Black-and-white tile bounces the echo back to me. Empty.
Lord, the sudden aroma of the cedarwood takes me right back to Momaw’s. All that’s missing is sugar and cinnamon toast.
The memory comes with a homing beacon of an instinct and I head for the back of the floor plan, where I’m positive the kitchen will be. Logically, it’s safe to assume he’ll interview me there. This doesn’tfeellike trespassing. I think. I’m welcome, right?
As I go, the place is an absolute rabbit warren with halls and nooks and spiral staircases that climb nowhere. The scent of loamy earth follows me, but I can’t tell if it’s the soil-giving-life type or the decaying-into-the-ground kind. Everywhere I look, tiny intricate carvings of plants and herbs decorate the crown molding, the banisters, even the wood doors. Stained glass windows bloom fromthe walls, the glassy images of basil, rosemary, sage, and thyme tossing slants of green-tinted sunlight into the otherwise dim and dusty house.
If this man weren’t a Warlock, I’d say a Greenwitch lives here.
So far, the inside doesn’t promise to remedy any deficiencies in confidence the outside creates. It’s in such a state of disrepair, my brain demands order, so I quickly make a mental list of all the ingredients for this disaster of a recipe:
½ of a dining room table, leaves missing
12 dining room chairs (forwhatpeople?)
7 random trunks, empty, possibly once for clothes?
A healthy number of rugs and quilts that all need cleaning
Countless potted ferns and palms, arranged evenly throughout the first floor
Banjos that seem to multiply every time I look away
A grand piano, under a painter’s tarp
A child’s bike?
But even with my curiosity, I don’t meander. I’m here for a reason, and I have a feeling the less time I spend wandering around this place, the better.
Just as I thought, a narrow door tucked away at the end of a hall, close to the dining room, at last reveals what I’m looking for.
Despite the rest of the place, the house’s kitchen is…Wow.
I spin in place as I take in literal walls of windows.
Several look out toward the front porch and the drive even though we’re at the back of the house. The kitchen must be one of the later additions tacked on at an impossible angle. Warlock magic, or shoddy architectural design? The windows offer the perfect view of unwanted visitors; someone in the kitchen definitely could have seen me coming. Copper pots hang from the tall ceiling alongside dried bundlesof herbs, directly over an island the size of a pontoon boat. There’s even an elegant gas range, and there next to—
Lord above, it’s an AGA stove. With five ovens. Five! The glorious beauty is a welcome shot of comforting espresso to my unease. Gorgeous. The Apothakery has two ovens, sometimes, and I’m constantly fighting the two devils over their cold and hot spots.
All right, I’ll admit it. Knight Manor has one helluva kitchen.
As I move to get a better look at the AGA, I trip over a loose tile and nearly land on my face. A tile I’m pretty sure wasn’t unseated before.
My cheeks warm. Can a house be annoyed at someone? If what I’ve heard is true, the Warlock’s magic would be powerful enough to saturate this farmhouse with… personality.
Great. This should be fun.
Then there’s a shuffling sound, and I whirl around.
When I listen, it’s quiet again. I’m alone. A shiver runs through me so fast, my arm hair rises.Get it together, Honey. Probably a bat, by the state of this place. Could be the old house settling. I get the impression lots of things here squeak. I pray there are no mice.
Extra careful stepping over the tile now, I head for the massive fridge.
The heart of a house, a fridge is where Farewitches start, if we make the rare house call. I’m a professional, but also nosey, and scouring a fridge can be a great step in the right direction toward a diagnosis.
On cue, the fridge’s double doors screech when I yank them open. A viciously sour smell smacks me in the face. We’ve got grape jelly, probably to go with the peanut butter on the counter. Soy sauce. Two cartons of eggs, somehow not the source of the smell. An obscenely large bunch of radishes that would love some butter and salt. Kids’ Yoo-hoo drink boxes taking up extensive shelf real estate, and a single chilled bottle of what is either rice cooking wine or baijiu. Lastly, apple butter.
Mine, from the Apothakery. I’d recognize those jars anywhere.
