“No, he’s… a strange child,” he relinquishes.
That’s comforting. “You’re sure he’s not your son?” I ask, mostly joking.Not really.
He expels a breath, deep lines of tension crisscrossing between his brows, almost like talking causes him physical pain. A symptom, pushing to the surface? Then the tension is gone, and he’s his usual glowering self. “He’s a distant relation. His parents suddenly passed and I was next of kin.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” Crap. Stupid of me. This is clearlya sore topic for the now-very-small Knight family. Like my Frost family of two.
“He’s only lived with us here for a year,” he adds. “It’s an adjustment. Change is hard. Especially when sickness is involved.”
“I understand.” I certainly do.
We don’t say anything further and I can feel him pulling away again, the stony planes of his face hardening into a walled fortress.
Before I lose him, I ask, “How did you know I’d be interested in your library?”
He crosses his arms. Dirt smudges his shirt. He’s been in the garden. “A rumor told me you’re often found scouring old recipe books and kitchen grimoires in your free time.”
The gossip highway of Foxe Holler strikes again. “I dabble.”
“Must be difficult to find what you’re looking for without a library in town.”
A rumor told me you flambéed it. “Research is complicated, I’ll admit. It’s tricky to find PDFs online of community cookbooks with print runs no bigger than the size of a congregation. That is, if folks even have the tech to do that.”
The stare he gives me then is so intense, my spine goes rigid. “What are you looking for in all those books?”
I think about the secrets around me, the archived and forgotten information that might be able to save my mom. Say the answer is hiding here: How would I even go about finding it in a library with more square footage than the state fair? I might cure the Warlock before I ever scratch the surface of my other research. And then why would he let me stay?
I can’t say the wrong thing and lose it all. Not now.
WhatamI looking for? More sunrises. More laughs. A happy ending. A second chance. They all have one thing in common.
“Time,” I whisper.
His eyes narrow with pointed curiosity and his voice dips deep, raspy. “Aren’t we all.”
Impossibly, my shoulders shiver and my cheeks heat at the same time. Is this how he felt after I fed him food from his memories? Brutally sliced open and bare for the world to see? I’ve known him for less than a week and he can see right through me. Isthathis magic?
A terrible thought occurs to me then. “Is there anyone else who takes care of Lazlo with you besides Ms. Zeen? Another guardian? Extended kin?”
“No. Just me.” He heads for the doors, as if he can walk right out of our conversation.
So if I fail and can’t cure his illness—what happens to Lazlo?
My gut turns over. I can’t face another dead end. Not with an adorable little boy thrown into the recipe. “Mr. Knight, I appreciate yourreluctantfaith in my abilities, but I don’t think I’m the right person for this job. If this illness is as serious as you suggest—”
“It is.” He stops, turning back to me. “Ms. Frost, I’m dying, and based on the progression of my illness, I have strong reason to believe I shall expire on my upcoming birthday on the summer solstice.”
I choke. “Excuse me?”
“The summer solstice. The solstice during the summer months. Not the December one. The twenty-first of June. Am I being clear?”
My brain misfires. I’ve poisoned myself delirious with bad basil, that’s the only explanation. “That’s in ten weeks!”
“Yes, dreadful,” he sighs. Like he’s simply waiting for me to hike up some skirts and flee. “Best bake quickly.”
Chapter Seven
MONDAY, APRIL 11
