“Withering?”
“Withering, Ms. Frost.Withering.”
“If they’re withering, it’s because of the state of this place,” I retort, remembering why I climbed the stairs in the first place. “The house is a mess. It needs to be cleaned, and not by me. I’m a Farewitch, Mr. Knight. Not a maid.”
“The house is fine.”
“Fine?” I edge closer to him but he doesn’t back up. “This is a gorgeous farmhouse and your ancestors would be ashamed—ashamed—to see the state it’s in. What are all the wards for, anyway? To protect the dust? We’re cleaning. Now.”
He looms over me, a monolith hovering at the edge of his shadowy bedroom. “As much as I would adore watching a smart-mouth take her chances with the forces I’m warding against, the wards protect us,Witch. All of us. Besides, this house does not like to be jostled.”
“The house can get over it. I can’t work in filth. Your plants sense moods, my ingredients sense bedlam.”
“Bedlamis a strong word.”
“The hardwood under the furniture is a different color.Sir.”
His eyes roam my face, probably looking for weakness. He won’t find any. “I said no.” Then he shuts the door in my face. Or he tries.
Before he can, I jam my heavy clog in between the door and the frame.
Thelookthis man gives me. My insides curdle. I should… not have done that.
But I’m committed now, come hell or high water. I cross myarms, trying to fake enough confidence he doesn’t notice the sweat on my upper lip.
Shadows dance across his face; his eyebrows pull in, frown deeper than I’ve ever seen it. I suddenly feel very small, very young, and very much out of my depth. I swallow the dryness in my throat.Thisis the Warlock my mom warned me about. This is the Warlock the town fears more than the Widow Witch.
Before I can run, strong hands go around my waist on both sides. Then heliftsme right out of his doorframe and sets me back into the hall like I’m no bigger than a misbehaving poodle but twice as troublesome.
The door slams and I’m alone.
My gut nose-dives. If I’d eaten breakfast, I would vomit it up with relief. I take deep breaths, letting my nerves recover. When it’s clear I’m out of immediate danger, I get angry all over again. This man doesn’t get to close doors mid-conversation with me.
The house must be siphoning off my sanity tablespoons at a time, because somehow, I’m brave or delusional enough to knock again.
I know he won’t answer, so I call through the door. “If you don’t work with me here, I’m going to help myself to your garden. I’m armed with nothing but a pair of dull sewing scissors from 1979.”Probably not as old as you.
Silence on the other side.
“They’reveryrusty.”
The door flies open and the Warlock steps around me into the hall. “Lazlo!” he shouts to a room a few doors down.
Another door cracks open and the boy appears, textbooks in his arms, most upside down. “I wasn’t skipping class, promise!”
The Warlock dismisses the excuse with a wave of his hand. “We’re cleaning. Now.”
Confused, the boy drops his books and follows his guardian down the stairs.
“Don’t forget the fireplaces,” I call after them, flush with a pride that won’t quit tingling under my skin. I did it. I made the Warlock of Foxe Holler followinstructions.
The Warlock gives me a murderous glance over his shoulder.
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawls in reply, voice low.
My cheeks go so red. Something in this house is burning and it isn’t the oven.
The farmhouse gets its firstbath in decades. Nowhere is safe.
