“There’s another thing,” I say, thinking back to the farmers’ market. I didn’t want to bring this up in front of the Warlock. “For some reason, our neighbors have a hard time remembering Mr. Knight. The real him, from the cookie bake.”
The neighbors we invited then ate food I made in his kitchen, and with my affinity, that should’ve helped leave an impression ofthe Warlock on a prefrontal cortex or two. But he’s a blur, wet ink smudged too soon across everyone’s memory.
“I noticed that when I spoke to folks in town,” Silas says. “It’s like new memories of him were written over with the stories of his old reputation.”
The worderasedswipes at the back of my mind. “Or not written at all.”
Arna Jean studies me. “But you can always remember him without any problems.”
Can I ever. His scowl is there, under my eyelids whenever I close my—Focus.
“But I live here. Just like Ms. Zeen and Lazlo. It makes sense, especially since the Warlock and his magic are tied to the house.”
“It must be your food,” the Bookwitch declares. “You always feed us, and if I’m not at the shop, I’m here. More than Silas and Rett but they’re here more than other neighbors.”
“Whatever the reason,” I say, “right now, the folks who dislike magic outnumber those who do. If this all comes to a head with Webb and the Widow Witch—or both—we need neighbors on our side so we’re not facing them alone.”
Silas salutes. “Say no more. Canvassing and community outreach aremymagical affinity. Webb has flyers, I have a handsome face. If you gave me time, I could even get the Widow Witch to vote.”
Before I can smile, Silas’s words sink in my gut as I remember:
The Warlock never told me why the Widow Witch cursed him in the first place.
Chapter Twenty-Three
MONDAY, MAY 30
22 DAYS UNTIL THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Dear Ms. Honey,
I’ve kidnapped your notebook.
Please order more sweets and Goldfish.
Love, Lazlo
sorry
I’m in a staring contest with the refrigerator.
Waiting.Any time now.
Maybe it’s just leftover confidence since Sunday supper last night was more wine than supper, but after working through my thoughts with friends, a renewed energy greases the cogs in my head. I trusted my magic enough to take on a Warlock’s request for help, and that hasn’t changed.
I sense him before he says a word. My blood thrums at my temples when I think about how sensitive my body is to his presence. Turning, I lean against the closed fridge.
“Mr. Knight.” Glare.
The Warlock stands at the island. Sunken eyes, black hair like overgrown weeds, stains of either soil or ink or magical spellsoot on his fingers.
A cough of thunder shakes the windows. A storm’s been gathering,the sky shifting from lemon to artichoke to eggplant and back again, all against a hovering chartreuse glow. No rain yet, though, and no sign this is unnatural weather courtesy of the Widow Witch.
“You left me a note,” he says in greeting.
