The Warlock and Ms. Zeen urge a yawning Lazlo to bed, and my eyes are greedy for the cozy scene before me. I can’t help but think this looks like home.Feelslike home. Perhaps this smitten sensation isn’t just about really good shakshuka.
“That was the best meal I’ve had all year,” I tell Lazlo before he heads to bed.
“I can be tipped in candy,” he replies.
“Promise to show me how you made everything?” We clasp pinkies.
He nods. “I could be as good as you one day.” His face twists like he’s thinking extra hard about his future. “When I’m not walking dogs. I’ll be very busy when I’m a grown-up.”
Next to me, the Warlock tenses.
“Lazlo, it’s after midnight,” Governess Zeen chastens. “You can be sure Beauregard Buchanan is fast asleep already.”
This gets him moving. He follows her but then halts at the door, heaving a ragged sigh that doesn’t match his small body. Then he stumbles, like he’s dizzy. The Governess lunges for him, but he turns back, looking for us instead.
“It’s happening again,” Lazlo says, voice weak, his small hands grabbing for the Warlock.
Or whatshouldbe two hands.
Instead, poking out of the boy’s sleeves are hazy outlines of his palms and digits. The color and texture of his skin have evaporated, as if he’s fading away right before our eyes.
My stomach plummets.
The Warlock’s sturdy grip finds the boy’s shoulders in an instant. “How do you feel?”
“Tired.” Lazlo stares at his palms, face pale as bleached flour. The vanishing has stopped at his wrists—and I have no idea if that’s a good or bad thing.
“It’s going to be all right,” the Warlock says. “Just like last time, remember? You’ll be fine in the morning. Ms. Zeen will put you to bed. You know I won’t let any harm come to you, yes?”
The boy’s expression scrunches. His posture slumps like a wilting stem. “But I forgot to serve dessert.”
“Even chefs need sleep,” Ms. Zeen says. I’ve never heard her voice so uneven.
The Warlock nods at the Governess. “Stay with him. I’ll come relieve you shortly.”
I can only stare, motionless with a terrible, hollow yet expanding black hole of a feeling. I think I’m going to vomit up several helpings of shakshuka. I barely notice the Governess and Lazlo leave. All I can see are those small little hands, here then gone.
When the kitchen is empty, the Warlock whirls to face me, eyes wide and pleading.
My heart skips. Stops. Restarts. Skips again.
This has to be a mistake. A trick. A ruse.
But the layers pile into place, a sickly sweet cake of deception.
“Ms. Frost, let me explain…” His jaw works back and forth so hard, I think I hear it pop.
Air withers in my throat, and I try to control my breathing, but my limbs feel like they detach for a split second and then refit back into place, a Barbie put together by a toddler. It feels exactly like the moment I learned my mom was dying.
How did I not see it—how did I miss the largest locked door of secrets in Knight Manor? I force out a shuddering breath. My lungs feel like they’ve stopped working, just to give my heart plenty of room to crack.
My fists clench, nails cutting my palms. I brace myself against the kitchen island, eyes burning into the man who almost just kissed me. “All this time?”
Shame carves lines in his face, that guilt I couldn’t place. Until now. He jerks a tense hand through his hair, hair I’ve daydreamed about running my fingers through, and gives a single grim nod of his head. “Stay for him. As long as you can. Please.”
“You,” I manage to choke out, “are worse than your rumors.”
The Warlock of Foxe Holler might be cursed, but he isn’t dying.
