“No!” Rett catches himself. “I mean, that won’t be necessary. I just wanted to… uh, start a conversation. We need to expand the mail routes. Folks living farther out want to stay involved with the community, but some can only trek in once a week to the post office.”
Silas’s expression sobers, the mayor-in-training taking over. “Can you add those houses to your own routes now?”
“I’ll need a second mailperson,” Rett admits, like he isn’t happy about it. I get it: Asking for help is as tricky as Julia Child’s pâté de canard en croûte. “This Manor isn’t even officially on my route. But it’s on my way most days, so I make the stop.”
“It’s not on your route?” the Warlock asks, his expression matching Ms. Zeen’s when Silas gave her flowers and pulled out her chair.
Rett looks offended, as if the woes of the postal service are a personal burden on his soul. “Everyonedeserves access to mail.”
“The town council votes on something like that, so you’ll faceresistance from Pastor Webb,” Ms. Zeen says to Silas. “He likes the town to orbit close, and around the church.”
“How do you know Oris Webb so well?” Rett asks her.
I nod. “And Gertha Fudge.”
Ms. Zeen purses her lips. “Believe it or not, the Holler existed before the lot of you were born. Gertha hasn’t always been angry. And Webb hasn’t always been a preacher. He wanted to be mayor, you know. But Marigold got there first.”
“So his pissy vibe isn’t just because he’s anti-magic,” Arna Jean says. “He’s also anti-Honey.”
Great. “I get the sense the man is just afraid of women in general.”
Ms. Zeen huffs. “As he should be.”
My skin starts to itch. This crap heats my blood like a sous vide. Why does every grudge in this town have to be personal? “Webb can’t claim to protect the safety of his neighbors, then pick and choose who that means. He can’t tolerate a Witch but hate her magic.”
“Can’t he?” The Warlock’s expression hardens. “Gertha Fudge despises magic. But Webb wants to control it. They have two different agendas, but both are a good example of why, for some, the edge of the Holler is the safest place to be. Isolation is often the best protection.”
In a town where folks like to remember Warlocks—and if Webb has his way, Witches, too—only for the bad, maybe it is better to be out of sight. But if I really believed that, I wouldn’t still be here after all these weeks at the Warlock’s kitchen table.
It’s why I’ve invited my friends tonight in the first place.
“I would like to know why Webb has chosen to act on his clearly deep-rooted obsession with magic now,” the Warlock adds. “The previous mayor had no magic and might not have posed as much resistance to an anti-magic town council.”
“And I don’t remember his congregation ever being so vocal,”Arna Jean says. “Why would his followers have their come-to-Jesus moment now and go after magic while we’ve got a Witch in office?”
A Witch who is, lately, never actually in the office. Our home is changing right out from under my mom and she’s not well enough to stand up and fight it.
Which is the perfect time for a man like Webb to weave doubt and make his move.
“Webb and Fudge have folks scared,” I say. “Even a cure can look like poison to folks who don’t understand magic.”
Silas’s tone is harsh. “I won’t stand for exclusion, because of magic or otherwise. Even if his church ladies would sell their pearls to help him finance his own ark, Webb is just a man.”
I wipe my hand down my face, despising Silas’s confidence but also immensely grateful for it. No wonder my mom keeps him around. “Just a man is plenty dangerous.”
Arna Jean snorts. “Especially one who says things like,We’ve always done it this way.”
A dark promise hangs in the Warlock’s eyes. “I’ve handled my fair share of bigoted fools over the decades. New face, same soul. I’m not afraid of Oris Webb.”
At that, Lazlo finally comes up for air after devouring his dinner. “Can we visit your shop soon, Honey? RJ promised she would give me free desserts.”
“Hey, I saidonefree cookie, kid.”
Ms. Zeen stands, folding her napkin. “On that note, I believe it’s time for bed for those of us too young for small-town politics.”
With much protesting from Lazlo even as he’s yawning, Ms. Zeen escorts him from the kitchen, leaving me with a Bookwitch, the postman, the mayor’s number two, and one stiff Warlock, his unreadable scowl back in place.
Eventually, the clink of forks hushes. That’s when I tell them everything.
