Just burn it.
Although… burning a Warlock’s handwriting feels like the recipe for creating a curse.
We don’t need that.
I flip off the burner and open the letter.
Dear Ms. Frost,
Your first day trespassing in my house, I asked if you could save me. If your healing magic would give me more time on this earth, but ill days. Or if it would give me better days, if numbered ones. You told me the secret to health is time.
I believe you now. You saved me, no matter what happens with the Widow Witch. But I still wish we had more time. With a lifetime of you, I would be better. A better Warlock. A better neighbor. A better friend. A better man. For you. For me.
I am so sorry we didn’t have more time.
Regretfully Yours,
Verne Knight
The Warlock of Foxe Holler
My mind shudders, like a faltering heartbeat. Or maybe that erratic thumpingismy heart, trying to catch up.
His name—his name—sounds like a combination ofvineandfern.
It’s perfect.
The first tear finds my cheek. I came so close to losing him, and after all that, after we made it to the next sunrise,I left. But would I have made a different choice if I read this earlier?
My eyes blur with wet, and before I can hold it in, a half sobcontorts my face. I’m dangerously close to completely falling apart right here on the kitchen floor.
No. This wouldn’t have made a difference. Not when I’m responsible for everyone else’s happy endings first. That’s the curse of a Farewitch.
Somehow, my brain is functional, and I gather myself. My heart? Who knows.
I stuff the Warlock’s letter into my apron and head back to the front counter just as the shop door dings. Another customer.
Anewcustomer.
I go still as Warlock Knight approaches the counter.
Alert hazel eyes. A soil-free Henley. He looks good. Too good. Ms. Zeen is with him, standing off to the side. When the shop grows oddly quiet, I hardly notice, and stay protected behind the display cases. My heart isn’t going to be able to handle this. Handlehim.
“How can I help you?” I squeeze out when he reaches the counter.
“I’ve been told the biscuits here are decent.”
Heavens above and devil below, I’ve missed the low rumble of his voice. Warm and deep as the sun on the summer solstice.
“They’re better than decent. They’re stellar.” I start bagging a few, hoping the task will distract me enough to keep my voice even.
“I’ll take a dozen. How much?”
“How much do you have?”
“Do you accept apologies?”
All right, I admit it. I’ve missed all of him. I suspect my eyes would find even the mere shape of his shadow in a parade. “Those are a bit weak to the dollar right now.”
