I can’t tell if he’s pissed or just grumpy.Both. He’s harder to read than Momaw’s Woodford-fueled handwritten recipes. Clearly no one expected me to show up this morning, and I’ve for sure lost this job before getting hired.
He doesn’t wait for any kind of apology for the social blunder. “To be frank with you, I don’t have the luxury of interviews at this point, but Ms. Zeen keeps the Manor running, and she insists on formalities. So, here we are.”
A test recipe. Right. The whole reason I’m here. I give him a subtle once-over, reviewing my usual mental checklist. Eyes, focused. Walk, even. Skin, pale but not deathly sallow. Speech, clear. Situational awareness, solid. Attitude?Needs improvement.
He looks relatively healthy on the outside, although I know thatdoesn’t mean anything if he’s suffering from a chronic illness of some kind. There’s a world underneath our skin other people aren’t always privy to, and food can’t fix everything. But how am I going to even begin to try to heal him if no one will tell me what’s wrong?
Doesn’t matter. I’m here for my mom, and I’m a Frost to my core, made of grit and gristle (which also happens to be the name of the only late-night restaurant in town, the Grit & Gristle). There aren’t many folks with magic in a town this size, but just because I’ve never healed another magical being as powerful as a Warlock doesn’t mean this is going to be another situation like my mom all over again.
Besides, this is where my unique twist of magic comes in handy.
I move around the island, the last barrier between us, and stop directly in front of his stool. This is likely the only time I’ll ever be taller than him. My hands go out, palms up. “May I hold your hands for a moment?”
That shakes his stern mask for a hot second. “Absolutely not.”
Bothersome, but now we’re getting somewhere. Could his illness originate on the skin? An allergic reaction of some kind, or an autoimmune response concentrated in his extremities? Perhaps direct skin contact with something in his garden is to blame. Maybe I’ll get lucky and this whole situation is just a bad case of poison ivy.
“I know this is sensitive, Mr. Knight, but I need to touch your skin to even begin a recipe. I always start here. Anything about your health remains confidential with me, I promise.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “Is this what a typical house call from a Farewitch entails?”
“We don’t really do house calls anymore.”So appreciate it, I want to add, but I play nice.
“I didn’t realize this process would be so…”
“Hands-on?” Ha.
His severe indifference slides right back on. Not one for jokes, then. He raises his gloved hands. “These stay on. No exceptions.”
“But I have to touch you—”
“Then you’ll have to touch something else.”
Silence.
His eyes squeeze shut half a second. “That did not come out correctly.”
“No, it didn’t.” I bite my tongue to keep from grinning. “Okay, gloves on. No hands. May I?” My palm hovers by his cheek.
His brow sinks over his eyes. I can see he’s weighing whatever pain he’s in against tolerating my presence. I’ll try not to be offended.
“If we must.” Discomfort hangs on his gruff whisper, and it sends a bolt of nerves right down my spine.
“We must.” My palms go around his cheeks.
He stiffens, his mouth tight. In the way,wayback of my mind, I wonder when someone last touched him. His skin is warm, from sun. Slightly scratchy, stubble coming in. I feel the oddest desire to run my thumbs over his sun patches—Focus.
Right. I can’t forget I’m at the mercy of Foxe Holler’s most powerful resident.
Witches practice lower magic, more grounded and practical, and so we craft stable, homegrown networks of community power. Warlocks, however, practice higher magic, amorphous and capricious spellwork that likes to react to their moods and impulses. So, more powerful in theory, if only because it’s explosive.
Despite our differences, both Witches and Warlocks draw power from the land. Someone’s magic is strongest when it’s local and has time to grow roots. The land can only support so much magical energy, though, so being a small town means Foxe Holler has just a handful of other Witches. I don’t evenknowanother Farewitch, besides my mom. With that constraint, and their higher magic that guzzles energy, Warlocks often become solitary travelers, independent yet isolated and restlessly nomadic. Their power easily becomes volatile.
Higher magic, higher reward. Higher risk.
Which is why the folks of Foxe Holler trust neighborhood Witches but not Warlocks. Except—thisWarlock is the exception. He’s been here, in this spot, for ages. Ironically, that might make the town fear him even more. Unpredictable higher magic is one thing, but a Warlock who stays put and lets his power burrow and calcify?
As I hold his face, his breathing is impressively controlled, even if the tension in his body is screaming. Something haunted hangs in his eyes that I can’t place. I close my own, my thumbs brushing over his jawbone. And then I let my magic do what it does best.
