a home. The last one he really knew.
I kneel in front of Lazlo. “Remember what I told you.”
“Goldfish aren’t a food group.”
“And?”
“And I should make friends.”
“Good man. I’ll miss you.”