Honey Hazeleen Frost. What in heaven’s name is going on?”
My eyes flutter open. I’m in a narrow bed. Morning light peeks through the vertical blinds, and my forehead pounds with a headache. Did I fall and hit my head?
Marigold Frost sits in a wheelchair next to the bed. She’s in a hospital gown, her long gray hair unwinding from her braid, looking thinner than the last time I visited.
“When they brought you in, you were half delirious and swollen like a plump Christmas pig.”
“Lovely.” My voice comes out as a dry rasp. Memories rise, foamy as feeding yeast: Warlock Knight, pressing a cool rag to my forehead… “How did I even get here?”
“That Governess—” She cuts off, clearing her throat through a phlegmy cough. Not good.
As she collects herself, I notice the table under the little television. There’s a prickly cactus—definitely Arna Jean. The Bookwitch likesher houseplants as self-reliant as possible, to survive long periods of neglect when she falls deep into a reading phase. Or is that what she said about her relationships?
Tucked next to it, almost hidden, is a young thyme plant. Odd.
When I dare to check my phone, the Kentucky fried coven group chat is responsible for no fewer than fifty new texts, the other Witches checking in on me because of course they heard I’m here, too. Arna Jean is mostly threatening to sneak me in some airplane bourbons. The screen quickly hurts my eyes, and my stomach stirs, growling.
“I can’t tell if I’m starving or need to hurl.”
“You upchucked everything when you got to the hospital last night. About tossed my own supper when Carolina told me myonly childwas in the emergency room.”
My headache doubles. “Mom, I’m fine. You should be resting, inyourroom.”Save me from this cross-examination, Carolina. “If someone sees their mayor in a hospital gown, the rumors will have you dead by morning, killed by the Warlock, and the town will panic. More.”
“Fine?Fine?” She crosses her arms. Blue veins pop under her skin. “Doctor says you had a wicked allergic reaction. Shellfish allergy.”
I let out a disbelieving snort. “You’re saying I’ve been in the hospital forhoursjust because I needed a Benadryl?”
A fire I haven’t witnessed in alongtime lights in her gaze. “Listen, little girl. You’re downright lucky it wasn’t a lot worse. You could be dead! Because offood. My own daughter. AFarewitch. What happens if you ever getreallysick? Who will take care of you when I’m not around?”
My headache triples. More memories wiggle back, nauseating, slimy little things: trouble breathing, stomach pain. Even though I’ve been asleep, I’m tired and cranky, and I don’t need another lecture right now.
“Is that what happened toyou? You overworked yourself and thenhad to drag me back to town to fill your shoes because you didn’t watch your own health?”
The words are a low blow but I’ve been thinking them for a while now. At some point, we’ll have to talk about this, but not now. When she’s better. Or maybe when I’m stronger.
At last, my mom’s frail fists unclench in her lap. She pats my blanketed leg. “You scared me is all, girl.”
I squeeze her offered palm, a truce. Her grip is much too weak.
“Here, I brought your favorite.” She pulls out a pack of Lemonheads. “Can’t fathom how you stand these things.”
“The sour brings out the sweet.”
“Just don’t tell Carolina. She already caught me with Cheetos this morning.”
I pop a candy into my mouth, hoping it’ll help what is probably terrible breath.
“Shellfish? I’m a Farewitch. In the South. I can’t be allergic to an entire food group.”
“Get you some EpiPens, you hear? Carry them at all times. It’s a protein allergy, so each reaction is worse, and before you know it, you’re swollen up like roadkill—”
“Well, look at you. Glad to see you’re alive,” Silas says as he strides into the room. “Those bangs, phew—we’ll work on them.”
His suit is black today, and I wonder if he wore it just in case the shrimp took me out and we needed an impromptu memorial service.
“You know, no one carriedmeto the hospital when I overdid it on shrimp on my thirtieth in New Orleans,” he says, placing a full cardboard coffee tote by the cactus.
Mom jerks a thumb at him. “He agrees with me. You need to take better care of yourself.”
