As I pick through his offering of earth-toned carrots, I suppress an undignified squeal. But summer harvests are my love language.
“Thank you,” I say, and head back inside before I do something silly. Reckless.
I get to work scrubbing our vegetables. The Warlock hauls in more baskets: peppers, tomatoes, green beans, rhubarb, and sweet onions. He unloads the spoils into the sink next to me, rolls up his sleeves, and starts cleaning. I try not to stare at his forearms, but the sight of his muscles flexing so very close to my own skin… I’m lightheaded and I just need a snack.
Is there anythingwrongwith being roommates? Do I evenwantto know if this man can be something more than a friend to a person? A voice in my head shoutsYesbut I’m pretty sure that’s just the overachiever in me who likes a challenge, and she needs to be quiet right now.
I’m overthinking this. The stress of our impending deadlines is gobbling up all the oxygen meant for my brain. We’ve been scouring, translating, nearly ripping apart every grimoire we can find, hoping to find recipes and spellwork a Farewitch can use. The Warlock said he came across evidence Farewitches might be able to lift some curses, and even a rumor contains traces of fact. The Holler taught me that.
Somewhere, a Warlock or Witch has written down a spell or potion or recipe orsomethingthat a Farewitch can turn into a cure for someone dying from a Hedgewitch’s curse.
While the Claywell siblings are researching so I can keep baking, Silas has his eyes on Webb in town and during council meetings. With Carolina watching my mom at the hospital, I can focus on curing Lazlo, and Ms. Marrow sends me herbs and other flora that might help.
When he’s not helping me in the kitchen or the library, the Warlock is putting his new phone to good use and has conversations well into the night with other Warlocks. Not friends, of course, but a few he trusts to not immediately run and report him to the Eldercraft.
Now we’ve got two weeks. Two weeks until the solstice. Two weeks until Webb comes knocking, which won’t even matter if one of my recipes doesn’t work on Lazlo before then.
Events have ballooned way beyond May Honey’s expectations.
When I sneak another glance at the Warlock at the sink, deep purple smudges collect under his heavy-lidded eyes, and the fatigue in his posture tells me we’ve gone from blanket of exhaustion to full-body poncho.
“Any sign of your magic returning?”
Ever since he freed us from the cellar, his well of magic has beenempty. I don’t quite have the gumption to ask if that’s a stomach kind of empty that will eventually be full again—or a permanent empty.
He huffs. “I’m about as magical as your KitchenAid mixer. I couldn’t grant you a lit candle right now.”
Comforting. Maybe it’s time to get Carolina over here for a thorough audit of the wards. If there are any left.
“What I’d like to know,” the Warlock says, “is how Oris Webb can acquire an audience with the Eldercraft. They’re not a customer service hotline. Even Warlocks have trouble getting their attention, unless something is very wrong.”
“Would they really remove a child without magic from a home with magic?”
Would they take Lazlo from the Warlock?
His brows pull tight, and his hands pause mid-scrub. “If a guardian is dangerous or uses magic for harmful purposes that put the child’s safety at risk, yes.” His jaw locks, unlocks. “Oddly enough, Oris Webb knows what he’s doing.”
Great. Now I wish I’d never asked the question.
I refocus on snapping the ends off green beans, head hammering with a familiar near dizziness. My hand dripping cool sink water, I run my palm across the back of my neck and try to ignore the emptiness in my belly. Hungry, but no appetite. Not after this conversation.
“Are you having lunch?” the Warlock asks, reading my thoughts. He’s getting way too good at that lately.
“I’ll grab something later while I work.”
“A bowl of cereal is not a meal, Ms. Frost.”
“Do you run the FDA behind my back, too, sir?”
“You hardly ate anything last night.”
“I’ve been distracted and—and I’m an adult,thank you. I can eat what I want.”
“We don’t need three of us in this house wasting away. We’ll outnumber Ms. Zeen.”
“Not if you take care of yourself,” I fire back.
“And you? How have you spent your twenties? Trying to appease your mother by running the family Apothakery?”
