Then he meets my stare head-on. “Yes. A younger copy of me, or a facsimile. A reflection. I don’t really know. He’s real. I know that. He believes he’s nine and that his name is Lazlo.” A chastened grin. “Ms. Zeen and I never knew how to describe someone who exists now but never existed before. Someone who exists twice, in the same moment in time.”
Someone who doesn’t have any memories before the Manor. Not his child. Not his relative. Not his future. Not fully him… but also in no way could he be anyone else.
A headache knocks at the back of my skull. “How did the Widow Witch even manage this? It’s the definition of imbalance. Even a Hedgewitch can’t create something out of nothing.”
He shakes his head. “She must’ve been confident I wouldn’t cure him in time. She created him, and then he’ll be gone. A lateral transaction.”
“But you’ll die with him. How does that keep the scale even?”
“My best guess is, she’s counting this as a long overdue recompense for my parents. They died by accident, if foolishly, and now Lazlo and I will die with… Well.”
“Intent,” I finish. Two people for two people.
“Now you know everything I do. Everything.”
I sure do.
If you find a cure for him, we shall hope it works for me, too. So does any of what you’ve learned now really matter?
More than ever, I want to cling to his pragmatism. We’ve come this far; now is not the time to fall apart. Too many people are counting on us. On me.
Breathe. I can do this. Make the recipe. Cure the Widow Witch. Save lives.
“Well, almost everything,” he adds.
Changed my mind. Maybe I will let the man die.
I cross my arms over my chest, mostly to escape the unsettling sensation of feeling his hands but not seeing them.
But it’s no use, because he lifts a hand to my face anyway, his palm a solid presence against my cheek. He’s still real. He’s still here.
“Before the solstice,” he begins, rubbing a thumb over my swollen bottom lip. I must lookgreat. Bangs pasted to my sweaty forehead, apron askew, flour filling extra wrinkles from stress and no sleep. He clears his throat. “I want to give you my name.”
My pulse quickens, only for my heart to plummet into the earth. Like the silly, delicate thing stepped off an edge and dove right into a bottomless cavern.
Any chance you’ll tell me your name now?
When it’s important.
I know what’s he’s doing. He’s not expecting to survive, is he? Oh,hell no.
“I don’t want it,” I snap. “Not like this. Next week, next year, I don’t care. Because you’ll be here to give it to me.”
“I won’t be able to wish my way out of this. We might not have another chance.”
I. Refuse. I shuffle farther back on the table, creating distance between us. Air. Air is good. Of all times,nowhe accepts we can’t just wish for second chances, for more time.
“I’m going to write you a letter and sign my name,” he tries again. “Open it later. Whenever you want. If you want. Then you’ll have it, even if I’m—”
“Don’t say it. You can’t do…thisright now. It’s not fair—” Pressure pricks my eyes as a tight sob lodges in my throat.
“I won’t be able to handle it if you cry, sweetheart.”
I wipe away a treacherous splotch of wetness on my cheek. “I can’t…”Can’t be sad over so many people at once. There’s no recipefor this kind of thing. Even now, I can hear Momaw Frost agreeing with me. If I had one more day with her, would I spend it angry? If I have one day left with my mom, will I spend it bitter?
No. I’m a Farewitch. I don’t hurt, I heal.
So I try to push away the hurt and the spite. “Fine, a letter,” I grind out. “But write it tomorrow. You need to sleep.”
