I’m pretty sure I hiccup.
“You can’t say things like that.” My voice is breathless. “If we’re right about what’s happening to my mom, then Farewitches don’t live long. I don’t want you at my funeral when I’m thirty-five. Aren’t you tired of living with curses?”
“You’re not a curse. Quite the opposite.”
I look away from those hazel eyes before I crumble or make reckless promises—
“No matter what happens tomorrow, I planted this so you would stay, Honey.” His voice is low, rough, and rubs against me like a rocky creek bed under bare feet. Grounding. Persistent. “You don’t haveto decide now. Or ever. But you always have a place here. An open invitation.”
His words about ruin me, but then he runs a thumb over my bottom lip, andthatmost assuredly ruins me.
I turn my head to leave the smallest kiss on his palm. “I prefer my invitations to arrive in spooky little black letters.”
Just then, voices pour into the garden, popping the bubble around us.
Arna Jean runs into view.
“It’s Carolina,” she pants, catching her breath. She holds out my cell phone. Glowing and buzzing with a call. “From the hospital.”
Chapter Forty
SATURDAY, JULY 9
ANOTHER WEEK LATER
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Remember to be patient and kind. A little bit of thyme and honey goes a long way.
If anyone sings ‘Happy Birthday,’ I will delight in removing their eyebrows.”
Rett and Arna Jean immediately rub their foreheads as I place a glossy layer cake on the table in front of the Warlock.
We dragged a table outside for a picnic in the gardens, and flowers burst in color around us in the golden hour sun. The herb-scented air is almost as delicious as the food we’ve spread out. Benedictine and pimento cheese sandwiches, coleslaw, cornbread muffins, icebox banana pudding, ambrosia salad, and a huge pitcher of sweet tea.
At the end of the table, Governess Zeen chats with Ms. Buchanan, while Silas and Rett keep Beauregard occupied with a ball nearby. Every time the poodle bounds too close to a flower bed, the Warlock winces.
“I’m guessing the flavor is sugar?” Arna Jean asks me from her seat next to Ms. Zeen.
“A honey and thyme cake,” I reply. A halo of frosted watercress leaves and thyme sprigs crown the Warlock’s cake, encircling a pipedHappy Birthdays, plural.
“I’ll take a piece to Okolona on my next visit,” the Warlock says.
Silas wanders over and counts the candles. No full suit today, but still a collared shirt and vest with tiny blue rosebuds. Mayor looks good on Silas Key.
“Christ. Some people really do win the gene lottery. Honey, do you realize he could legally gamble in the state of Kentucky when you were still reading Junie B. Jones—”
“That’s enough,” the Warlock bites.
Arna Jean cackles.
“Three weeks late, but are you ready to turn another year older,officially?” I ask him.
“If we must.”
“We must.”
