Chapter Thirty-Six #2
“You weren’t so bad.” His smile is going to be the thing that sends me to tears, I know it.
“I’ll see you soon, yeah? I’m your neighbor. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t. Promise.”
“And happy birthday to you, too. Goodbye, Mr. Knight.”
The boy perks up, hearing his name. As if he only just remembered it belongs to him.
My friends in the room make various noises of surprise as they begin to understand.
It was never a question of finding Lazlo’s cure.
It was a matter of finding his home.
Lazlo gives the Warlock one last hug and then approaches the waiting couple. The Warlock’s parents. His parents, too.
They open their arms, smiling. He takes his place between them, the shimmering outline of his form blending with theirs. No longer just Lazlo, but Mr. and Ms. Knight and their son.
Not ghosts or spirits. Memories.
Versions of themselves from when they lived at the Manor, years ago, thumbprints on the surface of time. More echoes or reflections than the true originals. But that doesn’t make them any less real. The Widow Witch helped me dust off these last heirlooms of truth.
Unsteady, the Warlock—my Warlock, with the gray temples—takes a cautious step toward the memories of his parents.
Margaret Cho Knight reaches for her son, her translucent hand palm up.
But the hope on her face isn’t intangible.
It’s as lucent as Lazlo is all the time.
And that raw emotion makes me wonder—are there arguments my mom and I should have now, regrets we need to settle in the days she has left?
How do we forgive someone who’s long gone before their mistakes are?
No. Going backward will only turn what time I do have left with her into a deep well of only potential memories, instead of lived ones. What good is a second chance if we don’t learn anything from the first one?
The Warlock takes the tenuous hand of his mother’s memory.
She mouths something in a language I don’t catch. But I can guess. I’m sorry.
“I know. Thank you.” He says something else, in what might be Cantonese.
Ms. Knight whispers back to her son, glancing at me as she does. He nods, and an entire conversation happens between them in just a sentence or two. Then the Knights vanish in a gust of wind and glimmering, fractured light.
No one in the kitchen speaks. Beauregard doesn’t even bark.
The Warlock stands alone, but very much here.
His extremities slowly become visible again, and his body flushes with the normal color of his only mildly pale skin. I think I see his sun spots sprout back onto his flushed cheeks.
Just then, a frantic commotion from the front of the Manor echoes down the halls all the way to the kitchen, and the indistinct shouting we heard outside turns cacophonous.
With the Manor void of the Warlock’s usual power, and with no wards, the house can’t keep the outside world out any longer.
The front door must have finally given up.
The Warlock comes to the same conclusion. He takes off toward the noise, a renewed energy in his step. Furious energy. The rest of us follow, and we crowd into the foyer at the same time Oris Webb and his cavalcade of followers ooze through the front door.
There aren’t nearly as many as I expect. I spot some of the same angry folks who stop to listen to Webb’s preaching in the town square. They’re hard to ignore, but not because they’re a big group by any means. They’re usually just the loudest folks, noisy with nothing to say.
The mob quiets in a collective shush when Governess Zeen steps forward. “Gentlemen, we have a doorbell, you know,” she says, hands clasped primly behind her back. “May we help you with something?”
“This need not concern you, Letha.” The preacher looks around, like he can sense the magic on the air. Like he’s hungry. “The time I graciously gave Mr. Knight is at an end, and we are here to uphold our promise to rid the Holler of dangerous magic.”
Murmurs of agreement sound behind him, worried looks darting left and right.
The Warlock stalks forward and lets his voice carry, strong and sure, through his home. “We will belabor the point one last time, Mr. Webb. Magic is neither inherently bad nor good. Just like people, whether your neighbors are Witches or Warlocks or something in between.”
“Tell that to the Widow Witch!” shouts a man from the back.
“No, tell that to the Holler’s widows,” cries another.
The Warlock looks out over the crowd, no longer addressing only Webb. “I make no excuses for my past negligence, but I promise you, I will not remain a passive bystander. Farewitch Frost and I have ensured the Widow Witch will no longer torment Foxe Holler. Not in spring, not in any season.”
Curious murmuring bounces throughout the room, a white noise of delicate optimism. The mood in the foyer shifts, just a degree, but as any Farewitch will say, a single degree can make a lot of difference.
The only person who doesn’t look relieved is Oris Webb.
His pale eyes narrow at us, his lips pressed tight.
“And why should the good people of Foxe Holler trust you?” he asks.
“What assurances do these folks without magic have that they’re safe?
What if the Widow Witch changes her mind?
She’s a Witch, after all. Who will protect the Holler from you, Mr. Knight? ”
The Warlock levels his commanding attention on the pastor once more. “Witches will. As they have always done. The Holler never needs to fear them. You, on the other hand—I would recommend extreme caution.”
His words puncture the quiet of the room, a sharp-edged cut right through the tension. The whispering escalates. I don’t think Mr. Knight realizes how… spicy his statement is. Well, in for a penne, Momaw Frost would say.
“But what have you done for the town, Mr. Knight? For these people, for our mayor? Or done with her, I should say,” Webb croons, turning to me. “Where is your mother, Miss Frost?”
He clasps his hands like he’s about to pray, but I can see the whites of his knuckles, the tension underneath the milky froth of his false fervor. This isn’t faith. This is desperation.
“That’s enough.” The Warlock’s command reverberates like we’re in a bell tower. For a moment, he truly does seem centuries old, a force from well before my time. A true match for the Widow Witch, capable of spinning tornadoes across the earth like a children’s spinning top.
At this, Webb turns to the crowd at his heels, the foyer his altar.
“When Warlocks and Witches quarrel, those of us without magic are caught in the middle. We suffer the devastating loss. How can we protect our youngest in a community where our neighbors attract danger? Our church, an invaluable community center, is gone. What’s next?
” His preacher’s voice carries easily over the nervous murmuring.
“Magic is unnecessary at best and fatal at worst. It is a plague of extremes. As children of the Lord, we must not choose the lesser evil, but rather, no evil at all—”
Abruptly, he stops, his mouth still open. His eyes widen at something beyond the crowd. His followers turn as one, and I pop onto my tiptoes to see over their heads.
A figure stands in the threshold of the Manor’s open front door. This time, she arrives quietly, but a storm just the same.
The Widow Witch peers out at the faces of Foxe Holler. “Hello, children.”
The men in Webb’s crowd take a collective step back.
My hands can’t decide to be clammy or not. Half of me prefers her over Webb, and the other half wonders if she followed us all the way here or used one of her portals to get here faster. Either way, I feel like she’s using us for entertainment.
Formidable in her dark cloak, she has no trouble commanding the attention of the room, even though she’s half the height of any of the men. Her sharp eyes spear Webb over the heads of his congregation.