“What?”
“You had to use one of my recipes—that was my condition. I didn’t ask you to prepare whatever drivelyouwanted to make.”
I jam a finger into the table between us. “I’m a Farewitch. I don’t make what you want, I make what you need.”
“Youserve a community of folks who’ve been living here since before your mama was no more than too much wine and a bad decision. What you need is to respect your elders and our legacies of spellwork and recipes.”
“She won’t eat it because she knows it will work,” the Warlock rasps.
The Witch lets go of a wicked chortle. “How are you two so disgustingly confident this mush will make me better?”
Stowing my anger, I slide the recipe I nearly died for across the table. Just below the ingredient list is a handwritten note, the basis of my entire plan.
For anniversary.
“Because it’s your husband’s recipe.”
The instantvenomouslook that overcomes her face makes the hounds seem as threatening as cotton balls. Something dangerous burns in her dark eyes. I want to shoutJust kidding!But I haven’t come this far because I’m afraid of angry old women. I’ve gotten this far because I listen to them.
“The oldest resident of Foxe Holler is Beulah Buchanan,” I explain, forgoing thebesides you. I’m not trying to get incinerated. “She has history to share if someone slows down to keep her company. One story is even about you. You weren’t the Widow Witch because you preyed on couples. Not at first. Folks called you Widow Okolona first.Youwere the widow.”
Before the Warlock and I left town, I took Ms. Zeen’s advice and paid a last-minute visit to Ms. Buchanan. Seems the sage old lady was right.
She wasn’t always the Widow Witch, sugar. Witches fall in love, too.
A gamble, sure, but this recipe is our lottery ticket out of this mess. It has to be.
“I’m sorry. About your husband.” And I mean it.
“I’m not,” she huffs, exactly the way Ms. Fudge does. “Hedgewitches always live longer than folks without magic, and Witches, too. Life and death, past and present, that’s the nature of our magic. I knew that meant I’d bury my husband someday.”
“That doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to mourn him.”
“Unpaid debts and magical imbalance might weaken your power,” the Warlock adds, “but that’s never been the root of your illness, Okolona.”
He looks sideways at me, and I nod, confirming our theory from this morning when I told him the details of my plan. Seeing him and my mom, a Warlock and a Witch, put their heads together at the hospital gave me the idea. If a Farewitch can burn out, so can a Hedgewitch.
“We think your grief is poisoning you.”
I barely get the words out before the Witch slams a fist on the table. Spittle clings to her lips. “Doesn’t matter what you think. You picked the wrong recipe. You failed.”
No.
My gut twists. We’reso close. And I’mso damn tired.
The Warlock heaves a terrifyingly ragged breath.
No no no.
“We watched your dogs, didn’t we?” I blurt, desperation in my voice. “You owe us.Trythe burgoo. Or would you leave that debt unpaid?”
She raises one wild, unkempt eyebrow. Picks up her spoon.
The smallest bite of thick gravy vanishes into her mouth and I hold my breath. She swallows. Then closes her eyes.
Iloveit when they close their eyes. Like I said, best feeling in the world.
The cottage grows eerily quiet, like it’s well behaved and not the unruly hellion I’ve come to know. When the Witch finally opens her eyes, they’re glossy and wet.
