Then I definitely dare, and hang up before I have to do my impression of going through a tunnel. No one wants that.
In the calm of the garden, I breathe in. Honeysuckle. Basil. And sweet, sweet silence. No wonder the Warlock spends all his time out here. Or doesn’t have a cell phone, for that matter. He’s starting to make a little sense, crumb by crumb.
The basics.
As I think, I twist off a sprig of fresh basil, half expecting something to pop out of the ground to bite off a pinky. The Warlock’s magic somehow involves his plants. I rub the delicate basil leaves between my fingers, inhaling the distinctive fresh smell. Perfect.
And just like that, I know the first recipe I’m going to make for him.
Chapter Six
FRIDAY, APRIL 8 (STILL)
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Start with the basics. The best recipes—and epicures for the soul—are often the simplest.
I am beingbullied. By a kitchen.
I can’t get the gas range to give me boiling water. Then the fridge refuses to open. Suspicious. When I turn back to the island, my plucked basil is gone. As another stupid tile trips me, at that very moment, the farmhouse sink goes rogue and unleashes watery hell on me. I try to shut it off with furious fingers, with no luck.
Dripping, I look up at the ceiling. “If you didn’t want me to be here, you wouldn’t have unlocked the front door,” I shout skyward. This house has a level of sentience somewhere between goldfish and poodle, but where is its soul, its heart? Definitely the kitchen, if you ask me. “He asked me to come here. He needs my help. Be nice.”
After a moment of silence, the sink sprayer shuts off.
The gas range under my pot lights.
The fridge doors swing open.
And a greedy ivy plant releases the pantry’s doorknob.
Now we’re in business. “Thank you,” I say, tossing my soaked kitchen towel onto the island.
After the water boils, I pour it over some tea bags and, after a bit, pour everything into a pitcher with sugar I muddle with crushed basil.Usually folks use mint, but I find that the basil, which has reappeared, cuts through the gargantuan sweetness. Lastly, slices of lemon.
Hallelujah! Momaw Frost’s famous Southern sweet tea.
Typically good for headaches, but also known to cure a whole mess of little annoyances.The basics. After all, it’s sugar, and what malady doesn’t often involve a headache? Usually, the benefits of my recipes begin physically, relieving symptoms. Then the longer-term advantages appear. A healthy mind so often follows and depends on physical health.
Another thought occurs to me: If the Warlock’s magic enlivens his houseplants, then it’s likely in the herbs and produce he grows. Since magic is rooted in the land, sourcing ingredients right from the Manor’s backyard might make my recipes especially strong. That could be the key. Using the same old ovens and supplies isn’t helping, so maybe all I need is a new kitchen to jump-start my recipe testing for my mom. In the morning, I’ll try a recipe I’ve already crossed off, see if the new environment changes anything. Then when I visit on Saturdays, I’ll bring what I can for her to try.
My spirits lift. It’s theoretical hope. But hope nonetheless.
Then I wait.
And wait. At the kitchen island, untouched glasses of ice sweat in the warmth as the sun slants across the kitchen. But no one comes.
Screw off-limits. The gardens didn’t get me, and I won’t let the house, forbidden rooms or not. If no one is going to indulge in what I was hired to do, then I’ll find them first.
As it turns out, it’s much harder than I expected to hunt down a Warlock in his own home.
Every time I pass a room that gives me a peek into his life, the door slams shut. As if the house senses my curiosity. I almost lose my nose a couple times. Every carved molding is a sculpture of ferns and vines of ivy, and stained glass windows cast colorful silhouettes of more flora across the patchwork rugs. The wallpaperchanges from room to room, sometimes mid-wall, but it always involves plants.
The more time I spend in these neglected halls, the less I’m sure one lone Farewitch can cure anything or anyone in this place. I can feel it, a fuzz on the tongue: Unease and rot have been growing in this skeleton of a home for decades.
Sticking to the safe hallways, I wander through the house until I hear noises. Second floor. End of the hall. A door is ajar, hiding a conversation. There’s another voice, much softer, with bright edges. If the Governess gets angry with me for trespassing, so be it.
