My chest tightens. An empty Manor is scarier than anything I’ve seen here yet.
“Sir,” I breathe, pointing outside. “The sun.”
Soft light now slants through the back windows, the kitchen turning a dusky lavender. Magic can do a lot, but it can’t stop the sun from setting. It’s almost gone.
We have to make this spell work. Now or never.
The Warlock’s eyes squeeze shut, just before fresh determination sweeps across his features. “Lazlo, can you be brave, for an adventure?”
At first, the boy looks confused, but then a bright curiosity peeks through the uncertainty. He squeezes Beauregard, kisses his muzzle.
Arna Jean swipes a finger under her glasses.
I pull the Widow Witch’s spell from my pack and kneel down next to the Warlock. Like it’s the thinnest, most delicate pizza dough, I fold the spell into a tiny square and hand it to Lazlo. “I want youto keep this pressed to your chest, right against your heart. Hold it with both hands.”
He follows my instructions.
The spell the Witch gave us isn’t a verbal incantation, praise be. I was always crap at learning the old Witches’ tongues, even with Momaw Frost’s lessons. I wish I’d treasured that time with her a little more. The small moments, the small hopes, grant the biggest magic.
But for this spell, I just need to call on the power I already have.
“May I?” I ask Lazlo, holding up my hands. When he nods, I cup his small cheeks. Skin to skin. “Lazlo, I want you to try to picture where you came from. I know it’s hard; just try and find the last memory you have of home, of your parents. Who you were before us.”
Show us where the Widow Witch found you.
That’s all it takes. The spell, my memory magic, and a dash of Lazlo’s homesickness.
The memories, blank before now, awaken and begin to stumble toward me as if learning to walk. His eyelids flutter as the images come faster, sprinting. I only catch brief glimpses of those with food. Slowly, understanding and awe replace the confusion and curiosity on his face.
“I can remember things,” the boy murmurs. “But not everything—I can’t…” His chin dimples, unshed tears pooling in his hazel eyes. “I want my mom and dad.I want to go home.”
The words are like a wish.
The paper in his faded hands sparks and burns up in a gentle, quick flame. There and gone, the lifespan of a match.
Moving back, I avoid looking at the Warlock. I’ll see his heart breaking, and then mine will shatter right along with it. But still, I catch a glimpse of the skin at his collarbone disappearing, over his heart, and I can hear his shaky breaths growing further and further apart.
This spell needs to work. Fast. I can’t lose him twice.
Suddenly, a furious wind blows open the kitchen windows. A wave of June air hits us, the smell of a hundred shades of the color green. In seconds, Lazlo’s entire body is no more than a wispy outline of himself. Physical, but barely. Beauregard licks at the boy’s clothes where his scent lingers.
Then, in the corner of the kitchen, two other translucent figures appear.
The taller of the two is a broad-shouldered man. The physique of a farmer. His arm encircles the waist of the other, a short woman with the Warlock’s cheekbones.
Mr. and Ms. Knight.
The Warlock and I get to our feet with Lazlo. The couple remain patiently still, faces drawn taut with anticipation. Like they’re eager for the return of something long missed.
“Don’t forget to play with Beau,” Lazlo says to us. “I mean it.”
The Warlock leans down and presses his forehead to where the boy’s should be. “I won’t. Be good. Especially to your parents.”
My turn. For all my fear the Warlock wouldn’t be able to make the right choices to save himself, here I am, holding us up. I came here to cure him at all costs…
I just didn’t expect the price to be so high.
How in the world will this house ever feel the same?
