I play the Dolly Parton I’ve got downloaded on my phone obnoxiously loud so I can’t hear any complaining.
Ms. Zeen, Lazlo, and I tackle our bedrooms and the library and classroom, while the Warlock takes everywhere I’m not allowed to explore. Windows are open, rooms aired, floors shined. Rugs beat, limescale scrubbed, bookshelves dusted. Snaggletooth vines come down from windows outside, and sunlight returns to Knight Manor. We even have skylights!
The house tries to fight, doors locking me out and in, floorboards lifting and sinking. A few bats fly out of dark crevices, but that delights Lazlo to no end.
Eventually, the house gives up. About the same time, I notice the Warlock’s permanent glower loosens and a bit of guilt simmers off as he watches Lazlo chase bats through the house to the rhythm of Dolly.
Even Ms. Zeen looks like she might hate me just a little bit less. Or more? Pleased with the cleanliness, or seeing me cough on bleach fumes? Hard to tell.
What I do know is, the mysteries plaguing this house start with the Warlock and Ms. Zeen. They’re tied together with some secret as knotted as the Warlock’s vines slithering around. The Warlock is Lazlo’s only kin, but there’s more to that story. I can see it in the melancholy that overtakes his gruff facade whenever he looks atthe kid and doesn’t think anyone else is watching. These three came together in a strange emulsion and are gatekeeping the recipe.
But until I can crack open the Warlock’s hard-boiled, bad-egg mood, I can at least make this house feel like a home for Lazlo.
By late afternoon, I conquer the last battlefield: the kitchen.
Elbow deep in a farmhouse sink full of sudsy water, I wonder if the Warlock’s magic could’ve done all this for us… Knowing him, he’d say no just to make me work for it.
But I don’t mind the hard work. It reminds me of the Apothakery, and a twinge of homesickness for that butter-yellow door pinches me.
Unsurprisingly, no matter how hard we clean, I can still smell soil.
Though I don’t mind it, now that dirt isn’t on my countertops. It smells like summer, like the produce harvests that come with my favorite holidays on a Farewitch’s calendar: rosemary and lavender for Beltane on the first of May, lemons and tomatoes for Litha and the summer solstice, corn for Lughnasadh in August—
The summer solstice. When the Warlock thinks he’ll die. My mood trips.
He still hasn’t told me about his illness.
Dishes done, I get started doing what chefs do best: making new dirty dishes.
I blend butter, sugar, eggs, flour, and coconut, a peaceful smile on my face in the newly pristine kitchen. Shortly after I start toasting shredded coconut, the Warlock enters the kitchen. Unrequested. I must be seeing things.
As I bake, he fills a tin and begins watering various potted plants around the kitchen. There’s a pail in every room of the house I’ve been allowed to see, no doubt his sole decorative contribution to the Manor’s aesthetic.
He’s even more silent than usual, like he isn’t here at all. A ghost. But my shop is always such a storm of activity and stress, this shared quiet is peaceful.
It occurs to me then. He’sstalling.
He reaches the plants closest to me but stays on the other side of the island—far from the knife I was sharpening earlier. Smart.
Then he clears his throat. “I had several time-sensitive tasks to wrap up in the Manor this past weekend. And research. That’s why I wasn’t around.”
That’s probably the closest I’ll get to an apology. Not wanting to push my luck, I act unbothered as I toss in baking powder and salt and vanilla. “Is that what you and Ms. Zeen are up to all day? Did I interrupt all manner of nefarious Warlock projects when I arrived?”
No need to clarify if I mean the Warlock or the projects are nefarious. He can handle some mystery.
“If you must know, Warlocks choose a specialty of study, separate from their own personal magic. I chose curse magic.”
“But don’t Warlocks think curses are lower magic?”
“They do. But I’ve learned Witch magic can be… creative.” He pauses. When I glance up, he’s already looking at me. “As you can imagine, not many Warlocks research curse magic, so I’m often the person other Warlocks write to with questions. I try to answer where I can.”
So Iwasright. Kind of. He’s a consultant on the Warlock information highway, with crappy work-life balance. Typical of them, doing everything formally by letter. If he only learned how to use email, he’d have twice as much free time to get healthy.
“This house requires significant upkeep. The wards alone are an undertaking,” he adds. “I haven’t managed all of it well, since… the illness.” He forces out the admission like it almost finishes the job and kills him.
Now I feel bad. I’d lit into my employerandpatient. Swell job, Honey. But I can’t help wondering, what are we wardingagainst, and should I be carrying pepper spray? My gut tells me this isn’tthe time to ask. He’s actually talking, giving me more info than I’ve gathered alone.
“I didn’t mean to ambush you earlier,” I say. “Bad mood—family stuff. I’m sorry.”
