“There. This way, you won’t warm the wine with your body heat.”
Rett’s eyes go wide behind his glasses. Arna Jean rolls hers. “Barf.”
“What, the sommelitism or the abysmal flirting?” I say.
The shift of the tension in the air is a much-needed relief, and my spirits lift for a hot second. Then plummet when Rett says, “So your momandthe little guy are sick.”
“Cursed,” I amend, taking a gulp of my own wine. “Lazlo, that is.” I can’t even bring myself to think of his round, innocent face right now. “Fatally so.”
“Forgive my lack of magical knowledge, but is he disappearing or dying?” Silas asks.
“I can’t be entirely sure,” the Warlock says at the same time I say, “Does it matter?”
Fading away physically sure seems like a kind of death to me.
The Bookwitch levels a heavy stare at the Warlock down thelength of the kitchen table. “Does Lazloknowhe’s sick because of a Witch’s curse?”
I didn’t even think to ask that.
“To a degree,” the Warlock answers. “He understands he has an affliction, and that Ms. Frost is here to help. That the sooner we find a cure, the better.”
We slump into silence once more. As I study the Warlock’s tired face, I can’t keep from noticing how he’s starting to resemble a sickly Victorian child. Has he slept at all this week? I doubt it. Lazlo is his greatest joy and his greatest regret, and every time he looks at the boy, the conflicted shame in his eyes drowns the love I know is there.
I must be staring for too long, because Silas claps his hands together. “Right, well. Outsiders, pariahs, and lost causes need to stick together, so what can we do to help?”
“We could use help in the library, going through the archives,” I say.
The Warlock crosses his arms. “I’ve spent months already combing through texts, but perhaps if we work together, we can find something I missed.”
I raise a brow at his reluctant teamwork. “There are more grimoires in this place than bats in the attic, and we need extra hands and eyes. We’re looking for any information about curing physical afflictions caused by curses. Ideally with food or herbs, potions, something a Farewitch would use.”
Arna Jean whips out her phone. “I can reach out to a few covens in larger cities where there might be more than one Farewitch. See if they have a record of anything like that.”
Silas nods. “If we ask around town, some of the older folks might remember if your grandmother ever cured anything like this when she was the Holler’s Farewitch.”
“Oh, Ms. Marrow might have some ideas. Herbalism is her forte.”
As my two favorite extroverts trade ideas, Rett leans in. “And if we don’t find anything helpful before the solstice? What then?”
The conversation comes to a halt.
With a screech of his chair, the Warlock stands. “I’m going to say good night to Lazlo,” he says in a tight breath. “I trust Ms. Frost can handle things from here.”
He heads for the door, and damn my willpower, my eyes track him as he leaves. Just before he turns into the hallway, he grips the frame of the door, and without his gloves on, it’s easy to see the blue veins pop against the pallor of his skin, his fingers stiff with tension.
His bare hands hook into my thoughts, pulling with them a feeling I can’t ignore, that there’s something else I’m not seeing right in front of me.
When the Warlock is gone, Silas tops off my wine. “I feel like we’re missing a crucialpreviously on. You two stare at each other like you had a terrible one-night stand.”
Arna Jean props her chin on her hand. “Or youdidn’thave a one-night stand and that’s the problem.”
Rett sniffs. Loudly.
I rub my tired eyes, grabbing my glass. “Nothinghappened. Mr. Knight and I… we’re colleagues. That’s it.” Sip. “Not even friends.” Sip.
The wine might be making me sentimental, but I’m suddenly warm with a flush of gratitude that these three are here tonight.Friends.
The Warlock could use a friend.
