The June warmth has left him doused in sweat, even in this grotto. I keep sneaking glimpses of him through the back windows to see what he’s up to, but he’s always on his knees in the soil beds, his back to me. If things were different, I might relish the domesticity of it all. But every time he comes in from the garden, it takes him longer to work up the energy to go back outside, and his eyes are more opaque than not throughout the day, the hazel dull.
He’s stopped eating as much, too. The loss of his appetite worries me more than anything.
“Yes,” I say, getting a grip on myself. “I found the recipe.Herrecipe.”
Lord, it better be the right one. It’s a bold gamble on my part.
“Already? Where? And nothing’s popped out of a settee to steal your soul?”
He almost sounds impressed. Does the Warlock even do impressed?
“The Witch’s bedroom,” I say, and leave it at that.
He doesn’t need to know his journal gave me the idea, and the less he knows about my questionable survival instincts, the better.
I pour us rich black coffee from a pot in the fireplace. “There are ingredients I can’t find in the house, but I think I can gather most of them from the meadow around the cottage. I saw mushrooms near where we appeared.”
“The hounds like to dig up garlic bulbs, if you’re in need of those,” he says between sips of coffee. “You’ll have to trade them a secret, of course.”
“I could use an herb-hunting, canine version of a truffle pig. Lazlo would love us if we brought back a hound.”
He rubs a tired hand across his face, his stare finding me through his long fingers. “He loves you already, Ms. Frost.”
“My cooking, maybe.”
Something about his answer is odd, off. The difference between imitation vanilla and the real stuff. If I could just have a moment to think, out from under all our ticking clocks…
The Warlock finishes his coffee and hauls himself to his feet. “I’ll be outside. If you hear howling, assume it’s me.”
“Was that a joke?”
“I can be funny, Ms. Frost.”
Of course he waits until he’s at death’s door to be cheerful. Unbelievable.
“What are you doing out there anyway?”
He elbows the back door open. “My best.”
Once he’s gone, I find a massive cauldron and lug it into the hearth, hoping it’s only been used for stew. Then I spend the afternoon collecting ingredients from the cave’s meadow, and learn the hounds can sniff outmanya vegetable. Later, from what must be a non-dying part of the garden, the Warlock unearths carrots, celery, and green beans for me. As the sun sets beyond the grotto, I finally have everything I need.
Working by firelight now, I reserve enough extra ingredients to make us a quick dinner of braised leek and mushroom soup. But as the Warlock and I eat, my fear turns every spoonful of flavor into dishwater.
What if we fail?
Too soon, the Midnight Bloom appears as we’re unfurling our bedrolls once more in front of the popping fire. We’re both exhausted and wide awake, anticipating tomorrow, and as we stare at our bedrolls, the Warlock finally breaks the tense silence.
“Ms. Frost, if this doesn’t work tomorrow…”
“Then don’t take it personally,” I say, forcing a grin. “But it will.”
“It might not.”
“Then what? You and Lazlo keel over on a random Tuesday?” The soup from dinner bubbles in my gut, slowly turning to acid. Failure isn’t an option. “No thanks.”
“It wouldn’t be arandomTuesday. It would be the solstice, my birthday.”
“We wouldn’t even get to have a cake,” I protest. Everywhere I turn, my measuring cups are portioning time left. Can’t we pretend the bad isn’t a possibility until it actually happens?
