“I don’t invite outsiders here lightly. Indulge me,” he says, but his attention is on something beyond the back windows, the gardens. There’s that hauntedsomethingagain. Sadness? Or guilt?
“If it’s magic in origin, have you consulted with other Warlocks?”
“Discretion, Ms. Frost.” His tone doesn’t leave any air for debate. “How does your magic work, exactly? I didn’t know your predecessors, and I’ve never met another Farewitch.”
He wouldn’t have, not here in the Holler. Witches know Witches, and Warlocks know Warlocks. But the two groups don’t mix. The last Warlock to actually live here in the Holler was… I have no idea.
“Farewitch magic is basically practical healing made stronger. It’s not automatic by any means. I suppose it’s a… triangle of sorts.”
The oil is almost ready, so I turn back to my ingredients.
“We start with the same ingredients, tools, the pantry anyone might have access to. Then we add our magic that comes from intention, spells, rituals, incantations, the inherited family recipes. The lore of ingredients or sigils, folk knowledge passed down through generations…” He’s got me so on edge, I’m rambling. “Lastly, Farewitches manifest a unique affinity. It’s like a thumbprint… Or, it flavorshowour magic helps people.”
The oil is perfectly hot. I drop my scraggly clumps of flour into the skillet, one at a time so the oil can keep up its heat. The noise of the robust sizzle dances around the kitchen. Flour and cornmeal turn crispy. Garlic and onion and oregano and paprika tickle my nose. The place begins to smell like a real kitchen and not a floor model of one. What’s magical is how frying oil instantly makes a place feel lived in. A house into a home.
“Do other kinds of Witches have affinities within their magic?”
“Sure, though they might refer to it in a different way. But a Farewitch is always born with an affinity. They usually repeat through bloodlines, though not always. My grandmother’s was a skill with herbalism. And my mom’s was—iselemental magic. Fire and heat. She can manipulate and control temperatures. A coveted affinity for a Farewitch, obviously.”
“And yours?”
I hesitate. Farewitches don’t consider our affinities secret or private by any means, but when I tell someone mine, they ever so gently pull back. Like I might steal something from them, when in reality I’m just listening to what their memory wants to tell me.
He shifts in his stool, restless at my lack of an answer. “I need to know if your magic will only help me live longer with the illness,or if it will actually fix the problem. Does your healing promise me time or health, Ms. Frost?”
I drop a plate of expertly golden-brown fried green tomatoes on the island in front of him. “I’ve found, Mr. Knight, that the key to health is usually time.”
He leans back, staring at the tomatoes. And staring. If he wore glasses, the lenses would steam. The Warlock of Foxe Holler has apparently met his match in the form of friedSolanum lycopersicum.
I nudge the plate. IknowI’ve chosen the perfect recipe. He might be a stoic wall, but his memories aren’t, and he should feel some type of good after eating this, whether physically or even just emotionally. “Don’t let them get cold.”
In a gesture that’s alarmingly endearing, he picks up a fork and knife to saw a tomato into neat pieces. I notice the utensils then—carved Chinese characters crawl up the intricate stems, but the fine silver is old and tarnished now, like the rest of the farmhouse. Folks usually eat my fried green tomatoes with their hands. He’s gruff but he’s got manners.
But he still hasn’t removed his gardening gloves, even to eat. I take it back. Unsanitary. Although if it’s because of his illness, it’s not my place to question him, especially since he’s had decades of isolation to hone his quirks.
It’s been a while since my heart’s gone wonky waiting for someone to try that first bite of my food, and I realize I’m holding my breath. This isn’t just any customer. If he doesn’t like it, will he obliterate me on the spot? Or worse—insult my cooking?
He places a chunk of tomato on his tongue and chews. As his jaw works, his shoulders release the smallest, tiniest edge of their tension.
His eyes close.
Victory. I slide a ramekin toward him. “I like to dip mine in apple butter. Sweet and salty.”
A dollop goes on his next bite.
But then he sets down his utensils and stares at his barely touched plate. Two bites and he’s finished? I bartered my coveted molasses fudge for Farmer Kelsey’s tomatoes! Maybe I’ve miscalculated, overestimated the recipe and my own skill, flown too close to the culinary sun—
His eyes find mine. They’re already brighter. Color fills his cheeks. “Don’t avoid my question: How does your magic’sthumbprintwork, exactly?”
Swallowing a satisfied smile, I manage to breathe. “Any Farewitch knows fried green tomatoes are good for curing the blues, especially seasonal affective disorder. But my affinity is memory magic. When I touch someone with intention, they show me a memory of a meal, their body’s way of telling me what it’s craving, what it needs. That’s where I should begin treatment. The strongest cures come from the strongest flavors: the ones we’ve had before.”
“That’s the magic.”
“And the limit. For me to see a memory, it has to involve food. Luckily, we spend a lot of our lives eating, and the best memories usually happen over a shared table.”
He pushes away his plate. “You took a memory from me?”
“Yousharedone. I never take—you still have it. With a new patient, I need skin-to-skin contact. I always get permission to touch someone.” I’ll blame his blunt questions on a Warlock’s typical ignorance of anything Witch related.
