The preacher notices, a spider eyeing a tremor in his web. Hetsks. “In a time of crisis, you didn’t know where you own boy was? Any sensible parent would agree carelessness is a form of neglect.”
“He was safe,” the Warlock rasps, his thumb jittering in tight circles over my palm. “Heissafe. His well-being is always my first priority.”
“Can a Warlock be a caretaker if he’s fighting threats, as well as capable of violent, unpredictable magic himself? Can the community trust Witches if a Witch herself is the cause of such mayhem? In our time of modern medicine, perhaps we don’t need Farewitches at all. We have the healing power of faith, and what’s meant to be, will be.”
I can’t take any more of this. “And when someone’s on her deathbed, is that the miracle healing power of faith, too?”
Webb sets his stare on me. “No need to insult me with subtlety. You might be a Frost but you are a Witch first. All magic is rotten, and it will poison our souls to the core. You’ve seen it yourself, have you not?”
This boiled chicken tender of a man surely isn’t accusing the indomitable Marigold Frost of being her own illness? Then realization creeps down the back of my neck.He knows. The truth about my mom, where she’s been. Her illness and my inability to cure her.
“Don’t worry, Miss Frost. I havebigger concernsthan your mother right now. Farewitches don’t frighten me. So I’ll keep your secret. For now.”
Not out of the goodness of his heart, that’s for sure. If the town keeps believing the Warlock is the villain in my mom’s story, magic is the villain, too. And Pastor Webb wins.
“Besides, Mayor Frost wouldn’t have much of a chance charmingthe town council now anyway. Before summer is out, I’ll make sure you Witches don’t have a single holiday left on the community calendar. And by the time next spring rolls around, there won’t be a single Witch left in the Holler.”
“How dare you—”
“Idodare,” he snaps. “The onlygoodmagic isnomagic. This will be safer for everyone. It’s a real shame, of course, that a storied institution such as your family’s Apothakery could be a victim of all this mess. But if I were you, Miss Frost, I would seek out other employment.”
I didn’t think my mood could get much worse, but here we are.
“You don’t get to decide what Ms. Frost can and can’t do.” The Warlock’s voice is halfway to a growl.
Webb pulls something from his pocket then, and I almost recoil. But it’s just another one of his golden-yellow apples.
“I’ll get to the point, Mr. Knight. After today, it will be clear to the Holler that the Widow Witch, for whatever purpose drives that devil, is afteryouthis season. The longer you remain in Foxe Holler, the more you put the town at risk. The neighbors you’ve ignored for so long are concerned, especially for the well-being of that young boy.”
“The Witches won’t see it that way,” I say. His congregation might buy this, but surely the rest of the town can smell the manure.Someof the town.
“Perhaps not. But I’m sure the Eldercraft would. In fact, I know they would be acutely interested to know if a Warlock was putting a child at risk. They’ve been known to bar a Warlock from using his magic for much less, haven’t they?”
“You have no jurisdiction with the Eldercraft,” the Warlock says, growing paler.
He might not, but Webb’s tied to all of this somehow. I know it. I just can’t see how.
Webb yanks the stem from his apple. “We’ll test that theory, won’twe? You are no proper caretaker for a child. Not when a Hedgewitch has made you her target. Wrap up your affairs here, or I’ll have the Eldercraft at your door. If removing you from the Holler could expel the Widow Witch as well, then the town will see me drag you from that mausoleum of a house myself.”
“Good luck with that,” I say.
“I don’t need luck, Miss Frost, when I have faith.”
Webb takes a large bite of apple. Juice drips down his chin.
My ears buzz, the only flavor on my tongue bright red rage, like I’ve bitten a live wire. Before I know I’m moving, I place myself between Webb and the Warlock. “Leave.”
Webb sneers. Then his smile dissolves.
His apple, once the buttery gold of a chanterelle shroom, begins to decay right in his hand. I watch in morbid fascination as the flesh withers and bruises like it sat under a hot sun for a month, in seconds. He drops the rancid apple—it hits the earth with a gooeysquelch—and his mouth twists in disgust as he spits out the bite he took. Instead of crisp apple, a hunk of woody, purple mold lands on the ground. A tiny worm crawls out of the half-chewed hunk.
Lazlo’s voice carries from the mail truck. “Metal.”
Webb spits again, this time at my feet. Impossibly fast, the Warlock lunges at him, but I turn and catch him, my hands pushing against his chest to hold him back.
The pastor wipes his mouth, revulsion warping his face. “Like I said. Rotten.” His chalky eyes don’t blink. “You have three weeks, Mr. Knight. Either the Eldercraft will come for you, or they will come for the boy. It’s your choice.”
He retreats, heading back to his truck.
