“No, you may not.”
What. She’s kidding.
Farewitches draw from a common source of power with intention and the right ingredients, but each of us inherits our own unique twist to the magic that helps us find our focus in the kitchen. A magical thumbprint, of sorts. I might not be the best Farewitch, but I know my strengths, and my particular magical affinity requires the patient.
“I’m sorry, but that’s not how this works. I have to see him to begin my process and make a preliminary diagnosis. Farewitch magic needs—”
“That won’t be possible. He’s busy reinforcing the wards around the Manor.”
“Warding? Againstwhat?”
She looks down her nose at me like I should already know.
What in the hell is going on—I’m invited! How’s he going to try what I make if he doesn’t show up? I came here to cure an ailing Warlock who, despite having some monstrously powerful magic according to the town, obviously doesn’t possess the right kind or amount to heal himself. The mysteries keep building and I’ve had enough.
“He needs to make an exception. Otherwise, I can’t do my work, Ms.—”
“If you can’t find a way, then make one.Otherwise, leave.” Glare. “And you may address me as Ms. Zeen. I’m the Governess.” Her eyes wander over me again, mouth wrinkling up like the shriveled skin of roasted potatoes. Yup. Definitely the overalls. She’s clearly offendedby clothing on the onesie family tree. “I don’t believe Warlock Knight is going to like you one bit,” she says, and then turns on one kitten heel and is gone.
He’ll get over it. That’s what Iwantto say. But what comes out is a lackluster “That’s unfortunate” the Governess doesn’t even hear. I will most definitely be leavingthatprickly pear of a cake alone to cool.
Once again, I’m by myself in a large empty kitchen, feeling more alone than when I arrived.
There’s another giggle.
Maybe not so alone.
This time, I spy a fleeting glimpse of round cheeks and a small head of dark hair disappearing behind the kitchen door. So I’mnotlosing my mind. That explains the bike and the small sticky fingerprints on the fridge. Everywhere.
An idea forming, I side-eye the AGA stove. Now there’s a friendly face.
We Frosts need to be moving, to be productive and creating. Takes the edge off. I’ve got to think clearly enough to brainstorm a recipe for a patient I’m not allowed to meet. So I do what I do best when I need to calm my nerves.
Bakingis an optimistic term given the ingredients I have access to. This is going to be more creative compiling. ButThe Frosts’ Creatively Compiled Concoctionswouldn’t create a line out the door of the Apothakery, would it?
I wash my hands and pick the right temperature on the AGA. The steady heat chases away some of this cold, damp quiet. After some hunting, I find a loaf of simple country bread, cinnamon, sugar, and yellow butter that softens easily near the ambient warmth of the AGA, making for an easy smudge on thick slices of the bread. Next comes a good dusting of cinnamon and sugar. When the slices look like little sparkling faun-colored pillows, I toss them all onto a baking sheet I have to clean twice before I trust it.
Normally a Farewitch doesn’t presumptuously take over a kitchen, especially when she hasn’t seen her patient, but the Governess did say I only have an hour…
The moment the first notes of warm cinnamon fill the air, I feel better. This was a quick staple breakfast in the Frost household. The ingredients are always in the pantry, and it can be eaten in one hand while the other sets a mise en place. It also has the unfailing added benefit of luring almost anyone into the kitchen who’s still sleeping. Or hiding.
Sure enough, a small figure pokes his mop of dark hair around the doorway. By the time I pull out the tray of perfectly GB&D toast, I’m staring at a little boy.
He stares back.
Eight? Nine? I’m not great with kids’ ages. I’m an only child like my mom.
“Hello there,” I say. “Have you eaten? Lunch?” Now that I can see him, he’s wearing pajamas with all sorts of dogs on them. “Or breakfast?”
I transfer most of the hot toast to a platter and push it in the shy boy’s direction across the island. Then I grab my own slice. The cinnamon hits my tongue and I grin for the first time in days. I knew it—I’ve surpassed my mom’s own recipe for this. I’m now Queen of the Cinnamon and Sugar Toast. She’ll have to accept humble defeat.
The boy looks from the toast to me. Back to the toast. His hair is black as my cast-iron skillet, and he’s pale but not sickly, like someone slathers him with plenty of sunscreen. When he inches closer, he’s only at eye level with the counter. He seems small for his head size. Or is that a weird thing to think? How tall are nine-year-olds?
“I like your overalls,” he whispers, bright intelligence hovering in his hazel eyes.
Oh, I like this one. “Thank you, they were on sale—”
Before I can blink, he grabs three slices and bolts.
