“As life gets hard, folks want scapegoats. Bad choices, bad crops, bad kids? Must be bad magic. Blame the other, the different, the unexplainable. In this Holler, the misunderstood often turns into the legend. And the villain. It’s easier for folks to have someone to hate, child. Brings them together. Why not the old Witch they already distrust?”
The Warlock frowns. “You’re only feeding their fear, then, Okolona.”
“And you have family here. Gertha—” I protest.
“Oh, Gertie doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
“So—did you really kill her husband?”
“Heavens no. He was stepping out on her. She turned such ablind eye, she couldn’t see what she was worth. So I threatened him. Leave town or become one of my hounds. Gertie never forgave me.”
I’m starting to like the Widow Witch. Just a little.
Soon, we’re ready to leave. I’m carrying most of our gear because the Warlock needs to focus on staying upright. How we’re going to make it through those caves and back to the Manor in time, I have no idea. But we have to try.
“Your burgoo needs salt,” the old bat says instead of goodbye.
“No it doesn’t,” I say over my shoulder as we leave. The hounds watch us go with soulful eyes and some howling.
Just before we’re out of earshot, the Warlock turns one last time to the Witch. “I apologize, Okolona. For what it’s worth. I should not have assumed you were solely responsible for what happened to my parents.”
“Neither are you, boy,” she calls from her porch. “My problem was with your folks, not you. But if you’re ever going to forgive yourself, you have to forgive them, and you can’t do that until you understand people make bad decisions even if they’re not bad people.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
TUESDAY, JUNE 21
THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
There is always a cost to magic.
We reach Knight Manor just as the sun begins to sink on the solstice.
I launch out of my Dodge at the same time I throw the thing into park. The Warlock is considerably less graceful with his slide-fall combo from the passenger seat. I haul ass to his side to help him into the farmhouse, and he doesn’t even protest at my quip about his rheumatic joints. When I throw his arm over my shoulder for support, I don’t get any whiff of thyme.
This isbadbad.
After the cave pools led us back to the pickup, I floored it home in a trance, my mind fixated on reciting the Widow Witch’s instructions.
Governess Zeen is waiting for us at the front door. “He’s almost gone, sir,” she says by way of greeting, then swallows a sharp breath when she sees the Warlock.
I don’t blame her. Because so is the Warlock.
In the waning summer sunlight, his skin is so translucent, phyllo dough won’t be appetizing for a long time. His hazel eyes have gone milky, like the broth of some expired can of soup. With our height difference, he’s leaning sideways into me like the world’ssaddest cake. Appropriate for what might be the world’s saddest birthday. The formidable and feared Warlock of Foxe Holler, this man is not.
Ms. Zeen hurries us inside. “He’s been asking for you.”
Those few words wrench the Warlock’s face into a devastating frown.
Still sweaty and dirt caked, we stumble behind Ms. Zeen to the kitchen.
Folks are already waiting for us there. Not just people. Friends.
Arna Jean has her head on her brother’s shoulder, and next to Rett is Silas, hands deep in his suit pockets like he isn’t sure what to do with them. Even old Beulah Buchanan is here, nursing something amber at the kitchen table. The burnt smell of old coffee hangs on the air, and no one looks like they’ve slept since we left.
