Chapter Thirty-Seven
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 22
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
If a recipe goes wrong, embrace it and eat the surprise. If a recipe goes really wrong, start over and learn. If a recipe goes disastrously and irreversibly wrong, now you have a story to share, and that’s where the meal begins.
The last of my cast-iron skillets clang as I deposit them into the bed of my truck.
The morning sun tickles my cheeks as a summer breeze blows my bangs into disarray. It’s the day after the summer solstice, I have a Spam, egg, and cheese on a biscuit for the drive ahead, and I feel good.
For a moment.
A bedraggled Warlock stomps down the Manor’s front steps, scrutinizing my loaded truck with extreme distaste.
“I get one full night of sleep, and a million things happen without me.” He plants himself in front of me, his black hair wildly disheveled, like some burnt baked Alaska monstrosity. “Why the devil are we outside at the crack of dawn?”
“Sir, it’s eleven.”
“Are you sure?”
“Everyone’s already left. You missed the succotash scramble.”
Silas, the Claywells, even Ms. Buchanan and Beauregard stayedthe night in guest rooms, no one eager to return to town. Seems they bonded while we were gone.
“Everyone? I allow overnight guestsonetime, and now we’re a hotel…” He spots my suitcase in my pickup. His voice drops, rough. “You’re leaving.”
“That’s what happens when I finish a job. Sir.”
“For the love of—I forbid you from ever calling mesiragain.”
“Youforbidme?”
“If the job is done, then our contract is over and I’m no longer your employer.”
“Then you aren’t allowed to call meMs. Frostanymore.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
His frown falters. “I—impressive work last night. With Okolona’s spell. I wouldn’t be here without it, and neither would my magic.”
Sure enough, the smell of thyme floats between us. It’s bittersweet today. The house is behaving again. Well, as much as it ever behaved. It’s certainly not empty the way it felt yesterday, now that its Warlock is himself again. The man is surprisingly sure-footed this morning given he was feverish with fatigue all night as his body adjusted to the magic it was missing for weeks. He refused any help upstairs, and there was a lot of mumbled swearing, andIt’s my birthday, I shall not be handled like an unruly toddler, Ms. Frost—
I’ll cling to that rare image of a flustered Warlock whenever I need a mood boost. Like now. The part I’ve been dreading.
“Any word about Oris Webb?” I ask, delaying the next bit.
“No, but it’s been less than a day, and the Eldercraft are usually quite occupied around the solstice. All I’ve gleaned is, apparently this isn’t the first time they’ve dealt with him. I was so accustomed to being the only Warlock here, it didn’t occur to me there could be another.”
“So heisa Warlock.”
“Not as powerful a one as he would’ve liked to be, it seems.”
“Why would he hide that? For so long?”
