I take my chances and step through the cracked door.
Chalkboard. An easel with paints and brushes. Low bookshelves, for a shorter person. Smells of eraser shavings and Governess Zeen’s perfume cling to the small room. A classroom. Or a farmhouse version of one.
There, sitting at the only desk, is the boy from the kitchen.
The moment he sees me, he launches out of his seat and runs over. His hazel eyes wink up at me. “Did you make more toast?”
I chose a good door. Smiling, I say, “Is that a formal request?”
There appear to be no computers or projectors in here. Maybe I can find an extra old laptop lying around the Apothakery to donate—oh God. Does this place even have Wi-Fi?
The boy distracts me from the major red flag with a pair of doe eyes. “I love the sugar bread. We only ever haveoatmeal.” He utters it like a curse.
Despite the toast heist, the boy hasn’t absorbed any of the Warlock’s withdrawn prickliness. I wonder how long he’s been a ward here.
Standing by the chalkboard is Governess Zeen. She looks down her nose at me. “You’re interrupting Spanish lessons.”
The boy leans in to me to whisper as all children whisper, which is not at all. “That’s Ms. Letha Zeen. You know she’s serious because her name is only one letter away fromlethal.”
“There are many lethal things in this house,” a rough voice says.
I jump ten miles to heaven and whirl to find the Warlock directly behind me. How did he move so quietly? Was he watching me this whole time? I think I see a brief glimpse of delight before it fades into a pointed scowl. He’s enjoying this.
“Hence why areas are off-limits and why we don’t wander,” he says.
Ms. Zeen tosses a textbook onto her instructor’s table in defeat. “Good afternoon, Mr. Knight. Now you’rebothinterrupting Spanish.”
He takes the slightest step back.
So, the Warlock of Foxe Holler is intimidated by his Governess. Understandable. The woman’s cardigan set is as pristine as a wartime general’s uniform.
“I thought French was Friday and Spanish was Monday.”
“German is Monday. French is Tuesday, and Mandarin and Cantonese on Wednesday and Thursday. Really, it’s all on the schedule I made you.”
The boy, ignoring them, offers me his hand. “I’m Lazlo. I’m almost a teenager.”
“You’re nine,” the Warlock rebuffs.
Then he does the wildest thing. Herufflesthe boy’s head of hair.Affectionately. Lazlo rolls his eyes. “I’malmostten.” He’s still beaming up at the Warlock. Beaming. Up at Warlock Knight. What kind of screwy parallel universe have I stumbled into?
So quickly I almost miss it, that dark shadow flashes across the Warlock’s face as he looks at his ward. It’s almost… melancholic. Then it’s gone, suffocated under a frown.
I recover from my shock enough to shake the boy’s little palm. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Ms. Zeen sighs from across the room. “Lazlo, please resume your verb conjugations.”
Lazlo scrunches his face in disgust. The Warlock holds a long finger to his tight lips and mimes a playfulshushat the boy.
Definitely slipped into another dimension. I knew the house let me off too easy.
“You’ll be sure to get along,” Governess Zeen says to me when she reaches us and Lazlo’s back at his desk, head bent over messy papers. “Given your nearness in age.”
I feign a smile. War, is it, then? “I have a young face. Not as many wrinkles as others.”
Next to me, the Warlock snorts.
Ms. Zeen’s eyes narrow. “How oldareyou, dear?”
