Except this time, the windstorm isn’t outside the Manor.
The Warlock spots us, his entire body tense, muscles straining with the effort of whatever power he’s using to keep the winds corralled.
Shivering, I struggle to catch my breath. The winds aren’t just strong, they’refrigid. My hair tangles into knots of blonde, bangs flying off my forehead. Whatever wards he’s so proud of must be crumbling. This time, his magic isn’t going to be enough.
The winds grow faster, whirring harder. A window cracks and shatters. Something sharp slices my cheek, and the pain narrows to a bright sting.
Then, as quickly as the deafening storm appeared, it stops.
The air stills. I can finally take a full breath.
Outside, the sky breaks open, and rain patters against what windows are still in place. Scattered detritus litters the floor, and the foyer shimmers as the changing light dances off glass under our feet. Thewallpaper’s peeling, but that was already a problem. Did the wards hold their own after all?
The Warlock looms where he was, looking between his hands and the door. Perplexed. Concerned. Then his face drains of color. “Where’s Lazlo?”
Panic clutches my lungs. We were so occupied with the Widow Witch’s attack—
“Here!”
Lazlo appears from where he was sheltering under a staircase, also still in pajamas. His windswept hair could easily just be bed head. He spots the state of the foyer and his eyes go big. “Wasn’t me.”
My chest seizes with the same relief that passes over the Warlock’s face. “Don’t come any farther without your shoes, Lazlo,” he calls.
The boy halts.
“Mr. Knight.” The Governess points across the foyer, where carved into the hardwood under a window are still-burning and very familiar scorch marks.
YOUR TIME IS MINE.
Just like her first attack, in the kitchen. I’m getting real tired of this Witch’s inability to leave a voicemail.
In my house slippers, I tiptoe over broken ceramic and splintered wood and uprooted plants toward the Warlock.
“You look like death,” I say when I reach him, my voice loud in the stillness after the storm. It’s the first real thing I’ve said to him in a week. Sweat mists his temples and his skin could double for a translucent onion, but I force down my distracting concern for him.
“Nice to see you, too, Ms. Frost. I’m glad you’ve done away with the counterfeit civility.”
“It’s a Southern skill.”
“I prefer our arguments.” His stare travels over me, like of all things,he’sconcerned forme. His attention lands on my cut cheek. “You’re hurt.”
“Very hurt,” I murmur, the Widow Witch and her storm far from my thoughts.
“So is my front door.” His voice is low, the words just for the two of us. He reaches up and wipes the blood from my cheekbone, his thumb gentle where it lingers on my skin.
I cross my arms. She already bestowed her curse. Lazlo’s dying. “What the hell does she want now?”
“Not a husband, clearly,” Ms. Zeen says. “She still hasn’t taken a single soul in town yet, according to Beulah.”
And it’s nearly June. So why is she up here in the hills, trying to topple the farmhouse? Why not go tithe the husband she’s overdue to collect?
“A more pertinent question is, how have the wards held for so long? They should have… gaps by now,” the Warlock replies.
“Why wouldn’t they?” I say. “You’refine. Your magic should be, too.”
“It should, shouldn’t it?” Another one of his ominous answers. Then, “I think we should resume our discussion from the garden, Ms. Frost.”
Rightnow? I’m still puzzling out how we almost kissed a week ago. And Ms. Zeen and Lazlo are in full view! Maybe this is the real reason Frosts don’t partner up. The true scourge is our inability to make romance anything but awkward. Besides, an almost-kiss can hardly be called romance—
