“Then don’t do it for you. Do it for me.”
With a furious puff of air, he turns to my mom. “Are all Frost women this ornery?”
“Afraid we just bake that way in the oven, dear.”
“We’re not confronting the Widow Witch, Ms. Frost. End of discussion.” An edge cuts through his low voice, sharp as my good knives.
“Beginning of discussion. Mom, Silas, give us a second?”
Miraculously, they’re civil and agree. Silas wheels my mom from the room. Then it’s just me and an agitated Warlock.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 8 (STILL)
13 DAYS UNTIL THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
A family recipe is a creed. The paper becomes an heirloom, the measurements a history, the ingredients a story. If you doubt yourself, trust the recipe, and if you doubt the recipe, throw it out. But always trust the handwriting.
You got lost in your own town?”
The Warlock’s indignant scowl at me feels like coming home to a favorite smell in the kitchen. “Everyone should begratefulI didn’t end up in Tennessee. Ms. Zeen is a wonderful Governess but a terrible navigator.”
I conjure my best incredulous look. His face softens. At least the man knows he’s difficult. “Dare I ask when your license expired?”
“License?”
Bless his heart.
He changes the topic before I press the matter. “You know, I’ve been thinking on it, and Mr. Key and Governess Zeen could run a high-end boutique for sophisticated professionals.”
His comment is so unexpected, I manage a genuine smile.“Governess and Son’s Boutique of Sophisticated Wares. Or how about Tailored and Timeless Tradition—For Two.”
He grunts out what might be a quarter of a laugh.
I won’t have it. That was stellar stuff. “C’mon, you know you’ve got one. Let’s hear it.”
“I practice the Language of Small Wishes, Ms. Frost. Not alliterations.”
Fine. I’ll quiz him later. “You like theories. How is your magic upsetting a hospital’s electrical grid when your reserves are totally empty?”
“To be frank, I have no idea. I must be leaving some kind of echo. Like my magic is still a part of me but inaccessible. I can feel it slowly returning. Or perhaps—donotchange the subject, Ms. Frost.”
I taste just the subtlest amount of thyme in the air. Proof he’s still the Warlock I know, that he’srealand here. The solstice hasn’t caught up to him yet.
The thyme plant catches my attention. Its little buds turn toward the sunbaked windows, eager and hungry. A spot of greenery and life but practical, sentimental at a distance. His sneaky thoughtful gesture only confirms my plan. If there’s even a sliver of a chance the Widow Witch has an answer—that she’ll hear us out—I’ll take it.
Then I remember: “You left the Manor.”
He looks to the window, his stare hiding in the shadow of his dark brow. “I did. It was neither easy nor wise.”
“But youcanleave. I mean, now that you have, there’s no undoing having left. Right?”
His gaze darts back to me, anchoring me to the bed. “Like I said. Not. Wise.”
