I’m probably imagining it, but I almost hear a hint of sadness flavoring his voice. The kid seems like he brings nothing but constant amusement and joy. I glance around at the plant life. “Your herbs are gorgeous. I’ve never seen basil so healthy.”
A perplexed flicker jumps into his eyes, like he doesn’t get compliments and so doesn’t know what to do with one. But then the stern mask is back just as quickly.
I try again to keep this one-sided conversation going. “Although it doesn’t look like you ever pick them.”
He tugs at his gloves. “No one around here cooks to inspire the need.”
Clearly. This is 100 percent an ingredient household. And barely. “A shame. April is a bit late to plant a garden, isn’t it? Doesn’t the soil warm up around here by March?”
Although we are up in the hills, far from town. How would I commute here and back to the shop every day to check on a patient who lives here? Farewitches need to be close, at least with new customers they’re still diagnosing. If I’m at my apartment, I’ll never be able to study the Warlock’s habits, his eating, examine what I can help change from a nutritional perspective. I’d spend a precious day’s worth of baking in the truck.
The man’s gaze darkens, like he didn’t expect a Farewitch to have gardening knowledge. But every Farewitch knows food and farming and the land are inseparable. “The soil around the Manor stays colder for longer.”
That’s… odd. I don’t ask my hundred follow-up questions, but I don’t get the impression the soil is finicky because of an errant mountain cold front. What kind of magic does the Warlock practice, again? Even if the details are fuzzy, maybe the rumors come from truth. Our librarydidburn, so perhaps elemental magic was at play? But that’s usually lower magic, grounded and tangible, a Witch’s favorite kind.
And elemental magic won’t help cure an ailing Farewitch’s wasting disease.
“I’m Honey Frost,” I say. “The Farewitch Mr. Knight requested.” Perhaps the Warlock’s biggest mistake. But he doesn’t need to know that if, just for my attention, he’s willing to trade extensive magical knowledge that could help my mom. Bake it till you make it.
The man doesn’t give me his name. “How did you get in here? Past the wards?”
The question is innocent enough but his voice is gruff, unwelcoming. Maybe I hit a gardening nerve asking about the soil. “The door was unlocked.”
“It doesn’t unlock for strangers.”
“I’ve been invited, haven’t I?” The Warlock asked for me by name. I know what I can bring to the table. Or try to. Literally. “Since it’s possible I’ll be working here alongside you and the garden, I’d like to make sure we’re planting a large variety of herbs. And some of the less common herbs, too.”
He doesn’t answer me. I think his stern stare is about to be a glare.
I push on. “I’d also like to see what you already have planted. I’m not sure how long I’ll be here, but I’d love to know what produce is coming down the line further in the season.”
Still no answer. He stalks farther into the kitchen, shoulders rigid. A small whiff of fresh soil and the color green follows him. I wonder if that smell can be bottled—
None of that, girl, Momaw Frost would warn me. Farewitches donothave time for men.
“Another thing—I can write all this down—but it’s going to get hot in here and I’m not sure the plants will thrive once I begin. They’re probably used to the low heat of the AGA, and I don’t want to shock them with new temperatures, what with the gas range going regularly now, too. Especially in May and June.”
He stops a few paces away from me, like I’m some feral, trespassingFarewitch, and in a tone that is most definitely not a question, asks, “Any other requests.”
In a sharp split second it hits me like a copper pot on a plate of toast. “You’re… not the gardener. Are you.”
“Oh no, I very much am. I just also happen to be the Warlock of Foxe Holler.”
Fu—of course he is.
Chapter Four
MONDAY, APRIL 4 (STILL)
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
When frying, work in batches and let the oil return to a high temperature between batches. Do not crowd the frying skillet. Flavor needs space, and even the best-tasting snacks can get soggy and spooked.
You can address me as Mr. Knight.”
He lifts a stool in one hand and brings it to the island. It doesn’t fit the height of the counter, but everything is a little out of place in this farmhouse. Including me.
