Chapter Forty
ANOTHER WEEK LATER
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Remember to be patient and kind. A little bit of thyme and honey goes a long way.
If anyone sings ‘Happy Birthday,’ I will delight in removing their eyebrows.”
Rett and Arna Jean immediately rub their foreheads as I place a glossy layer cake on the table in front of the Warlock.
We dragged a table outside for a picnic in the gardens, and flowers burst in color around us in the golden hour sun.
The herb-scented air is almost as delicious as the food we’ve spread out.
Benedictine and pimento cheese sandwiches, coleslaw, cornbread muffins, icebox banana pudding, ambrosia salad, and a huge pitcher of sweet tea.
At the end of the table, Governess Zeen chats with Ms. Buchanan, while Silas and Rett keep Beauregard occupied with a ball nearby. Every time the poodle bounds too close to a flower bed, the Warlock winces.
“I’m guessing the flavor is sugar?” Arna Jean asks me from her seat next to Ms. Zeen.
“A honey and thyme cake,” I reply. A halo of frosted watercress leaves and thyme sprigs crown the Warlock’s cake, encircling a piped Happy Birthdays, plural.
“I’ll take a piece to Okolona on my next visit,” the Warlock says.
Silas wanders over and counts the candles. No full suit today, but still a collared shirt and vest with tiny blue rosebuds. Mayor looks good on Silas Key.
“Christ. Some people really do win the gene lottery. Honey, do you realize he could legally gamble in the state of Kentucky when you were still reading Junie B. Jones—”
“That’s enough,” the Warlock bites.
Arna Jean cackles.
“Three weeks late, but are you ready to turn another year older, officially?” I ask him.
“If we must.”
“We must.”
“How lucky you are, then,” comes a wrinkled voice.
The Warlock peers around my waist. “I see you got my invitation, Ms. Fudge.”
Gertha Fudge shuffles into the garden, her cane clopping on the stone steps to the yard. “You need to fix this old shack to accommodate the elderly,” she snaps. “All these old ladies going in and out, this place is like a HomeGoods. With more cobwebs. And falling hazards.”
The Warlock just nods. “I’m glad you came, Gertha.”
She isn’t the last latecomer.
Carolina appears from the kitchen, still in scrubs. And on her arm is a thin but upright Marigold Frost.
“Hi there, my girl,” my mom says, waving.
I swallow what feels like a top-shelf shot of pure sunshine. “Hi, Mom.”
She’s making good progress, her weak body slowly rebuilding muscle and coordination. Her hair has stayed gray, but glossy. At the first signs of improvement a week ago, she warned me not to fret over her like an anxious hen.
“Thanks for bringing her, Carolina,” I say.
“You know I jump at the chance to have someone tell me how to drive.”
My mom eases into the chair by Silas, who has taken a seat next to Rett. “Our Holler has more barrels of hay than people. Red lights are suggestions.”
Silas pours tea for them. “I see where someone got his driving lessons from.”
The Warlock scoffs. “Rude.”
“Very,” my mom agrees. “Considering you drive like a grandma, Silas.”
“Marigold, you’ve just admitted to breaking the law in front of your mayor.”
“Don’t pull that with me, kid. You’re a baby mayor right now.”
“We’ll add insulted your mayor to the list, too.”
“Cake?” Rett breaks in.
My mom glances to me, to the birthday cake, and back again. She mouths: Proud of you. My heart melts into molten butter, a Frost favorite flavor and feeling.
The hummingbird cake jump-started her recovery.
But truly resting, retiring from being mayor, has done the most for her so far.
I’m not sure she’ll regain the same energy she had before as a younger Farewitch, but she’s adamant the wasting sets in when a Farewitch stops savoring her life, and I recognize a warning when I see one.
I can’t go back to my old habits. Not if I want to avoid flirting with some point of no return.
But that’s a good thing. Because for the first time in a long while, I feel… not simply happy.
I feel like me.
As everyone gathers around, the Warlock snaps.
