The body can only handle one mystery meat at a time.
—Mayor Marigold Frost
Eight days later, I’m outside the one door in Knight Manor that frightens me most.
I raise my hand to knock but pause, stiff as cold butter.
The Warlock and I leave at dawn. It’s now or never, Frost.
My brain whirs like my mom’s old Breadman. The last week was a blur of preparation.
Sunday supper became a strategy dinner. Rett delivered the traveling equipment we ordered; Arna Jean packed me with various tiny charms and mysterious herbal tinctures she collected from Carolina and Ms. Marrow. Silas… made me call my mother. At some point, all of us were in the library, ransacking the archives one more time for anything we missed.
The Warlock’s magic hasn’t returned, and the Manor has been feeding off the man’s anxieties all week as the solstice looms. The kitchen cabinets areextragrumpy. At this rate, the house might suck the next visitor through the floorboards of the front porch.
But no one has tried to talk me out of my plan. Everyone knowswe’re out of fixes buried in books or baked in breakfasts.Tripsounds like a vacation.Expedition deep into the forgotten parts of the Holler to find an infamous magical being who casts dangerous curses and has a personal vendetta against the Warlock.
That’s better.
My fist still frozen, the door opens before I can knock.
Governess Zeen stares back. “Please cease your loitering. I could hear you breathing from inside.”
I crane my neck to glimpse her room. What mysteries does Letha Zeen’s personal space contain? Old harlequin romances? An entire closet devoted to cardigan sets?
She places her stout figure in the doorframe, blocking my view. “Are you lost?” she asks in a voice a local might use with a tourist. Not that the Holler gets tourists.
I steel myself. The Widow Witch will be much more frightening. Probably. “I, uh, wanted to thank you again for protecting Lazlo while we’re gone. And for watching him while I was at the hospital. And for letting me borrow that dress—”
“You’re rambling, dear.”
“Sorry.”
“Stop using that word. Just promise me we’ll avoid a repeat of last week. When Mr. Knight gets panicky, you know the house is a dreadful copycat.”
Oh, I can tell. Asking me to elude anaphylactic shock is a… surprisingly thoughtful gesture coming from her. I’m almost touched.
“Don’t look at me like that. We’re not friends, dear. Good night.”
“Wait,” I say before she can close the door in my face. She looks like shereallywants to. “I wanted to—say hello? Or goodbye. Whichever. Before tomorrow since we don’t know…” Deep breath. “Whyaren’twe friends? You’ve hated me from day one.”
Ms. Zeen somehow looks down her nose at me despite being inches shorter, even in kitten heels. They match her black-and-whitehoundstooth cardigan today. “I don’t hate you. No matter how hard I’ve tried.”
I must look pitifully confused, because she sighs, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt. “I have always voiced concerns about Lazlo’s sheltered routine. I’ve fought Mr. Knight’s stubbornness foryears. You’re here mere weeks and he acquiesces to your ideas. Why is that?”
My shoulders fall. “I don’t know. My magic doesn’t involve any kind of persuasion. Even if I had a recipe for persuasion, I wouldn’t bake it.”
“That was a rhetorical question, dear.”
“Oh.”
“Whyare you outside my door, Ms. Frost?”
“I wanted to get your advice.”
Of all things, this is what sends genuine surprise skittering across her face. “My advice?”
“The deal Mr. Knight made with the Widow Witch last year—did you know?”
