A throaty peal of laughter escapes Arna Jean before she can smother it. To be fair, Silas does look like the kind of guy who owns a manor, and the Warlock… does not.
“I can be both,” the Warlock says. It’s almost a growl.
Before imminent disaster, I usher everyone to the table. Fingers crossed the house doesn’t catch on to the Warlock’s attitude and start emptying the knife block.
As I carry over a massive skillet of cornbread, Silas pulls out Ms. Zeen’s chair for her. She looks even more flabbergasted. With the table full, Lazlo pats the seat next to him, and I oblige, Arna Jean on his other side. Across from us, Silas sits next to his new best friend the Governess, and to my right—
Ms. Zeen does a double take. “Sir, not once, in the decades I’ve known you, have you sat at the head of a table in this house.”
“Tonight I do,” the Warlock replies.
At the exact moment I drop a thimble of yellow butter on top of the steaming cornbread, a commotion clatters in the front hall.
A minute later, a tall and lanky man drags what is possibly a body into the kitchen.
“The door unlocked for me,” Rett Claywell grunts in greeting.
The Warlock glowers up at the ceiling, as if he can scold his own house. “The wards are intended foreveryone—”
“Our microwave!” I bolt up to help with the heavy package. It took so long, I forgot about it.
“And the Spam—who orders a whole case of Spam?”
“A Witch whose favorite postman is now Reginald Claywell.”
“He’s the only postman,” Arna Jean drawls at the same time Lazlo goes, “Reginald?”
I pat the box. “Soextrafavorite.”
Rett levels a dry look at his sister. “Thanks for your support.”
She rolls her eyes. “You know, most folks lie about working so they can go out andnot work. You told me you couldn’t hang out because you were napping, not pulling a late shift.”
Her brother rights his uniform, fingers nervous. His shy soul probably didn’t expect a whole kitchen full of stares. He doesn’t get to escape, because Silas rises and saunters over with an unfair amount of elegance and offers a hand. “Claywell, right? I’ve been meaning to introduce myself. Silas Key.”
Rett gapes at Silas, expression icing over in utter panic, as if all the vocal cords have eloped from his body.
Silas drops his hand. “Are you all right, Mr. Claywell? Not a hands man?”
Arna Jean and the Governess watch with such investment, this might as well be a hot-air balloon crash. I elbow Rett. He can handle every mail route in the Holler but not a handshake?
The postman collects himself. “You’re fine. I mean, just Rett. Rett is fine.”
“Nice to meet you. You’re doing the Holler an invaluable service, keeping people in touch with the world. It’s a goal of mine to make sure there’s not a resident I don’t know.”
“Townsfolk who vote being of particular interest,” I quip.
“You can’t shame him, Honey,” Arna Jean says. “He’s had literal biscuits pelted at his head in the middle of the dinner rush at Kitty’s Kitchen.”
Silas scoffs. “Correct, but not the point. It depends on the constituent. Mr. Claywell delivers myNew Yorkers. Even during that four-day ice storm last winter.”
What in the scuppernong pie— “The Apothakery didn’t get mail for two weeks!”
Like an oven timer, my brain dings with the obvious.
Rett’s shyness under Silas’s attention, asking me to set up a meeting. Oh yes. Things clickverywell. This is perfect. I still owe the postman for his help making deliveries to my regulars.
“Stay for dinner, won’t you?” I ask Rett. “We’re strategizing.”
