The half smile flushes my digits all over again, and I wonder if he can see my skin buzzing. “Do you know when you do magic around me, I can taste it?”
His eyes spark. “What do you taste?”
“Thyme.”
He studies me for a long moment. “Everyone tastes something different. Or so I’ve been told. Ms. Zeen says it’s pistachio for her.”
“What do you taste?”
“Pardon?”
“You. Personally. Surely you taste something. It’syourmagic.”
A heavy pause. “No one has ever asked me that.”
I don’t hide my eye roll. “You don’t offer many opportunities to ask you questions.”
“Do you have others?”
If he thinks I won’t call his bluff, he’s going to be disappointed. “When—” I stop. Thewhenof it doesn’t matter so much as thewhohe was at that moment in time. Everything is relative with time, especially when there’s not enough of it. “How old were you when your parents died?”
“Sixteen.” He pauses at my look. “Atruesixteen. I didn’t even have my driver’s permit.”
My lips part, mostly just stunned he told me. Then my heartcatches up, and clenches. The story and pain are familiar. When I was sixteen, we’d just lost Momaw Frost. But still, even with her illness, she was older, and I still had my mom by my side.
For a Farewitch tasked with healing, I sure conjure up plenty of sore memories and deep wounds. He looked content when we were just admiring his gardens, so I tap my chin, thinking. “Favorite plant you grow?”
“Watercress. My mother sowed the plants here. It grows well because of the spring-fed creeks nearby. And it reminds me of where her side of our family comes from.”
“What does your magic cost you, when you use it?”
“Too much. Next question.”
“How old are you, exactly?”
“Next question.”
“Is this a date?”
Silence.
I wait, perfectly content to look up into his hazel eyes for the rest of the night.
Finally, he clears his throat. “I don’t believe I know how to date.”
Crossing my arms, I enter chef mode. As frustrating, asconfounding, as this man is, he’s no scarier than any new recipe.
“A place to start is liking the person you’re spending time with. Do you think we can be friends?”
His scowl works its way back onto his face like stubborn sun spots. “As you’ve helpfully pointed out, I have forgotten how to have friends as well.”
“You’re better at it than you think. But friends have to be honest with each other.”
“I agree. So how bad is your mother’s health? Truly.”
The air flies out of me. Point taken. You can’t tell someone how to make perfect scrambled eggs if you can’t crack an egg yourself. “Idon’t know.” My voice wavers. “Because I don’t know what’s wrong with her. We think she has a couple months left.”
Understanding peeks through his scowl. “Near the solstice as well.”
