“That you elected to go barefoot instead of wearing your usual chef’s shoes?”
“Hey, I wanted to be comfortable but I didn’t have anything ni—not the point. Lazlo asked me to read his memories the other day. Do you know what I found?”
A shadow falls across his face, his expression darkening.
“Nothing. Couldn’t pull out a single memory.”
His relief is instant, chest swelling as he breathes again. “How odd.”
C’mon, tell me the truth. He’s hidingsomethingelse about Lazlo’s history. I’m not on a date with Geppetto—even a Warlock can’t conjure up a kid out of thin air. Magic can’t create life.
“Like I said, I took him in because he’s blood. I won’t refuse family. He might be a distant relation, but plenty of folks are related to each other across the hollers down here.”
Fine. I’ll back off—but only because I can just argue with him tomorrow. It’s quickly becoming my favorite hobby.
“Believe me, I know. Makes dating hard, doesn’t it?”
He gives me a grave look. “Not a fan of that question. Sounds like a trap.”
I can’t believe this man. Using my own words against me.
“Is this about my three-hundred-years-old comment from before? Because your gray hair is only at the temples, and honestly, it’s sophisticated.”
He coughs again, except this time he’s not even drinking wine. Maybe I should check on that cough. “Don’t flatter me for the sake of pity.”
“I’m serious. You could snag someone with those temples.”
“I’m dying. I’m notsnagginganyone.”
Oh, right. Lord, sometimes I don’t know when to shut up. And he’s my employer! “Sorry, I—you’re right. I think I’m running on more wine than tomatoes and my mouth sometimes…”
“Don’t stop on my account. Dying doesn’t mean I can’t accept a compliment.”
Then he’ssmirkingat me.
Any coherency dies in my throat. Was he…flirting? Was that an honest-to-Godflirtation?
But instead of being appropriately horrified, I can only focus on the single mental image of his sun-spotted cheeks. Those peppered temples.
Oh no.
Before I can process whatever’s fluttering in my chest, he asks, “I’m curious. What does a Farewitch’s magic cost? To you, I mean.”
Grateful for the quick change in topic, I purse my lips around a bite of mac and cheese. “Why? Are you planning to do something nefarious with that information?”
“Just making sure I’m paying you enough.”
“Energy,” I admit. “I get tired, weak. When I’m making foodwithmagic, it’s like I’m jogging, not walking. Sleep is the best renewal. It would be nice if I could forfeit some hours of rest for extra research time, but that’s not how it works.”
We Frost women move through life and to-do lists at autobahn speeds, and I’ve always resented how the need to recover slows me down. Who doesn’t want more hours in the day? But magic always has a system of checks and balances. Every spell has a price tag.
See entryWidow Witch.
“Your magic,” I begin, thoughts buzzing. “Can I—”
“No, you cannot wish for more energy.”
“Not even in the Language of Small Wishes? Something likeI wish I could stay up late without getting sleepy.”
