“Why did you lie to me?” That’s what bothers me, more than any secret itself. “I thought you might’ve trusted me enough to tell me.”
He takes a labored breath. “Would you have taken the job knowing that your patient is a child, and what would happen if you failed?”
An answer sticks in my throat. I’d like to think so. But this isexactly why I didn’t tell him about my mom. I didn’t want to concentrate on the illness, or an inevitable sad finale. I wanted the attention to be on the possible. The hope. The tomorrow.
I hate that he lied. But I understand why he did.
“It wasn’t my initial aim to withhold the truth. But then you showed up at the Manor, smiling, and you were so unbelievably bright and—” His mouth clamps shut.
“I don’t hate you,” I finally say. “You hate yourself enough for the both of us. But I don’t forgive you, either. So I’ll let you keep apologizing for another decade. That ought to do it.”
He almost grins. “You assume I’ll still be around then. Could you really tolerate me for that long?”
I hope so.
Before I can answer, he’s rustling through his pack. My fingers are crossed he’s going to pull out an atlas of this cave system that will point us in exactly the right direction. It’d be called something likeIncorporeal Deadly Lairs of Magical Folk and Other Appalachian Caves.
“If I have a decade of apologizing to do, I best get started. Consider this the first apology of many.” He hands me a thick square of wax paper.
Sandwiches. He pulls outsandwiches.
In the lamplight, I can’t see what kind. Screw it. I take a huge bite, suddenly ravenous. Then pause. No way in hell. How did—I take another bite, to be sure. Well, butter my biscuit.
The flavor slingshots me back to growing up, my mom plating a quick dinner for me on busy baking days. I haven’t tasted this blasphemous yet flawlessly sinful combination of pork and fake cheese since childhood.
“A Spam and Cheeto sandwich? Are you serious? How did you know these are my…”Favoriteis too disappointing a word. My religion?
“Your mother told me at the hospital.” Cough. “She likes to talk.”
The soft and meaty Spam is the perfect mate to the salty, cheesy crunch, and the Cheetos are so processed, they don’t get soggy smooshed up against the Spam.Happyis a pitiful word for what I feel right now. Because of him. “You’re like a Spam Santa.”
Once we’ve both devoured half our sandwiches, he says, “My mother always made Spam scrambled eggs for breakfast.”
I grin at the thought of a little Warlock, when the Manor was full of life. “My Momaw was orphaned young, like you. She used to make meals for her foster siblings. She could turn a single can of Spam into twelve sandwiches. She said you could hold up a slice and see the sunrise through it.”
The Apothakery’s warm yellow kitchen melts into my thoughts. My smile slips. I stop mid-chew, my throat dry, struggling to swallow. When was the last time my mom cooked in that kitchen? Will I be able to stand in there again, completely alone, if my mom isn’t with me? The next bite of my Spam-Cheeto-childhood sandwich sticks in my throat. That does it.
I burst right into a mess of tears.
The Warlock is next to me in half a second. “If the sandwiches are bad, just tell me—”
I snort, still crying, my nose producing a hideous noise I didn’t even know it could make. Lord, I did not expect to see the day I willingly set down a Spam and Cheeto sandwich. “They’re perfect.” I wipe my eyes. “They just taste too much like home.”
He sits next to me, but doesn’t try to comfort me or distract me. He just gives me the space and the peace to work through it.
When I’m no longer sniffling like a toddler, I say, “You were right. I’m not holding it together as well as I thought.”
“Your mother is dying. You don’t have to be fine.”
I shake my head. “It’s not just that. I set impossible standards, and when I don’t meet them, I punish myself and withhold the rewards.” Ihad hoped I would’ve learned this lesson by my thirties. “But they’re not rewards—they’re just things that make me happy.”
“You can’t cure everyone, Ms. Frost. Even in a small town. The magic is a burden of responsibility. You’re the Holler’s Farewitch, not its fail-safe.”
“Great bedside manner.” I hiccup. “But I love my job.”
I think I do.
I loved the idea of the shop. Making a name for myself, not just as a Frost, but as Honey. Maybe I might’ve enjoyed all this if I’d gotten the chance to train, take my time.
