It’s easy to find the single open door on the floor, the room the Warlock has assigned meagainst his better judgment, says Governess Zeen. I drop my suitcase on the floor of my new home for the next three weeks.
Like the stairwells and halls, this room is dark, nearing frigid. The bedroom is small but no smaller than mine above the Apothakery. There’s a creaky writing desk and chair, and a trunk that appears to be full of vintage paper sewing patterns. The old hardwood floors are on full display with the sparse furniture. There’s a single twin bed.
The Warlock obviously doesn’t think I’ll be having any guests.
I half wheeze-chuckle to myself. Silas would find that funny. If we were friends and told each other those sorts of things.
“Ms. Frost, if you’re winded after a staircase, this house is going to be terribly difficult to navigate. You should eat more protein.”
Governess Zeen stands like a gargoyle in the doorway, arms crossed over a brand-new cardigan set. Almost-black navy, this time. I guess the beige was too colorful.
Twostaircases, I want to say. “I’ll remember that, Ms. Zeen.”
Rigid as ever, she watches me drag my suitcase into a corner. “Your washroom is down the hall. It hasn’t been used in ages. I hope that’s not too rustic for you.”
I wave a hand nonchalantly. Now that I’ve entered a new decade, I need the daily steps, and I’m no stranger to an outhouse (thank you, Momaw). I don’t mind a few dust bunnies.
Momaw’s farmhouse got its fair share of dust, but whenever she saiddust bunny, I only heard my name. From then on, my mom and Momaw and I would spend hours hunting imaginarydust hunnies, giggling until our sides hurt and we downed warm honeyed milk to calm down before bed. A phantom warmth floods my veins as the memory hugs me tight. Too tight.
“I hope you don’t daydream when handling knives.”
I snap back to the present. The Frost women at their best, vibrant and laughing, is only a memory now. “Sorry. I haven’t slept much the last couple of nights.”At all. Never.
“If you need anything, feminine products and the like, you can find them in the cabinets underneath your washroom sink.”
I hide a smile since it might scare her off and ruin this atom-small moment of bonding. No need to mention I haven’t had a regular period in years. Stress, the gynecologist says.Or a gift from above. I don’t have time to leak when my job demands I’m on my feet all day.
She purses her lips. “The rules, Ms. Frost: Stay in the kitchen. Do not wander the house, especially at night. And whatever you do, refrain from bothering the plants.”
So far, the only areas I’ve been allowed to see except the kitchen are the stairwells and halls. As per The Rules.
“Lastly, the Warlock’s gardens are strictly prohibited.”
“Of course, why wouldn’t they be?” I mutter. Not quietly enough, based on her glower. She’d fit right in with the church ladies. Although none of them would dare work for a Warlock.
When she leaves, I unpack one thing first: a framed photo of Dolly Parton. It’s no coincidence Dolly’s hair reminds me of Momaw’s. Sometimes, it’s easier to look at than actual pictures of my Momaw.
I prop my good luck charm on the nightstand, then take a gander at the view outside the single wavy-glassed window above the desk. It looks out over the gardens behind the house.
Strictly prohibited.
A Farewitch can appreciate a tight SOP. I get it. Every kitchen has rules.
But I don’t care for his.
I immediately head for the gardens behind the house. He’s paying me to cook, and I need ingredients. Does trespassing count if you live upstairs?
Quietly as possible, I creep out the side screen door near the back of the kitchen and onto the section of the wraparound porch that looks out over the back of the grounds.
The Warlock’s gardens.
Just from the porch, I can tell these gardens didn’t grow overnight. He’s been toiling out here for decades, yet not one rumor about him mentions gardening or herbalism. Someone who spends this much time on a craft but doesn’t want to show it off… Odd. Gertha Fudge will tell you how the cow ate the cabbage over her pineapple canning. Even Ms. Buchanan gushes about her poodle, in a charming, gab-you-to-death way.
Something tells me this man’s not simply a grumpy recluse.
Between my interview and today, I scrambled to learn anythingmore I could about the Warlock. Seemed the wise thing to do before making an immensely powerful magical being my roommate. My thoughts wander back to the timing of the library fire and the Warlock’s disappearance from the public eye. Connection or coincidence, I’m not sure yet.
A buzzing noise sounds then, too loud even for the dragonflies around here.
