“Not right now. We need to stay inside, but we can call Ms. Buchanan from here.”
“We tried, but Ms. Buchanan doesn’t answer numbers she doesn’t know, and what if the storm knocked out her power?Please. Honey and I can go—”
The Warlock rubs his temple. “I said no. We need to remain within the Manor’s wards.”
“Why?” The kid crosses his arms. Definitely a habit he picked up from me. Whoops. He does his best to stare down his guardian from a height of four feet. “They don’t even work.”
“Lazlo, we are not free from the Widow Witch. I know you think the world of that dog, but there are decisions adults have to make to keep you safe—”
“But it’s boring that way, and you never let me goanywhere—”
“Because you’re important, Lazlo, the dog is not!”
I cringe. Lazlo’s face goes white as eggshell, scrunched with hurt.
The Warlock understands, a moment too late. “Lazlo, I didn’t mean—”
But the damage is done. The first tears fall down the boy’s cheeks. His tiny hands fade in and out, translucent, his emotions unmoored and his focus floating away.
“Honey’s right,” he mumbles between tears. “This is why you don’t have friends.”
He bolts out of the kitchen, leaving it feeling twice as empty.
The Warlock hangs his head, black hair curtaining his face. He’s still holding our tangled fingers. Like a lifeline. “Have you ever seen someone cause two different arguments in as many minutes? I’m a disaster.”
My chest seizes. Stupid heart. “One summer, Arna Jean tried to introduce vegan butter to the Apothakery. You don’t know the meaning of disaster.”
Some tension in his jaw unlocks. “You’re right about Lazlo. About everything, frustratingly. In case I have not made it clear, I’m terribly… glad you’re here.”
His thumb runs a delicate circle over the soft triangle between my own thumb and forefinger, and I have to suppress a shiver. My mood lifts despite our crap situation.
“For the record, I still think you’re keeping secrets.”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
“Iwillfigure it all out.”
He smirks. “I’ll be disappointed if you don’t.” Then he brings our clasped hands to his mouth and brushes his lips over the oven scars on my knuckles.
I can’t stop the second shiver that hits me. It’s not a kiss. But in a way, it’s a helluva lot more. Warmth pools in my cheeks. My mouth is definitely open. We’re still fighting. Right? But if this is mad, what’snot-mad like between us? Sudden sneaky daydreams send the warmth in my face right down my neck, to my chest, then belly and down, down, down…
A throat clears. “Mr. Knight, the postman is here with mail.”
The Warlock’s eyes squeeze shut, his nostrils flaring. “On Memorial Day, Ms. Zeen?”
“He’s precocious.”
“That’s probably for me,” I whisper. “I ordered more Modjeskas. Forgot. Sorry.” My words coast against his lips, a breath away.
With an inscrutable look, he steps aside. I take my chance and flee the kitchen before I get too caught up in his… everything.
By the time I reach my room, I’m fanning myself with the mail Rett left, even more confused and flustered.
Glancing at the mail, I see there’s a notice about the Memorial Day potluck in the town square later today, weather permitting, and—blegh.
One of Webb’s stupid flyers leers up at me. This one’s doubling as a notice for Gertha Fudge’s next church luncheon.
Magic Spells Trouble: Senior Safety in Foxe Holler.
