“No, your family’s magic protects your shop. It’s mostly public spaces. The school. The town square. But they’re not as permanent as the Manor’s wards, and I can’t cover the entire town, or individual homes. All of that would require too much of my magic.”
“So the church… no wards?”
He nods. “I have to pick and choose. The Widow Witch knew exactly where to strike.”
My new bite-sized hope dissolves. He’s as much a prisoner of the Witch’s fearmongering as the rest of the town. But why let the town accuse him of being such a force of bad magic when the exact opposite is true?
“How long?” I ask.
“After the library burned, and once I learned proper warding. Then, ever since.” New regret I haven’t seen before spills into his tired eyes. Not as raw as when he talks about Lazlo, but older. Worn down,from years of chafing against it. “I felt I owed the Holler something after—after.”
That sounds… demanding. Exhausting. “What did the town do before that? The Widow Witch started stealing husbands well before the library fire.”
“To be quite honest, I don’t know. My wards clearly don’t keep her at bay completely, but they slow her down. Perhaps, when she began this tithe of hers, it was easier for her. Perhaps without wards, taking partners required less of her own magic.”
As a Hedgewitch obsessed with balance, she’d want to ensure even her kidnapping was energy efficient. And here I’ve been living with the Warlock, completely unaware of his efforts. What does that say about me? We’veallbeen taking him for granted.
He reads my face easily. “This makes me no less a coward, hiding away all these years. Wards are not the same as rebuilding. My own mistakes have been plenty destructive.”
“The library.”
He nods. “My magic was new to me, but if my spellwork had been good enough that night, I might’ve been able to dosomething. Anything would have been better than nothing.”
He doesn’t need to finish. To stop tragedy, save the people inside.His parents.
Taking a breath, I tread over the glass bridge of tension between us. “Anythingisbetter than nothing. If we confront the Widow Witch one more time, we could make it the last time.”
“You smell like lemons,” he blurts.
Hot sunshine jolts my veins. “Excuse me?”
“Your candy,” he murmurs, nodding to my hands.
“Oh, right.” I give the Lemonheads box a little shake. “You know what I wish I had right now?”
His breath hitches, just barely. “I’m not sure I’ll survive this answer.”
An odd response. Buthe’sodd. And I think I’ve come to like that. “Crappy hospital Jell-O. Neon. Something guaranteed not to upset my stomach.”
When a smug grin crawls onto his face, I realize my mistake.
“No way,” I snap. “Donottry and use magic for a wish.”
“Respectfully, Ms. Frost, I can tell it’s slowly returning, so what better time to test my rate of recovery—”
“I forbid you—you’ll just exhaust yourself! Don’t you dare—”
He snaps anyway.
Nothing happens.
He scowls, snaps again. Absolutely nothing. Not even the barest smudge of thyme. Then a look of flustered shock slaps across his face. His eyes sweep over me, intensity crackling under raw distress and what might even be mortification.
No one has ever looked at me likethis. Humbling, for sure.
But as quick as the look appeared, it’s gone. Not gone—smothered.
“You okay?” I ask, cautious. I warned him.