The candles spark. We sing, ignoring his protests.
Rett slices the cake into neat portions and Arna Jean passes forks.
The hum of pleased murmuring with full mouths returns, vibrating deep in my chest, right underneath my apron pocket where I keep both of the Warlock’s letters.
I’m handing out more cake when the Warlock tugs on my apron. “Do not make me order you to sit down, Ms. Frost,” he murmurs.
Caught. I can’t remember if I’ve taken a seat yet. One of those habits to break, for sure.
Feeling bold, or maybe just at home, I perch right on top of the Warlock’s knees.
He’s only caught off guard a moment. Then a strong palm slides across my back, and he pulls me properly onto his lap.
The warmth of his body spreads like a blanket from my lower back to my shoulders.
Just like that, the Warlock of Foxe Holler becomes my new favorite chair.
I should really start calling him Verne. When we’re alone, that is.
“Thank you for the cake,” he says in my ear as his fingers roam over the side buttons of my overalls. My nice overalls. It’s a party, after all.
I lean back into his firm chest. “What did you wish for?”
“How about a bargain: I’ll tell you, but only if you agree to find a mentor. You think you’ve seen me be difficult, but I’ll mutiny if you neglect your magic.”
Since making the hummingbird cake, I’ve only been at the Apothakery to help prep Arna Jean to take over.
I’m taking a break from the shop. A real one.
For now, the Warlock could use help managing his library, since he opened it to the public.
Ms. Zeen has even begun tutoring kids amid the stacks.
After decades of suffocation, the farmhouse feels like it’s finally breathing.
As for when, or if, I come back to the Apothakery… Haven’t figured that one out yet.
Point is, I’m getting time to rest and do things I enjoy, like working on my cookbook. Time to get to know my magic, whether it’s learning to better use my memory affinity as a Farewitch or exploring how I can use decay for good. I’d like to know what I’m capable of.
“Agreed. Your wish?”
His playful half smile grows serious. “Do you remember when I told you everyone tastes something different when I do magic?”
“You never told me what you taste.”
“Honey.”
My name on his lips sends a charge through my bloodstream. “Yes?”
“No, I taste honey. Ever since I began to learn magic, long before I met you.”
I lean away to get a better look at him. Is he serious?
The muscles in his thighs tense under me as he pulls me farther onto his lap, closer still. His hands move lower, end up on my hips. And squeeze. Checking to make sure I’m real.
That’s a feeling I could get used to.
The Manor has been so busy, we haven’t gotten to spend time alone together. Every time he’s looked my way over the last week, I was tempted to stuff my head in the freezer to cool off.
“I left your room empty,” he says. “In case… Well, Ms. Zeen really doesn’t need another sewing room.”
Looking up at the back of the farmhouse, I feign a sigh. “Of course. And it’s not like we can put all my stuff in your room.”
His right eyebrow goes up. “Of course not. Best to keep the church-lady gossip at bay.”
“Your room is probably dark and cold like those caves. Heavy bat aesthetic.”
His low chuckle against my back runs up and down my spine. There aren’t many things that taste as good as his laugh sounds. “Have you thought about my offer?”
You always have a place here. An open invitation.
I give a casual shrug to hide the speed of my heartbeat. “Well, I don’t make birthday cakes for just anyone. But if I’m staying, I am partial to yellow kitchens.”
He gives me a real, not-a-smirk smile. My heart is galloping now. Is this how all of his plants feel when he looks at them? Like they’re blooming from the inside, life sprouting right from the core of their soul?
“I can make that happen. But it’ll have to be done by hand. You can’t wish for this one. So I’ll need painting supplies. Rollers, brushes. Tarps. Overalls, even.”
“Ah, you’re out of luck. I bought up every pair in town already.”
Verne drags a thumb across my lip, capturing some frosting. He licks the sugar from his finger. “Any other requests, Ms. Frost?”
I can think of a few. But we have time.
And the flavor of that promise is as sweet as a heaping spoonful of bright yellow honey.