Immediately, I open the fridge and scream into it. The cool air is heaven on my hot face.
How dare he.Howdarehehowdarehe. I’ll stomp through his gardens and squish every last delicate vegetable under my clogs. Rip the petals from his flowers. The mental image is incredibly satisfying. I shouldn’t care if the Warlock is upset with me.
So why do his words sting so much?
Momaw’s voice trickles through my mind’s dam of anger.It only hurts if it’s true.
I cradle my head in my hands over the sink, staring at the stupid vegetables that the stupid man nurtured and grew and cared for in his stupid garden.
My frenzied thoughts sharpen as I gather ingredients. Do I eat? Ha. Do I ever.
Weisenberger stone-ground yellow grits. Burners click to life. Water boils. Shrimp dance in a sauté pan on the stove. I stir my grits until they bite back like al dente pasta, and then fold in cream, cheddar cheese, and butter, of course. Buttermilk and paprika, freshly cracked black pepper, too. No bland grits in this house. The soundtrack at my fingertips is always the best way to channel the angry thrum under my pulse, the growl in my stomach.
As I stand over the hot stove, temples sweating, my mind fogs for a second, but then the dizzy sensation is gone. Maybe I’m hungrier than I realized. But that doesn’t mean the Warlock is right.
Finishing touch: I add molasses to the sizzling sauce. The salty bite of the grits will wear it well. Everything sharp needs a little sweet.
In under an hour, I’ve rage-cooked something gorgeous. Sautéedbuttered shrimp with Southern cheddar grits. How a person can create something from nothing and have immediate, delicious evidence to prove it—this is the real magic in the world.
I plate the plump shrimp onto a pillow of grits, ley lines of butter creating a glorious foundation. Then I plop down at the kitchen table and eat every. Last. Shrimp. The grits, too, for good measure.
Utterly full and warm, I slump back and stare out at the Manor’s kitchen.Hiskitchen. Mine? Who cares. I can’t remember the last time I’ve eaten a full meal I made just for myself. It’s divine. For about twenty minutes.
And then it isn’t.
The fuzzy feeling starts in my neck, like I’m wearing a cheap scarf. Sniffles spread through my nose. My sinuses stop up, head stuffy. It’s way too warm in here. Did I leave the oven on? I clear my throat but it feels like I’m swallowing my lymph nodes. My eyes grow watery. Am I crying?
Then my chest tightens, and I realize I’m not breathing fully.
My internal smoke detector starts screaming. I shuffle to the main staircase, but my limbs are heavy and the hallways are as warm as the kitchen. I want to shed itchy layers, but all I have on under my apron are my overalls. With an embarrassing amount of effort, I at last reach the third floor and pause to catch my breath. My gut turns over and my lower abdomen clenches. I can’t decide if I need to sit on a toilet or lean over one.
Then I catch a glimpse of myself in a hall mirror. Skin splotchy red like a McIntosh apple.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Somehow, I stumble to the Warlock’s rooms. Knock. “Mr. Knight.” No answer. I knock again, taking a wheezy breath. “Sir, please.”
Thank the Lord, his voice comes through the door. “We’re fighting, Ms. Frost. I’d like to be mad at least until tomorrow morning.”
I rest my forehead against his door. I need to sit down. Or bendat the waist. Or go completely horizontal? Air. I need air. Or him. Same thing.
Smothering my pride, I croak, “I need your help. I don’t feel so—”
The door flies open, revealing alarmed hazel eyes. My voice must sound as bad as I feel.
“Ms. Frost, what’s wrong—why are youswollen?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 8
13 DAYS UNTIL THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
You must put your pie dough in the fridge and let it rest. Otherwise, the butter that makes the core of it special will get too warm and your crust will dissolve into a mess.
