When he remembers. Good. Lord. When he starts walking again, I stomp after him. “You can call me Honey.”
“Is that a family name?”
I try to hide my surprise. An actual question about me that isn’t about being a Farewitch. I nod. “Lots of Frost Farewitches have been Honey. It was that or Hazeleen.”
He flashes me one of his blander scowls, which I know now is his default. “I won’t be calling you an endearment. I’ve never called anyonehoney.”
Without meaning to, my head jerks in his direction at my name. I’m not sure how that information makes me feel. It settles in my stomach like a bubbly drink. Fizzy, jittery. Has he always lived alone? “Everyone uses it. It doesn’t mean anything to me but my name anymore.”
He scoffs like that statement bothers him. But I have no idea why it would. He clears his throat. “And your husband calls you…?”
Another personal question, albeit a clumsy attempt to pry. We’re making leaps and bounds today. “If I had one? Often. Because he’d have a phone. And answer my questions.”
Indignance sparks in his face. It’s worth it. I don’t know what makes me so bold. Maybe I’m hangry. I’ve been running since I got here.
“Not that the verbal-only tour of the Manor isn’t stellar, but you seem like you’ve never invited a guest into your home before. Ever.”
“We’re not a bed-and-breakfast, in case you were under a different impression.”
Bless him, he has the confidence. “Your spooky gated entryway might be responsible for that. It’s a tad deceiving.”
“It serves its purpose. I don’t like new people.”
But I don’t think that’s it. I think he’s worried new people won’t like him. “You at least need a mailbox. We can’t all communicate via the United States Postal Smog.”
His lips switch to the side. We’re miles from a smile, but I still let out a mentalHurrah!
Which ignites the other question in my brain-stove from earlier, now that Imighthave his guard down. “Can you tell me about your magic? It’s not as effective as memories, but that could help me understand your illness.”
His shoulders go stiff like I’ve asked him if he prefers boxers or briefs. “No.”
“We still need to go through your symptoms, your family history—”
He makes a turn down another hall, ignoring me yet expecting me to follow. Another nonanswer. It’s totally pointless trying to talk to this man.
Finally, he stops outside a set of carved oak double doors. As I approach, I make out the details of the artistry that has to be hand carved: lighter wood inlays of bamboo stalks, vines of ivy running around them like a woven tapestry. The size of the doors hints atyet another room that can’t possibly exist based on the Manor’s silhouette from the outside.
Without preamble, he pushes the doors wide and says, “Beyond the kitchen, you’re allowed in this room and this room only.”
“Does this place at least have Wi-Fi?” I ask after him.
But he’s already disappeared through the doors. Jackass.Definitelyno Wi-Fi, then.
I follow him in—and stop short.
Eclectic chaise longues and tiny cocktail tables greet me, and windows promise wonderful natural light if ivy weren’t overtaking the exterior of the farmhouse, covering the glass. An impressive grand piano anchors a corner of the room, and beyond that is a huge stone fireplace for robust family gatherings.
It’s a lovely sitting room… but also not lived in, another ode to a time before.
As my eyes adjust to the dimness, I can see this room is just a foyer. I step down into a sunken level off the first, into another, even larger room that has me salivating (no small feat).
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, ladders poised to reach high shelves. Rows of mahogany worktables and cushy chairs comfy enough someone prone to naps might succumb. Dozens of lamps chase away gloomy shadows. A narrow balcony winds the perimeter of the room, with a spiral staircase that twists down, down, down to other levels. There must be a door into the library on every floor of the house. A thousand tomes stare back at me, new ones with shiny leather to wrinkled fellows to treasures so loved they don’t have covers anymore.
I’m here to cook, butthisis what I really came for. Warlock Knight’s library.
While the rest of the Manor smells of soil and bad dreams, here I get a robust whiff of paper, leather, burnt wood in a real fireplace. Some of my stress falls away. I could curl up in here for hours, days, lost in a book while a pot of something is on the stove.
Oh yes.
