Oh no.
It’sperfect. Too perfect.
Another odd feeling creeps in. The Warlock put my room on the same floor as the library, the one place he knows I’m interested in. I’m… touched? Then I remember it’s probably just to keep me from wandering around too much, not to make my life easier.
As I move through the room, perusing shelves and cabinets, my mood keeps lifting despite my best efforts to be surly about this whole living-with-the-Warlock situation. Novels, records, historical texts, grimoires, flora and fauna guides, spell books—I see it all.
This endless collection of booksmusthave something new to help my mom.
I can feel it. I can believe in the possibilities here.
Fingers impatient, I start lifting books from shelves. I wonder if there’s anything about the Warlock himself, his past in the Holler. If he would tell me what kind of magic he has, I could narrow down the rumors worth examining, or disproving. This looks like a collection he’s been building for centuries—why would he care about burning a small-town library? Ms. Zeen also doesn’t seem like the type of woman to tolerate sharing a home with a murderer. She’d probably do the murdering herself.
Depthless rabbit holes, all of this. I bite my lip as I think, making to-read piles. As I survey one of the stacks, a framed picture suddenly falls from a shelf to the wood floor, clattering like all get-out. At least it wasn’t aiming for me this time. Almost like the Manor is listening to my inner curiosity, trying to be helpful.
I cradle the small framed photo. A young woman smiles back at me from a black-and-white portrait. Midnight hair, sharp cheekbones—it’s the woman from the Warlock’s memory. There’s that jade pendant around her neck. Her resemblance to Warlock Knight is even clearer in this picture—
“Already snooping?”
I nearly skyrocket through the roof, a repeat of the classroom. “Jesus!” I jump away from the man who has now managed to sneak up on me twice. A third time and my soul will vacate my body. “Wear a bell or something. And I don’t think it’s snooping if I live here.Sir.”
He watches me with stern hazel eyes. “In spite of any reservations you might have, if I can’t convince you to stay, I hope my library and archives will.”
The words almost sound like a threat. He spies the picture I’m clutching to my heaving chest. His expression goes from stern to downright displeased. With a swift, gloved hand, he pulls the frame from my grasp. “Where did you get this?”
“The house threw it at me.” Not a lie.
One black eyebrow goes up.
Still jumpy, I scramble to fill the pause. “Who is it?”Open up. Give me something!
“Someone no longer here.” He places the picture face down on a table. “How is your room?”
“Too close to Governess Zeen’s, but I’ll take it.”
A knowingAhcomes from his direction.
“She said you wouldn’t like me,” I offer, trying to break this weird tension.
He doesn’t deny it. Or reply at all. Instead, he runs a gloved finger over the piano. Dusty. No one’s played in ages. The whole house is like that, either dust or soil.
Cautiously, I break the silence. “Do you have any other family around?”
“Please don’t feel obligated to get to know me, Ms. Frost. As you proved in your interview, you don’t need to in order to be a sufficient Farewitch.”
Bristling, I square my shoulders and look him in the eye. “It helpsto know a patient when I begin baking. Consider all inquiries of the most casual kind,Mr. Knight.” I can dance this jig of formality, too. It takes two slices of bread to make a stubborn sandwich.
His frown twists into a scowl. “Just Ms. Zeen. She’s not related by blood, but she’s like family. I maintain the defensive warding outside the Manor, and she keeps the inside from falling apart. When she’s not tutoring Lazlo, that is.”
“Heaven forbid you should try to teach anyone fractions.”
No grin. Shoot. I’ll keep trying.
Obviously Ms. Zeen is more thanlike family. A farmhouse as large as this takes managing, but is there some other handshake deal that connects her to the Warlock? Or are they really just the closest thing to family each of them has? For that matter, I haven’t a clue what the Warlock does all day in this house when he’s not with Lazlo. Or gardening. Maybe there’s a network of Warlocks keeping him busy with tasks, some department of correspondence via ominous weather patterns.
Again, I’m struck by how much we Witches don’t know about Warlocks. It makes me wonder what we don’t even know about other Witches, like the Widow Witch. The best source of trustworthy information will be my own research.
“Lazlo doesn’t go to school in town?” I ask.
