“About your power, your Farewitch magic,” he clarifies.
Oh. Right. “You think—no. I can’t be the reason the farmhouse is still standing.”
My thoughts jump to the string of pearl plants determined to swallow me. Even if my magic infuses the house with protection likeat the Apothakery, we’re talking simple stuff. Farewitch magic can’t hold off the Widow Witch.
Whatever magic you have, Ms. Frost, it isn’t little.
His focus is unrelenting, like I’m a vexing map to someplace without anX, promise and power hidden in the core of me. It makes me feel… I don’t know. Unsure. Cautious.
Powerful.
I brush off his hand before the villain can make me feel any better. His shoulders slump, in what must be disappointment.
But as I take in his gaunt expression, I can’t help but think he looks awfully sallow and mortal for a man whoisn’tthe one dying from a curse.
“I think we need some help,” I say.
Chapter Twenty-Two
SUNDAY, MAY 29
23 DAYS UNTIL THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
For the best bread, remember: Bake Really Early At Dawn. It’s nearly impossible for a bad day to take root if you start with freshly baked bread.
Have you redecorated?” Arna Jean says before the doorbell even exhausts itself.
I wince as a yard of wallpaper peels off from the wall behind her with all the grace of a lazy banana. “Just some spring-cleaning.”
A light bulb in a sconce bursts by our heads.
I wipe a hand over my face. “Don’t ask.”
With the recent remodeling courtesy of the Widow Witch, the Warlock hasn’t yet replaced any of his demolished plants. At least the front door is upright again.
Silas arrives right after the Bookwitch.
Initially, the Warlock refused my demand to get outside help, so he and Ms. Zeen spent the last week in the library with me. We dug through the archives of records and grimoires with six hands instead of just my two, looking for anything resembling a recipe or potion—anything a Farewitch could work with. I haven’t forgiven the Warlock for lying, but I rally and compartmentalize, for Lazlo’s sake.
Even before the Warlock confessed to me about his curse over our midnight drink, something felt off to me. I’m tasting that same doubt now. We know Lazlo will succumb to this illness by the solstice—he’ll physically just fade away—unless we find a cure.
So why does this illness still feel bigger than what a Farewitch can fix with food?
Whatever magic fueled the Widow Witch’s curse is way out of my league, so after a week in the library with no success, I gave the Warlock an ultimatum today: We tell a couple friends the truth and get some real help and expertise or… I didn’t give him a second option.
He finally agreed, but probably only because he thought I’d just scry up a brainstorm with a coven, not invite actual guests over to the Manor. He might be livid. Which is partly why I did it. Even when I’m mad at him, I can’t get enough of annoying someone whose reputation rivals the Grinch.
Arna Jean and Silas answered my call for help tonight, and I’ve never been more grateful to see their faces, flummoxed as they are.
As Silas scrutinizes the ambitious modern art installation that is the foyer, his lips pucker. “Will there be wine?”
“Do I look like a girl who deglazes her pans with water?”
Arna Jean peers too closely at my tousled bangs and roots. “You’re clearly a girl who skips wash day.”
