“I’m famished,” he says. “You?”
“Too tired. Give me a second. I’m no vernal poultry anymore.”
“Please, you’re not even old enough to run for president.”
“I will be by the time we get out of this cave. I think we’re going in circles.”
“Then that means we’re on exactly the right track.”
I shift to see him fully. He sits next to me, elbows resting on raised knees, back propped against a hunk of limestone. “How areyou coping so well in the dark? Aren’t you half plant? You’ve got no sunlight down here.”
“I have my own sources of sunlight.” He casts a sideways glance at me. “Remember when you asked me why I liked plants so much?”
“You said they’re better than people.”
“Betterlistenersthan people. But I love them for their resilience. They can grow in terrible environments. Even here, in this cave. Leave trees alone and they’ll grow for centuries. And that’s before any attention or care. Plants will outlive me, you. Everything.” His voice grows ragged. “They’re certainly not frightened by the passage of time.”
“Well, don’t let me stop you. There’s some liverwort over there that looks lonely.”
“Unfortunately, you’re easier to talk to.”
“Acompliment? You feeling okay?”
“Don’t torture me right now, Ms. Frost.” He drags a hand down his face. “I’ve made a colossal mess of things. You’d still be safe at the Apothakery if it weren’t for me.”
True. The thought is oddly… bland.
I don’t like seeing him this way. Anxious. Spread thin. Fighting wars on two fronts. At least he’s got an appetite, normal hunger cues. “Do you know why my apple butter is so good?”
“Because you make it?”
“No. Well, yes. It’s the vinegar.”
“Vinegar?”
“Just a touch. The sharpness heightens the sweetness.”
“We both know if anyone has the potential for sweetness in this situation, it’s you.”
Don’t blush, don’t blush. “What I’m saying is, everyone is their own sugarandvinegar. We’re both. Some days there’s more of one, so we just have to try to balance it out.”
Hazel eyes, sunken in severe sternness, grab hold of me. “We never finished our discussion. After I told you the truth about the deal I made.”
“Are you asking if I hate you, like you promised I would?”
He presses his lips together. Waiting.
I’ve been wondering myself, but my brain’s brooding feels like a ruse. The beating muscle in my chest already made a decision, the minute I saw my mom in that wheelchair.
“I was angry, sure. How could someone make that deal, not knowing the consequences?” I can hear him holding his breath. “But what if the Widow Witch offered me the same thing, a second chance at making different choices when they mattered most, a way to save my mom? Even knowing how that bargain went wrong for you… I would take it.”
And I’m not ashamed to admit it.
“Ever since I took over the shop, I’ve felt like I’m already seventy, skipped over a whole life someone else lived. A different Honey. A happier one. So I understand why you did it.”
“And I know that feeling,” he says. “Once Ms. Zeen and I understood there was no home to send Lazlo back to, I was selfishly glad. If I couldn’t rewrite my own past, I could ensurethisboy, however he got here, would have happy memories.”
My thoughts swirl into a mess of marbled cake batter. Anyone would love Lazlo, but the Warlock’s guilt still seems older, deeper. Stuck in his bones. A reason isthere, at the edge of my mind, like a crumb caught under a gas burner, sparking and smoking until it sets off an alarm.
