38 DAYS UNTIL THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
There are three rules on a first date.
1. Do not trust eggs that float to the surface of water,
2. someone else’s oven, or
3.charminglying Warlocks.
The Warlock of Foxe Holler is a geek for plants.
He spends the next hour showing me all the fruit and vegetables he’s growing, the produce and herbs I can grab as long as I don’t userusty dull sewing scissors from 1979. He tells me the full genus and species Latin name of each plant, their prime growing seasons, the amount of sunlight they crave. I thought I knew a fair amount being a Farewitch, but this man is a walking almanac.
Silas was right. Horticulture professor, for sure.
Giddiness slips into my step as we wander the garden’s organized paths of gravel and grass, eager branches and leaves reaching out to shake my hand. Thick hedges and groves burst with pops of colorful blooms. But not a single plant suffocates; even the smallest bud has room to grow. Ferns and flower beds are tastefully wild, trimmed but never too neatly. The spring air carries flavors right from my noseto my tongue: honeysuckle, lavender, ripe strawberries, hearty soil and mint and collecting dew.
We stroll close but not so close I’d accidentally touch his ungloved hand.
The crisp night air sharpens the edges around us, moonlight tickling every leaf and flower yet to bloom. It has to be almost midnight by now. Even in a small holler where green hills and lively creeks and lush, cave-spotted woods thrive in the isolation, beauty likethisis rare. Delicate. No wonder the Warlock spends all his time here.
The only other place I’ve seen him direct this level of care is Lazlo. Not himself, certainly. Again, I wonder, what happens if the Warlock succumbs to his curse? So far, I can tell his body grows weaker along with his magic, but what does dying actually mean? Will he just keel over on the solstice from a heart attack? Something feels… off.
Eventually, we stop next to a wall of cornflowers, their blue petals almost purple in the semidarkness. “My plants won’t bite,” he says, watching my face scrunch up with worry.
I notice he doesn’t saydon’tbite. “I’ve heard Warlocks do, sir.”
“You don’t need to call mesirall the time.”
“Only some of the time?”
He looks away, his strong jaw flexing, like he’s fighting some internal voice or demon. My cheeks heat when I realize I’m staring, and the cool air across my flushed bare skin is a needed comfort. I can’t help it—I shiver.
Even lost in thought, he notices. “You’re cold.”
“I’m always cold.” When I’m not around him, that is. “Frost, remember?”
“Make a wish.”
“What? No. Absolutely not. What did we talk about? No magic. Not until you’re well again.” It’s like he doesn’t even care anymore if he exhausts himself.
He restrains any protests, but looks me right in the eye when he gives me a grumbled “Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” I say. “And for sharing your gardens with me.”
“They’ve helped make the years in the Manor go by quickly.” His voice sounds like it’s in the dark, low and distant.
“Why plants?”
“Plants are better listeners than people.”
“Even though they don’t talk back?”
His mouth quirks to the side. “What makes you think they don’t talk back?”
